#lucas
I want to be
your tattoo
skin deep and meaningful
a complicated design
of interconnecting lines
forming an image
a symbol
expressing an intimate
part of
you
I want to be
what you need
passionate red
for a setting sunset
calming blue
for a starry night
invigorating yellow
for a vibrant sunflower
darkest black
for the wisest quote
always moving with you
when you dance
when you laugh
when you cry
But if regret comes to be
I want to be
your mistake
covered up
a hidden memoir
of your past
guiding your future
an ink-stained lesson
lingering curse
but I will still be
part of
you
Mar 13, 2020
Mar 13, 2020 at 2:33 PM UTC
A low rumble in the distance
The ground trembles and turns
My knees betray me
The earth quakes
The rumble grows louder
A dust cloud draws near
A cacophony of hooves and heavy snorts
I blink, and they’re upon me
A stampede of hogs
Trampling me
Stamping me down
I contort
I cry out
I bleed
Mangled, through swollen eyes
I watch the mob reach the horizon
I’m left broken
Tattered, bruised
And coated in slime
I snap back to consciousness, and I’m sitting up in my bed.
That’s the third time tonight, I think to myself.
It’s dark, so I listen. A powerful snore echoes beside me.
My drooling, snot-faced daughter has snuck into my room again.
I wipe her excretions from my shoulder and scoop her up.
Navigating the dark, circumventing the tissue-laden floor,
Taking extra care not to startle the guinea pig this time,
I clean and cover her up, then gently kiss her forehead.
I linger and brush her hair aside. Snorting loudly, she turns.
With ballerina grace, I tiptoe over Barbie Dolls.
In the kitchen, the dishes overflow from the day before.
Cleaning till I’m exhausted, I ascend the stairs to my room.
A familiar rumble fills the hallway. The hooves crushing my ribs.
On my side of the bed, my daughter in a drool-filled, snotty puddle.
These dishes are getting done tonight, I think as I scoop her back up.
Mar 5, 2020
Mar 5, 2020 at 6:50 PM UTC
Romance is a sweaty assembly line
With shop talk and flying metal shards
Cracked safety glasses and warning signs
Hot oil, bolts and screws, and heat guards
Romance is 12-hour long night shifts
After 8 hours of class and study
Stuck in a warehouse with men on forklifts
And a redhead too shy to talk to me
Romance is a bold negotiation
Bargaining for his job next to her
A week of cleaning his workstation
A week to get her interest to spur
Romance is a stupid expression
A flower, chocolates and teddy bear
In front of the guys, a bad decision
Her running away, face as red as her hair
Romance is a terrible movie
She insisted I watch at her place
A film - to this day - I’ve yet to see
And, yet, its mention still makes my heart race
Romance is losing yourself as you touch
Fingers running softly through her long hair
And feeling lucky she wants you so much
Even after an ill-timed teddy bear
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 2:02 PM UTC
4 am
Stumbling through the dark
Wife needs the sleep
Youngest daughter’s crying
A blind diaper change
Warming a bottle and falling on the couch
Now 2-year-old’s crying on my hip
Burp then back to the cradle
Other daughter tucked in
Suit tie briefcase keys
45-minute commute
Bus duty for middle schooler
Fights broken up graffiti foiled
90 students in 6 periods
Grading lecturing consoling mediating
After-school program
Organizing monitoring guiding
Long drive back
Screaming kids tired wife
Laundry dinner dishes
Drive to part-time job
Inventory customers cleaning up-selling
Meeting with manager
Numbers are down you might get fired
Anxious anxious anxious anxious
Clock out drive to class
Parking running looking at watch
5 minutes late
Where were you prof says
The test has already started
Scantron answer sheet
Only a pen in my pocket
Unbelievable he says
With no pencil I have to fail you
Consider this a lesson
You need to grow up
This is the real world
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 10:28 AM UTC
Remember how we’d sneak out of the house?
We hated the yelling and the crying
Scrunched shoulders, tiptoeing off the porch
They never noticed we weren’t there
Such a dusty neighborhood
No lines on the roads
Tar-filled cracks hot and sticky to the touch
Protruding grass a cooling reprieve
We’d push each other and kick at our feet
Toss pebbles at stop signs
And walk on that broken wooden gate
Outstretched arms to keep balance
We had a ritual before bugging Grandma
Through her side yard, to the levy
Climbing the hill in our green-black stained sneakers
Rolling down in an itchy flurry
And at the end of our dizzying tumble
Stood that venerable well
Its stony visage stoic against the unkempt field
The surrounding shoe-imprinted mud
Reaching into our pockets, we’d pull out our coins
The change from our school lunches
The money we should “save,” we were told
But, instead, we threw it into that well
The well was dark, but I could hear the PLOP
I’d imagine its decent; swaying through lingering blue
Twirling and flipping, creating small whirlpools
Then smacking the bottom with a resounding THUD
Of course, we’d make our wish
Never spoken, or else it wouldn’t come true
You’d knowingly smile at me
Your eyes filled with tears
I went back to that old well…
I followed our old path, down that cracked road
Through Grandma’s abandoned side yard
Up and over the levy; it was such a quick trip
And there in the field was our old well
Mud dried, the weather-beaten stones crumbling
Tattered rope choked a bucket-less handle
Insects oozed through rotting wood
What had happened to our change?
I peeked inside that dark, empty well
And, there, at the bottom, rested our coins
No blues, no twirling, no whirlpools
Just our lunch money entombed with dirt
Jan 24, 2020
Jan 24, 2020 at 1:10 PM UTC
I
I celebrate my pants, and sing my pants,
And what I wear you shall wear,
For every thread belonging to me as good belongs to you.
II
I saw the best pants of my generation destroyed by madness, bleaching faded skinny,
dragging themselves through the crowded malls at noon looking for the perfect selfie,
man-bunned hipsters burning for the contemporary digital connection to the social dynamo in the machinery of online relevance
III
Let us go Pants, you and I,
With evening wash spread out against the sky
Like a ghost dancing upon the breeze;
Let us go, through certain half-full baskets,
The smelly caskets
Of unwashed trousers from one-week neglected hampers.
IV
Something there is that doesn't love my pants,
That sends the frayed-torn-cuffs under it,
And spills my muffin top in the sun;
And makes love handles even two can hold to love.
V
I have stolen
the pants
that were in
the dressing room
and which
you were probably
wearing
for a party
Forgive me
they were comfy
so soft
and so stylish
VI
Because I could not fit my Pants –
I kindly split the Seam –
The Problem is quite obvious –
I need some stronger Jeans.
VII
The patterns on your pants
Could make a designer cry;
But I hung on to your stance:
Plaid boldly with tie-dye.
VIII
Call the maker of big pants,
The fabulous one, and bid him zip
In seamstress studs sumptuous sewing.
IX
What happens to lost pants?
Do they stiffen up
like paper as it dries?
Or do they balloon up —
and into the sky rise?
X
I bought some tremendous pants
and held them beside the cart
half off the hanger, with the hook
fast in the belt loop around the waist.
There was no fight.
No one had fought at all.
They hung a defeated weight,
overlooked and spurned.
Jan 13, 2020
Jan 13, 2020 at 4:51 PM UTC
Today we mourn the death of a clown. We adorn our fanciest makeup and brightest wigs.
Our bowties spin and our rubber noses squeak, and the horns’ honks are very loud.
From our tiny cars, we tumble and slip and dance and fall over our floppy shoes.
We glide on banana peels and crash into whip-laden coconut cream pies.
We wrestle to our seats. Pushing, shoving, eye-poking, seltzer spraying.
Loud farts echo as whoopee cushions compress beneath our butts.
The priest takes the alter, but a bull charges and chases him away.
Replaced with a mime, the service finally begins.
Pulling and pulling and pulling and pulling
Handkerchiefs from our sleeves
We wipe each other’s tears
And flip over the casket
So we can say
Goodbye.
Jan 10, 2020
Jan 10, 2020 at 4:02 PM UTC
My wife holds my hand tightly as we enter the tiny church
The harsh odor of wet wool, cotton and dust fills the foyer
The pews are full. The signature book thick with names
Sifting through, we find a seat as the dirge comes to a close
The preacher is loud and sweaty and a distant cousin, I’m told
His mud-brown suit and tie clash against the stage’s ornate bouquets
He assures us there’s a heaven and that my grandfather was a good man
His thick southern draw a slow assault; the eulogy, a battleground
Stories are shared, and they are sweet. He paints a righteous man
Hands are raised, amens shouted. A relative grips me hard and weeps
In Jesus name, hallelujah, the lord giveth; the lord taketh away
Bow your head in prayer, he says. Let us remember our brother
And I remember. Images enter my head, and I clench my teeth
The drunken fights with grandma, the hammer used to defend herself
The scar on his palm, the knife mom drove through his calloused hand
The dark coat closet, the sound of the lock his children heard, the cries
The line to his casket is long. The sobs overpowering the morose hymn
His children are lined next to him. My grandmother is holding his hand
I lean in to see him one last time. His red nose has vanished
He smells of embalming fluid, and his shirt is wet with tears
Jan 8, 2020
Jan 8, 2020 at 4:46 PM UTC
Here you are, reading some book
When you should be out there
Playing football and eating *****
We got work to do
You gotta move those shingles
I gotta hammer those nails
Don’t carry so much up the ladder at once
You’ll wreck your back and slow me down
I don’t want to be stuck here with you all day
There you are, writing again
You look so different with a pen in your hand
Without packs of shingles on your shoulders
I don’t understand why you do that
You’re supposed to be a baseball star
You’re supposed to win, make me proud
You’re supposed to hate the *******
Crack jokes and laugh at the queers
I just want to be proud of you
Anyway, the last teardown left a huge mess
Put down that pen, grab that pick, and get in my truck
These shingles ain’t moving themselves
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 2:27 PM UTC
Laying among the brown and green and red
its glassy eyes, faint and unfocused
against heavy breathing
Great job, my father’s knife unsheathes
he pats me on the back, hard and so loud
I must lean on my crossbow
We carry it back to his truck
a heavy mess, and it stinks
we work together
He tells me about his friends
the people he spends all his time with
how they all play Euchre
I ask how to play. What is trump?
He laughs. The weight shifts
I’ve asked this so many times before
With a wet thud, we throw it in his truck bed
it hides beneath a tattered light blue tarp
fastened with frayed bungee cords
Driving, he talks about his softball team again
and in his cracked rearview mirror
the tarp lifts slightly, and I see its fat tongue
My head turns. The tears are too warm
I fall into my hands, cheeks swollen
my father focuses on the road, hands gripping the wheel
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 2:16 PM UTC
Sitting among the headstones.
The Oklahoma sun shines down on me.
Birds sing their afternoon song.
They have no use for reverence.
Underneath, you are changing.
A hostile heart is becoming something new.
The cool grass sways near me.
Ants assume dutiful work.
My mind wanders, as is frequently the case.
I miss you.
Longing for second chances,
A monologue is started for no one.
It may be meant for me;
Something to put a restless mind at ease.
Searching for second chances.
Redemption that will never come.
The time spent here is important.
Another trip may not be within me.
Circumstances will lead me away,
But my heart is changing.
All because you are here.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 8:29 PM UTC
For me, nothing is more powerful than my regret.
It feels like Everest and I can’t climb.
Living has become the hardest part.
It is measured in breaths successfully taken.
This is what winning feels like.
As hard as I wish, the past isn’t done with me.
You will never leave that moment in time.
We are like anchors forgotten in the sea.
What might have been felt as real and constant as a pulse.
Thunderously beating, I rise and collect myself.
Now, we pretend to be strong.
Not just for me, but for all of us.
Because we all have regret and lives to live.
Below me is a casket; it is holding you.
The words cascade from my mouth like never before.
In and out of an out of body experience, you guide me through.
I wish I could have done more for you.
This is my regret.
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 3:40 AM UTC
It wasn't your song on the radio.
I don't even know if you like the band.
Every lyric reminded me of you, though.
Filled with guilt and regret, I drove on.
Holding firm to the wheel, I was torn to tears.
My car doing 60 in the center lane.
"Drugs or Me" screamed of you.
I wish there hadn't been a choice.
Your side should have been at the forefront.
Ultimatums usually do no earthly good.
It was a hard lesson to learn.
Today's lesson came in the form of a song.
The interstate feels like hell today.
I fear the track to be played next.
Mixes can be a dangerous thing.
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
For my 2016 writing project, I’ve decided to write a single line of poetry every day for an entire year. Below, is November’s poem. Enjoy!
Thirty-three years old.
A brother lost.
A father fighting on.
A mother standing tall.
I feel brave.
Only death can defeat me.
It nearly did.
Still, I stand.
We all do.
We are like trees in a windstorm.
Life discounts me.
That is its mistake.
We've been to the brink.
We've stared over the cliff.
Edges are nothing to be feared.
Life defined in two parts.
My own personal B.C. and A.D.
Before destroys me.
The next is mine.
With bated breath.
I turn the page.
I begin writing a new chapter.
Much will be said of this time.
It is my beacon of hope.
These hours are mine.
Numbers on a wall,
Each with a purpose.
Let's use this story.
Let's save a soul.
November 3rd can change things.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 5:34 PM UTC
7 days ago, you were still here.
As the hours ticked away, you were consumed;
Consumed with rage and pain.
You were unable to see the future.
Soon, all would be washed away.
7 days ago, you were still here.
Blinded by the end, you calmly sat;
You sat in a field filled with nothing, but the end.
Time was not on your side.
Soon, all would be washed away.
7 days ago, you left us.
Pain breathed its last breath and you were gone;
Gone was the disappointment and the need for forgiveness.
We rushed from every corner.
Soon, all would be washed away.
7 days ago, we were forced to hold time in our hands.
Questions that can never be answered, yet we press on;
Pressing forward to a new normal.
A place and a time without you.
Soon, all will be washed away.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Eva came first, a tiny cloth bag
A tiny brown noose on the table will drag
A little red heart sown over her chest
We are one, together depressed.
After comes Lucas, a lover of Eva
He adds to the mix a slightly different flavor
He takes the scars with which I'm obsessed
We are one, together depressed.
Now there's Sally, a full-bodied doll
She can fit in the palm of my hand, she's so small
You can try to figure out who they are, be my guest
We are one, together depressed.
When most people see them, they call me a creep
You must be a voodoo artist, they all say like sheep
Not such a shocker that no one has ever addressed
That we are one, together depressed.
Think what you say, because sometimes it's needed
To keep me from death they have so far succeeded
Not often have I really expressed
That we are one, together depressed.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC