Tears are only secretions from a troubled eye
A hordeolum bespectacled lack of lye
In the lachrymal lakes of a punctum stye

This is what she said to me, a scientific lie
She explained to me, o'er again, the reasoning why
Tears are only secretions from a troubled eye

Mine had wandered into logs and knives
And they pulse the tears of meandered cries
In the lachrymal lakes of a punctum stye

Forgiveness is a forgotten try
Boy cried wolf and science vied
Tears are only secretions from a troubled eye

Pleas and knees swallow pride
Tears fall deep and losses die
In the lachrymal lakes of a punctum stye

Two of hearts must say their goodbyes
As love was lost for science to find
Tears are only secretions from a troubled eye
In the lachrymal lakes of a punctum stye

A half-century
To finally get comfortable
In semi-flabby, semi-
Muscular body.
100/2.
50 years. Old?
Young? Is there
Middle ground here?
Yo-old?
Ung?
Am I halfway to
The end of the curve?
(Better we don’t know
THAT day)

At my very strongest,
(29 years ago)
When I lived and drank
The weight room,
I was character-wise
All-time low.
Wreched louse, and
I’m insulting lice.
375lbs. nearly
2x/body weight.
As I broke a sweat
I also broke my
Parents’ hearts.
That’s irony at its
Most painful.

At Mom’s deathbed,
Six years ago,
(43, if you’re counting)
Regrets like flaming
Arrows impacting my
Heart mind soul body,
When I drove 300 miles
And waited 3 hours for
Her to get out of dialysis,
And I’m at the hospital
With 2 of my 6 sisters,
And she sees me and her
Face lit the room
Brighter than fluorescents
And I was weak
And she was strong
She was Mom
And I was child
And when we got home
I let her hold me
As I cried and cried
Like the baby I was
44 years before.
And she held me,
And brought that special
Kind of peace Mothers,
Only Mothers can impart
Upon their children.

I look at my Mom’s
High-School Graduation
Picture behind me
On the bookshelf.
I look at that picture
And tell Mom
“I love you, Mom,”
And in my dreams,
She whispers the
Words back to me.

No human being
Was, is, or ever will be
Perfect.
We are walking contra-
Dictionaries.
We shout when
We should whisper.
We paint orange when
We should draw blue.
We see death
In life,
And live according to
Two hands on a numbered
Face.
We chain ourselves to
Abusive chemicals
And complain about
Our dwindling freedoms.

We ignore the ones
We say we love
And spend rivers of
Time in a virtual
Abstract world of
New symbols that
Signify nothing
Except time misspent.

If you’re reading this,
And Mom still draws breath,
Is not just an image from
On high looking forever
At whatever pictures
Look at,
Don’t wait until the last
Moments to tell her
I’m sorry, Mom.
I love you, Mother.
Mama, sing me
That song you used to
Hum me to sleep
When I was a baby.
Thank you, Mom.
Thank you for struggling,
Sacrificing, and not
Prematurely ending my life.
Thank you for diapers
Changed,
For rashes
Soothed;
For tears flowing from
Chubby cheeks onto your
Collar, where you would
Sniff and smell them
(While I slept as soundly
As sound itself)
And cry your own tears,
Mixing them together,
Forming the salty
Lachrymal glue that
Kept you going and
Going when you only
Wanted to lie down
And rest.

Thank you, Mom.
I miss you so much.

look down when im writing like there's blood on my hand
life touchss my shoulder in the absence of death
muss be dripping from the nostril from its bobbing crystal head
i know its because i pulled out yellow flowers from spaces they left
stop beggin u remember he says to a doe shaking water from her chin
into your hands put them into your hands i put it into your hand
i hope u understand this that even tho they are full
they are as good as dead //flashing half eaten hearts off a cold gluttonous god// wrapped in a moth eaten blanket
mine was never open enough to be filled with regrets i know
that all we ever meant is what is left
i know that all i know to dipsense is death
ive been worming into and undergoing more than a modicum of stress
pale birds still sleep when they bleed out their pigment
i know because i watch them out my window
when the moon lifts its head
they plead with the weather thru crowding lachrymal stems
I FEEL SO BAD cuz god its so obnoxious
when he beats his barbaric chest
then pleads and cries like a ***** when he cant hold his breath
where was the last time u felt alive its not next to
or even around me who has given you life
even tho i never mean it even tho you always see it
im a creature with eyes i feed on unbelieving
finding every cross-way to die

look down when im writing like there's blood on my hand
life touchss my shoulder in the absence of death
muss be dripping from the nostril from its bobbing crystal head
i know its because i pulled out yellow flowers from spaces they left
stop beggin u remember he says to a doe shaking water from her chin
into your hands put them into your hands i put it into your hand
i hope u understand this that even tho they are full
they are as good as dead //flashing half eaten hearts off a cold gluttonous god// wrapped in a moth eaten blanket
mine was never open enough to be filled with regrets i know
that all we ever meant is what is left
i know that all i know to dipsense is death
ive been worming into and undergoing more than a modicum of stress
pale birds still sleep when they bleed out their pigment
i know because i watch them out my window
when the moon lifts its head
they plead with the weather thru crowding lachrymal stems
I FEEL SO BAD cuz god its so obnoxious
when he beats his barbaric chest
then pleads and cries like a ***** when he cant hold his breath
where was the last time u felt alive its not next to
or even around me who has given you life
even tho i never mean it even tho you always see it
im a creature with eyes i feed on unbelieving
finding every cross-way to die

I'm not afraid of death
She's scared of me
And people like me who embrace her ever so senselessly.
I'm not afraid of death.
Since we created the concept.
Imbued the notion of a tragic end with a lachrymal consequence.
The idea of death was built with fear written on headstones and synagogues.
Achieved through the exposition of conflicts and wars.
How am I to know that death isn't peaceful?
Painless or not, I am not afraid of death.
For its vague appearance brings itself closer to what makes us human.
For its vigil and oneirical existence is simple and over judged.
I am not afraid of death.
Death is afraid of the people who have yet to see her.