and i trek'd through the pre-dawn cold
skating along the rail tracks,
to boulder jumping a ravine
                   (where were Japhy's ducks to guide?)
and into a deaden'd grass field.
tapping tip of foot to avoid watery pitfalls
while flanked by rusted railyard
and ****-addled recreational plot;
cat ****'d chemical smell wafts from as
December's north wind fights a toothless perverting force.
the macadame is barren as rainfell desert
and the animals propel by combustion
in effort to scavenge Capitalism's ****
                   predawn
'fore the burliest awaken with hunger.

It was a sunny bright day yet
I wore a trunk coat filled with holes,
boots that were about to rip off my feet,
and clothes underneath that were caked
with dirt from where we lived

My brazen face of dirt
with a bit of hope and love,
I walked in the grocery store
In all its 5 story glory manned by
Revolving glass doors and smiling attentive people

Only to be greeted with smiles that were wider (than normal)
as their widened eyes revealed
a scared and surprised Soul
fearful of
The Storm of my Past

As if on cue,
the burliest of shadows smacked me to the ground
with a thump like a delivery of a fresh sack of rice
Propping myself up, I was met with cold steel dark rings
that bound my skinny, bony wrists.

NO! NO! NO!
For the 10th of my daughter
A cold sweet treat
The last of its kind
in exchange for every possession in my being

What else is there I could ask for?


"Education has failed me, I've been locked up for a decade, my daughter hasn't spoken to me, I have asked for nothing but have received everything. Simplicity was all I wanted." -Diary of the Mistaken Man"

I can’t write about what I want.
If I do they’ll ship me off again.
They’ll lock me up and throw away that
key.

I deserve to be shipped off.
I deserved to be hanged, drawn and quartered
by the burliest of executioners
with a rope of braided silk
sliced with the epitome of a knife
and I hope my innards spill out
like gut colored ribbons and streamers
(celebrating my suffering)
and finally tied to the four horsemen of my recovery
pulling in four different directions.
Four different ways to “go”.

I don’t know who to believe anymore.
I am not a bad person.

Still not.

only the burliest of shotputters and the master craftsman of the grandest of trebuchets fully understand my insatiable lust to be thrown large distances