You did not sing to me
in the cool of the evening
nor plant a lyric in my slumber at noon.

I did not breathe in the your joy
as I freely swung in the blue sky
peered upward in the pail of the balloon.
  
You were gone when my stomach tensed
scanning the spread sheet
my stocks trending downward.

Hammering on my patio project
sweat spilled from my brow.
You, absent from my now.

I blamed you for leaving me,
for my edgy mood and emptiness.
But it was I who slammed the door to the sweet  vapors
of your spirit as I absorbed myself
in the foggy persuasions of my evasions.

WRITING BAREFOOT

Being frisked
at Dublin airport.

"What's dat in yer
back pocket?"

"An unfinished poem!"
I admit ruefully.

"Is it metal?"
he asks.

"No, it's mental!"
I tell him.

"You know, a bunch of words
hanging about on a piece of paper."

"Go on with ya!"
he smirks.

"And next time...
remove yer shoes."

On the plane I
kick off my shoes and

finish off the unfinished
poem.

Now I
always write barefoot.

*

On my way to Jersey to perform at the Opera House I was asked at the airport after a thorough search refused to yield why I had bleeped...."Excuse me sir but could I look inside your hair?" I was only hiding curly thoughts inside my curly hair.

There was a man who can see clearly.
Both the sunshine and darkness.
“Cut my eye that sees darkness.
I want to see the sunshine more”
The man said to the Doctor.
And so he did…
The man immediately left
to fulfill his destiny to be happy.
To only see the sunshine.

There was a man who can hear clearly.
“Cut one ear that hears pain so I can
Hear the joy and laughter once more!”
The man said to the Doctor.
And so he did…
The man leaves as he hears
the Illusions of laughter and joy.
But the man doesn’t know the confusion
that lies.

There was a man who can speak.
“Sow my mouth closed! I don’t want
The lost voices to sneak out!”
The man said to the Doctor.
And so he did.

Then there was a boy
Who has one eye,
One ear,
And a sewn mouth.
He grabs a piece of paper.
He writes
“Give me an eye that sees darkness,
And ear to hear the sorrow that follows,
And cut my mouth open so I may speak out…”

“Why?” The Doctor replied.
Then the boy writes:

“If the truth hurts.
Then kindness must be a lie.
And if I sit there silently with these lies and Illusions,
What would that do if we don’t take the time to embrace
The pain and bitter memories that lies beneath me?
To speak out the truth of that false love and joy
that we fake ourselves to cover the heart that bleeds,
instead of treating it properly?

And at the same time…
How can I write poetry with these
angels of the shadows that sings mellow songs
and tells tales of hope that
lies in the forest roads to the unknown, doctor?”

BEEP
Hey…
Um…
If you’re listening to this audio recording,
Um…
I wanted to say I miss you.
I haven’t seen or heard from you in a while, and…
I know what you're going through hurts you…
Um..
It’s ok to not be ok,
and I’m sorry that it hurts.
I really am.
But um…
I know everything will be ok and…
Well, I know that sounds cliche but
I'm not just saying this.
I know it will get better soon.
I want you to know you’re not alone.
Just don’t let go of hope, ok?
I love you…
*BEEP

In my head,
it’s an escape room.
I wake up, stuck in a bathroom,
Each wall closing in on me.
Filled with mistakes
and regrets that make me fall.
Bittersweet memories and lost mementos
I hate-
A horrid melody put on repeat.
Each worst memory that I’ve replayed
Feels like a ****** mystery
To a broken scene.
Trying to figure out what happened.
Or if I did wrong in a relationship…

I’ve searched for hope…
Or the answer to it.
In the cracked mirror,
I see a broken self.
That self turns bitter and lonely,
Fading away in the shattered glass
As the time ticks slowly,
Wishing for the world to be better.
Each puzzle is a current problem
that yells and screams in my head.
Turning life into a living hell to solve.
The door won’t budge,
And I can’t find the key.
I keep thinking,
Wishing to be freed.
I get tired of it-
Trying to escape...
In the endless Escape Room…

at least sisyphus
only has one
boulder

Today has a weird air about it,
It’s sunny and bright and still
But it feels like mourning.

Is this preemptive?
Premonition?
Or a soft surrender to all my trauma.
A delicate laying down of flowers,
Soft cloths,
A blanket of tears
For versions of me that never survived
Or who were taken by the darknesses.

At a desk, coffee sachets rest.
Long-life milk harbours
white dreams of expiry.
Shuffling in his forgetful nest
a grey man blinks
at the intruding light.

Americo, do you remember
your antique power,
that opened like a rose
on the walls of Hiroshima?