there were never pies on the
window counter
or cakes baking in the oven
there was never the smell of
home style type of cooking
in our house

fried chicken came out of a
box; frozen and dropped into
the fry daddy

we’d listen closely to see if
you could hear the chicken’s
soul scream in the greases soup

dessert was apples from the tree,
some day’s you get them before they
hit the ground, others you ate around
the soft spots

conversation was initiated by whatever
news story was airing, commercials
for **** breaks

while the pie was never there,
the cake just a dream,
while home made fried chicken was another
time period

this was still home, this was still where the heart was
in-between drunken fights over finances, despite cold winter
nights on hand cut wood, regardless of
living on the edge of over every
time we began to think it was safe to feel safe.

my actions are always
fast
sometimes void of thought,
sometimes void of vision

i am my own worst enemy
i always have been the greatest deterrent
to my own determination

a damnation within the
hearts beating, a black
hole in my minds eye

my actions are always
fast
sometimes void of thought,
sometimes void of vision

full of feelings, however fleeting, they may be.

tomorrows whisper
is never
heard
until it's turned
into
a scream

high definition
camera
details
the image
for better and
worse

now you can see the
dirt under the finger
nail of the poor;
the bone from working
so hard

you can see the vibrant
color of a flower, more
vivid in it’s yellow or red,
than ever before

its the pain, however,
that i see, that breaks
my knees, begging
for polaroid film to release
me from all this

beauty

i’m gonna be drunk
before i even get out this house,
kris is sleeping
not feelin’ it today
i’m drinking it
startin’ to feel it
big bass bumping outside
my windown
tall drink of water
sippin’ on her drank
she’s feeling it too

prince fielder looking
******* pointing
his finger at something
across the street
not at me
someone else
maybe there will be a fight
tonight

the storms have passed,
but i can still feel them, too.

my dad and brother sit around
on sunday afternoons
talking about conspiracies

kennedy
area 51
princess diane
911
all the **** no one really
understands

some of it they say
was planned some if
it not so much

i sit and take it all in,
scratch my sack when needed,
watch outside for the storm that’s
coming waiting for five o’clock when
i can stop thinking and drink a bottle
or two

heat filled sentences shooting
thought process half dead
get me mad

if everything is a conspiracy
then **** this heart of mine
and **** all this time i wasted
waiting

honestly,  i don’t see myself as
a poet -
i am a historian who
writes
in poetic form

as are you
readers
and writers

our eyes
record
history as
it happens

storing it
in our hearts;
ushering it safely
on passage through
time

trading it with blank paper
in hopes of not
repeating the bad;
and reliving the good

i hate the word poet,
i am a historian
and so are you