#jumble
he rises with words in his unwashed mouth,
mouth, is unwashed, tongue tastes dregs, bits
of morsels of his past, some good, some bad,
some tastes of places, of women he has loved,
sweetness of sorrow, dregs of regret, and all a
jumbled, tumbled, intertwined, clinging combo
of nations, his~stories …a mashup of a mashup’s
smashup
he tries to separate them, this admixture, to better
recall, but the sacrificial fire lit, the ember-members
are too burnt, indistinguishable and can’t find the
vive entre les differences…
South of france, tahiti, the one he loved in cities,
Toronto, L.A., and Portland, and the communes
in Asia, but tries harder but it’s no longer possible
to separate the essences and the similarities same,
and a great sadness is what he recovers when runs
his tongue across the roof of his mouth, the roof of
his memory, the roots of his…being…his unbecoming
he rises to a glorious day, where he is can’t be sure,
who he is with, certainly not, the why, but he recovers
some pants and the idea of a fresh start seeps creepy in,
but by the time both legs dressed, his mind’s eye wanders
to a new sunrise and old template of temptations. . .
Jul 28, 2024
Jul 28, 2024 at 7:30 AM UTC
unmade bed of unmade actions
sometimes I wish I could unmake myself
broken watches and broken thoughts
another day of broken felt
you're always upset and never pleased
how hard can it be, quite, apparently
forever stressed with house a mess
a child under house arrest
at least one does as they do without influence from you
or at least doesn't display affectings
in retrospect however testing similar conjecture restings
waiting to be found and find indeed readers succeed
when writing unfolds as paper unrolls, rhetoric it bleeds
the words to heed, which meaning needs
a crucial step to understanding
planning trips of time spanning weekends in the mind
sometimes reality creeps up upon your back
though spine I lack, my knuckles crack
I'm ready for the fight - trembled fear in fingers clear
but fists protect my face, just try to hold a light
to my pace, the space I take quakes
with me, for me, from me
look into my eyes and say that you love me
you do, don't you
I know things I'm not supposed to
hide them in a box, canned whispers sealed
to never be revealed, closed, buried, burned
under rocks to overturn
leave no stone untouched, unbrushed
every surface passed my tongue
another night, another one
another taste of liquid sun
burning pleasure delight desire
rapacious hearts of words afire
a killing blow yet yearned and sought
an Icarus wing that will not stop
it isn't bad if we aren't caught
you think that, don't you
but I know this isn't always true
sometimes you're seen but never "caught"
sometimes they know, they always watch
on the dot
of the clock
I know things I'm not supposed to
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 3:41 AM UTC
The cold breeze is the reflection of how cold my soul is
The tangled thread is the reflection of how jumble my mind is
The empty canvas is the reflection of how blank my stares are
The rusty chain is the reflection of how weak my faith is
The glass is the reflection of how fragile my heart is
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 1:51 PM UTC
I am sick of being silenced
These chains wrapped around my voice won't break
By the time courage has woven around them
The words are lost and I have slipped into an anesthetic languor
I crave the feeling of the fire
But when I want it the flame is extinguished
And when it burns for me the chains snake around my brain and the words become jumbled
I have the fire in my heart and hands
But I no longer have the power to use them
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
wondering
why's the vice president always so senior
is that a permanent feature
like how 2+2 is always equal to 4
and I'm lying on the floor
wondering if these words have been said before
like
what makes the beauty of the sea
are you beautiful
or is it just to me
does it matter
do we matter
what's beauty's main factor
why does the mad hatter
drink tea
a clock carrying bunny
is more mad than a tea party
bon soir mon amie
that's all from me
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 4:07 AM UTC
Silly words like daughter and laughter.
Why isn’t dotter and lafter?
Both, moth and mother are confusing.
It all depends on the way you are using
Those mad silly words in our tongue
More bizarre than between and among.
And, of course there are the oughts
And ought nots of enough and thought.
Shouldn’t one sound per word be
Far less typographical insanity?
I mean someone wound a bandage
Around a wound on an appendage.
It’s just plain silliness of a high order.
You fix food for a boarder, not a border.
You can fish for fish, not sheep for sheep.
And, you can’t daydream if you are asleep.
There’s a rhyme about a wood chucking wood
But he only seems to do it if he would.
A dog can bark at a cat on a roof,
Which can be said either like root or woof.
In Britain anyone can go pound on a pound
In America, ground coffee can be on the ground.
And driving a car now your own can be fined.
But finding a free auto is something of a find.
It makes very difficult to tease other tongues.
Not even if you shout at the top of your longues.
Lately we changed things like light and nite
But, not white, night, knight or blight.
We changed you to one letter, a simple ‘u’.
Now, tell me please, was that so hard to dew?
Oh, wait. I mean due. No, I meant do all along.
The way English is, it’s not hard to do it wrong.
Is it its or is it it’s? It’s dependent upon.
What kind of sentence you have going on.
For example if you have an itch on your ****
It’s on your **** but I’ tell you what.
It’s itch is its own, and needs no apostrophe.
Just one more view how silly things can be.
So, until later, when things get better
We had better do it rite to the letter.
Oh, wait, that’s wright. No write, no right.
See, I got it rite before the end of the nite.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
Like a dryer is the human mind
Sopping wet and rolling around
Everything succumbs to heat
Shrinks, tears, fades
Everything
Even the sock gets lost in the dryer
And yet one remains
A half of a whole that can no longer be complete
One sock
Gone forever
Do we mourn the lost
Where is the vigil?
A sock mourned is a thought lost
An idea that can never be
Static we never feel again
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
And the worn corner of a textbook,
Blocks a few burning rays,
Building a citadel across,
The scratched surface of an unstable desk,
Gently rocking beneath my words,
That show themselves between feint ruled,
Lines of a notebook filled with,
Plans, pain and poems,
Abstract sketches of worlds I made and,
Shadowy drawings of what I,
Could, might, mustn't do,
Confessions to myself alongside,
Drafted chapters as yet undecided,
Unchecked, raw,
Seventy-two sheets not yet,
Filled with my written song,
Still not complete,
Like my jumbled thoughts which,
On occasion grace the page.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
Hollow chests and shattered hearts are the equivalent
of birthing babies who cannot breathe,
aching for something that will not be there.
Angry tears and snapping jaws
were born in the same moment
disappointment crawled into your womb
and made a home of your soul.
Loving in hate longs for clarity,
clings to sound with deaf ears,
singing songs about heaven and hell.
Vacant eyes and unstable thoughts
make for nice conversation
with a man that teaches you
how to tie a noose with your words.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
When your words are placed with precision
And your thoughts are all in line
When there's the perfect analogy in your speech
He's not there to listen, that's the time.
When your words come out in a jumble
And you laugh 'till you're in tears
When you tell stupid jokes and nobody but he laughs
That's the day that he appears.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC