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 Aug 2014 Tiffanie Noel Doro
r
Out my window
the same world
different day, day after day

I want to grab my bolt bag
tie a red bandana
around my sweet mutt's neck
hop a train, act sane
for a change

Georgia's down the tracks a spell
and Birmingham's half-way to hell
New Orleans in September
sounds pretty good

Woof and me
living free
no cares to carry on our backs
singing clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

r ~ 8/13/14
\¥/\
  |.     Clickery-clack
/ \
evening
my Japanese friend returns to his room
I sit in mine
listening to the sound of rotting wood
Then she comes again
sneaking past the sleeping attendant
she looks 14
‘You want make nice nice’
No, I don’t want ‘nice nice’, I say again
She laughs
I refuse, leave my gray fungus covered hotel
walk into a temple
Rows of orange robed monks sit all around
Death not a mystery
He lies in front of me
Burning in his saffron robe
Orange smoke spiraling up
joining night clouds and moon
At midnight
they will come and take his bones
Not a mystery
later, I sit with Buddhist children
playing a guitar
They sing melodies of the east
our voices spiraling up
joining orange clouds and saffron moon

It is not yet midnight
Talk incessantly.
Dwell on temporal affairs.
Ask friends for advice; ignore it.
Air out perceived problems constantly.
Respond defensively.
Never take criticism at face value.
Write off whoever won't humor you.
Accuse others of misunderstanding you.
Build your lifestyle on whims.
Presume entitlement to *** for "being nice".
Choose an inappropriate diet for your body.
Avoid personal responsibility.
Refuse to own your failures and errors.
Justify behaviors that create conflict.
Rationalize unfruitful thought and action at all cost.
Dismiss what contradicts your prejudices.
Compare yourself to Jesus.
Insist on your specialness.
Insist that others acknowledge it.
Don't communicate your expectations.
Blame others for your bad choices.
Fish for compliments.
Use sentiment to ply others.
Use sentiment to ply yourself.

Subject anyone to yourself
while the above applies to you.
It's called a "toxic person", ladies and gentlemen.
"Expressing your feelings
couldn't be called art."

So birthed
Shakespearean Walts —
whose puns crammed nature
into mens' hands
and shadowed doubts
that we are all human.

The need to rhyme
and snort out some lines
demoned great minds
who refused to color
outside the lines.  

Metaphor ran over happiness,
watercoloring lines
in INK.

"A petal is
a woman who fails
when she wilts."


So girls learn to answer,
coyly in high school english,
that everything but petals
are ******* symbols.
No reflection needed,
when nature is a *****.
I am not sorry for my soul
That it must go unsatisfied,
For it can live a thousand times,
Eternity is deep and wide.

I am not sorry for my soul,
But oh, my body that must go
Back to a little drift of dust
Without the joy it longed to know.
Be my friend
My love is in you
Take me away
And show me truth
I don"t care about my own
I see only fire in my bones
My life isn't nothing without recovery
Regenerate to my previous sate
Before I was placed into human hands
Perfect my strength in the mist of my enemies
Give me a heart for the homeless
Cause I know I don't own this
Fill your possession with your spirit
Take my prayer and hear it
Feel it and take action
Save me from myself
Cause I believe anything can happen
When you are my **help
The constant coming and going
Of friends never known.
If I can look you in the eyes,
I can look into my own.

For you have to leave now
And naturally, I will weep;
But, in the ever changing current
We lullaby each other to sleep.

But who is here who would know
That the constant incessant flow
Is natural and beautiful.
He is no where to be found:

He is always on the go.
I am here for you.
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