A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.52 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohs,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?

624

Forever—it composed of Nows—
’Tis not a different time—
Except for Infiniteness—
And Latitude of Home—

From this—experienced Here—
Remove the Dates—to These—
Let Months dissolve in further Months—
And Years—exhale in Years—

Without Debate—or Pause—
Or Celebrated Days—
No different Our Years would be
From Anno Domini’s—

♦   ♦   ♦

She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.

Nows merged, and, seconds,minutes and hours
Days,months and years merged,
Life has become a dream!
A solid reality.

(to the tune of Do You Wanna Build a Snowman)

"Do you wanna build a snowman?

No I can't do it today.

The snows just not good enough

I can't do that

Lets try another day

Cause nows just not a good day

So lets try to build a snowman

some other day.

And on that day we'll build a snowman

Someday we'll build a snowman."

you were the de(f)inition of
toxic.

yo(u) took control
and never let go,
with a (c)onstant
deathly grip on my soul.

could you have been
any more aggressive?
only god (k)nows.

but i know one thing.
i left (y)ou,
as soon as i c(o)uld,
and
i'm
f(u)cking glad i did.

You don't know what it's like
To be violated
To be held against your will
And felt up
And leave bruises
By someone you trusted
By someone you thought cared about you

You don't know what it's like to be used just for your body
By someone you thought cared for more than just nudes
By someone who told you were cute and pretty

You don't know what it's like to tell the person who violated you
What they did to you
And how it made you feel

You don't know what it's like to receive a fake apology
One only to get you to shut up
But as you're telling him your point of view
And as he's pretending to apologize
You could just feel all the "I don't cares" and "will you shut up nows"

You don't know what its like to attempt to leave an uncomfortable situation
Only to be pulled back by the handle on your backpack
Unaware of what is going on
You thought you were leaving

You don't know what it's like to be held up against the body
Of a strong, tall male
Unable to push him away
Unable to squirm out of the situation

You don't know what it's like to be barely able to breathe
Because your face is pressed right up against his side

But of course you knew he was strong
He played hockey and baseball
But you didn't know he was that strong

You don't know what it's like to be violated by someone you thought you could trust, or thought they could protect you.

Let's not mention how you don't know what it's like
To be sitting in class, sharing your homework with another boy
Only to feel his hand on your leg

You don't know what it's like to sit in a room full of students
And have no one notice what is happening
And you've shot a look that says don't do it
Yet he takes that as a look to continue to go up further
Because he thought it would increase tension
But really he made your self-worth decrease

You don't know what it's like to have an unwanted hand go up your skirt
And you thought it was okay to wear a skirt that day
Just like you wore one every other day
Because the Kilt was part of your school uniform
But of course that made your visible legs vulnerable
And it's a good thing that someone else call for his attention
Because you wanted anything but his

And you don't know what it's like to make a scene
Or to tell someone
Because you're not sure if you parents will be more upset
About you talking to boys or that your got yourself into those situations

You don't know what it's like to stay silent
Because you don't want to make matters worse

But it's my body, why would someone think they have access to it?

Because you don't know what it's like to be sexually assaulted

The rain falling on my hair
Breathing in the freshest of air
I guess nows the time to go inside
And to come back out when the rain has dried

But rain has such a nice sound
When it falls against the ground
No such comfort can be found
No such comfort can be found

my stomach has become an hourglass
digesting the sandy grains of time we have before you leave me
i can count the days on my fingers now

but you still whisper sweet forevers in my ear
you still kiss me like we have all the moments in the world
you still hold me like you don't have to let go

and i have to remind myself
that i don't get to keep you in my pockets
that you signed a contract with your future
and my name isn't on it

i have to whisper the bitter "nows" when you're not around
and hold myself together when you let go

In a tender moment I looked on your face
That pageant surrounding your creative mind
I looked down so deep at the soul in your eyes
Then measured our chances with a few stolen glances

Another long look into your mirror
Left me wondering what you might see
The trials and endeavors, the nows and whenevers
Are pleasant reminders of what we might be

We’re caught in the whirl of a magnetic grip
Time rolls away as it dashes our fate
The spring and the winter, the summer and fall
Are naught but the seasons we live in our dreams

Content with the motion of this little dance
We step off the edge and into the abyss
Time looses meaning as we tumble on in
Our passion is bleeding as we sway in the breeze

Nows the time
to love one another
A hug and a kiss doesn’t go amiss,
To cherish each other’s lives,
To lose someone near is something we fear,
To support each other,
Be there and show you care,
To be Patient with each other,
And Tolerate at this time,
To consider each other,
Meet half way it will save the day!
To help each other,
Do what you can forget what you can’t.
Lives too short, love one another as you ought!
It’s time to forget the anger you get!
And go forward with love and peace in your heart,
Make your world a better place,
And those around you too,
To yourself be true!
Nows the time.

Theresa Hartley-Mace

let’s write poems
together
tell each other
secrets

stay up all night
it’s the only way
to keep it

let’s scrap book
forever
glue in
all the pieces

photograph
memories

rough-draft
remedies

the trials
and errors

The nows
and nevers

Let’s write poems
together
of life without
regrets

New nows come from the after
Never a now that stays
What you thought was a chapter
May just be but a page
For many a scribbles jotted when
Of what made sense then
Some of it I'd like to have erased but
Time happens to be a pen
Don't go round about counting nows
Instead make the nows count
Finish the **** book before you die
Your stories will be here to haunt

Speak of the arrows which collapse unfaded through the gates of gated gratuities
Expansive perpetuity
Leading to the loose leaf paper falling from empty trees in the dead of an autumnal night
Moonlight,
Clouded contact lenses

Mills billowing, malls bellowing
"Open for busy-ness! Open for busy-ness!"

Unzipping jackets with a smile that says
"From the ends of endings, I have always begun with an eternal grin while you slept on my knees and I dreamed of things smaller than the precipice of the period at the end of this sentence."

This never loved that
And that never loved this
Because they soon discovered 'This' was not this, and 'That' was not that
They were all There together, and discovered an 8 kicked sideways was an honesty beyond promises
And angrily, I remember wondering what had ever come over the all of us that wanted nothing more to do with anger

Had we stormed off in all directions, reading to seek in veins for a blood that was unfounded in the deadly hallows of happy mathematics?
Or were we simply throwing words together in the hopes of sounding surreal?

Sometimes I feel psuedo when I write, when I know I'm quite as real as anyone else.
I just need to struggle with the words more honestly, I suppose.

Perhaps I need to struggle more honestly with myself.
As Kerouac said,
“My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.”

I need to go mad.

I need to quit my job and be here and all over here without a worry for the ideas
Yesterday, tomorrow
It is only ever today.

It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need to oblige my mother and father with a proper philosophical argument as to why I want to be here, because all they've ever been is 'there,' with the best intentions at heart I know, but without ever coming back down to Earth and letting their worries waft away like the smell of fresh, metallic rain during the Ides of March.

They failed the exam of the lilies which did not accept the parental "this is the way it is."
It is only the way it is because we are too cowardly to endorse our wildest dreams.

We do not wish upon stars, and if we do, it is because we wish upon those stars to help us get out of there, when all we have to do to escape there is to be here like a sudden clash of thunder upon a bobby-pin that has been pricked into the arm out of an innocent curiosity which all the There-Afters would call strange, while the Here-Nows would smile and nod at such beautiful sincerity.

At such pristine reality.

All the logical arguments my father confers upon me during our Grand Cosmic Debates always feel gently serious. He does not wish to convert me, nor to convince me.

He simply tries to pull me gently back into his reality, which sits reinforced by the rest of the global nay-sayers and There-Afters.

Why is it that my parents never had the courage to go mad?

Why was it nothing but a literary curiosity to them?

Why do they still continue to believe that one cannot simply run off into the sunset with a cosmic sense of reckless abandon?


The human race is nothing but a grand conviction.
The words themselves look to say, "Now, here here young one! You are a part of our great label. You owe us. We have been measuring since the day of your birth."
It's like we are born, and hopped through hoops until satisfaction meets the empty stomach to tell it that it must be full. So we struggle to fill, but it always becomes empty again. We seek to devour and consume and listen to the creased minds of our parents as they confer to us their common notion of sense which truly senses nothing beyond nonsense.

All of this makes me feel like I'm jogging on a sidewalk of soap.

And I'm sleepy.

We all work too hard, even when we're not at work.

We feel the affluenzic pull of occupation.

Not because we occupy our occupations,
but because our occupations occupy us.

I am a Cosmic Hobbyist

For the infinite round of nowever and always again.

To all the mornings that go wrong
1 hope you know
I find my laughter in you
somewhere along the "why mes" and "why nows"
A beautiful summer breeze hit
And I forgot what there was to complain about

PROCRASTINATION
By
Joe McDonald

Part I:

How often can I keep putting off everything in life that must be done to the point of frustration and despair?  

How often will my work sit and stare at me with the eyes of hungry children always whining their demands for my attention to each task always wanting my full being beyond my own inner abilities and doubt?

How often can I walk past the damaged concrete step on my own house that sneers at me everyday as I walk up to my front door?

How often can I make promises to old friends to get together, celebrate life, and not expect them to wait on my return call of cancelation because of illusionary diseases?

How often can I feign in my backyard the beauty of my roses, sipping white grape while the grass under my bare feet remains brown, coarse, and over grown with dandelions stifling all vegetation?

How often can I pledge my good faith to a worthy cause by ending up watching from the back row as the needs prosper or fail regardless of my lack of motivation?

How often will constant kicking of the can down the yellow brick road be considered the excellence of a long line of Shakespearean resumes?

How often will my lack of courage blind me to opportunities of abundance and force my family to a life of stagnant economic asperity?

How often will I consent to others disrespect of my mastery of skills to the verge of closing my mind to all that is important to dwell in a soup of anger, self-doubts, and ache?

How often will the peeling paint, blistering off of my house like shards of cheese at my wedding feast, augment my anguished indifference finding every physical, spiritual, and any other of a multitude  of “…Why not’s…” festering in my dome of “..Do it tomorrow’s…”?

How often can I rattle my saber of position, roar my battle cry of “Tomorrow” to postpone today’s tasks? Bundling them all into neat piles of future promise completions. All the time smiling a grin of a used car salesman.


How often can I sit on my couch on sunny Saturday mornings enjoying the sun rise? Its beams slowly sliding across the finished oak; warming my unkempt hovel to the boiling point that tuffs of unwanted cat fur dancing over the varnished grain like tumbleweeds in a Sam Pechinpah film. Yet, I sip my morning brew, acknowledging their existence but, my head movies are of other unattended illusions.

How often can my inability to act or respond be accepted by those who expect perfection in all things?

How often can I permit the disappointment of a moment fire the indifference toward the needs of the here and now?

How often will my journey up my front walk be changed from the joy of daffodils and hyacinths filling the air with aromas of lung cleansing delights only to rediscover the pine foliage  are still dressed in the lights of Christmas past?

How often will I put off leading because of failure of seeing the needs of those who need leadership? They cry out for direction but, plead for independence. I use the pleas to drown out the cries.

How often will I have the epiphany of a lifetime only to have inaction and fear
drag it down to the bowels of an enlighten brain ****?



Part II:

I keep plugging in the mechanism of delay to power the animal of the moment.

I blind myself over and over and over and over again again again again to my abilities of now in favor of promises of later.

I smell success in the air every time I do the nows but, the stench of celebration’s to come is easer, sweater, more in line with who I am and not who I want to be.

I hear the praise and accolades of present victories and in time I’ll drag my triumphs out over the gravel road of time until they have lost their luster.

I’ll blindly stare at the tube of adult babysitting, at images of various eye candies trying to escape my own drive to do and yet failing in this as well.

I can’t spit out the bitter taste of the act of putting everything off nor drown it in the wine of determination without repeated reminder that I am drinking from the same cup of vintage to come.

I spend much needed dollars and valued hours gorging myself on self-help aids and assistance. Only they too become part of the beast’s feast of my misused time.

I awake every Monday with dreams of a new but, I’m so accessible to countless distractions. By Friday I face the inevitable doom of looking back over the landscape of a week gone up in the flames of the undone.

I try to grab each day by its throat. Choke out the desired results. Only it offers the slights resistance and I let it go to torment me from its lair growling “…not now, not now, not now…”

I’ll spend time with my mate for life. Half of me is relishing the moments with her. Half is wandering over the tablets of what I haven’t done.

I have mismanaged, misused, balled up, blundered, fouled up, mishandled, muddled, muffed, spoiled, and fumbled the footballs of my life again and again avoiding all that has to be done now driven farther down the boulevard. Constantly stopping at any insignificant store front; staring at juvenile trinkets of distraction.

I have sinned over and over again. I offer prayers to anyone who will listen. Begging for the enlightenment to solve my weakness. “… quia pecccavi nimis cogitatione verbo et in cogitations, et in hoc opera, quod ego facere non, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…”



Part III:

Who else do I have to make suffer in confused patience waiting for the promised end results of my superficial excellence?

What has to be done to make me arise from the ash of self doubt, indecision, and fear to conquer this demon within my psyche?

Where are the answers I seek in my time of apathy?

Why has this inferior deity have such a grasp on me?

When! Again, when!!! When will I face this issue and start to find the peace of timely attainment?






(“… that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…”)
Part IV:

I have lived with this for over a half century.
Trying to climb out of the hole of misused time.
Falling back into my penitentiary.
Serving a sentence of intimate crime.


The venting is complete, pity-pats written down.
My confession exposed for all to share, witness.
If this public sacrament exposes me a clown.
Mock away; have your jest. For I could care less.


My Ginsberg rant is to open doors of avowals.
To aid in my cure; in hope start my salvation.
To trust myself; to believe in oneself. I am all.
To look into the morning glass willing a reincarnation.


Only I can face the beast and make it heel.
Down inside I have to find the straight for each day.
Try a new, lighter approach; a new Don Marquis feel.
“…procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday…”




April 2014

Working on a large sheep prperty once
On days not much doing way out dig cactus
One day doing just this I caught a flash
Owner on his old horse up a hill for practice

Watching me the old coot he was that day
To see if I on my own  was doing my work
The sun sent me a flash from his binoculars
The old guy was an untrusting kind of ****

Just below me a soil erosion twent feet deep
That ran for about a real good mile away
I rode down and right up it for a mile
And right up behind him fifty tards I say

******* my horse sat under a big old tree
Rolled myself a smoke and watched him
Looking all over away down there was he
Chances finding me down there were slim

He was getting so frustrated binoculars too
Where the hell did that bloke go he said
Looking all about for me that day was he
I just smiled rolled another smoke instead

Him standing in his old half worn saddle
Where the hell did that bloke I ask go
I'll be having a real good talk to him later
Can't trust anyone I said nows a good ya know

http://i197.photobucket.com/albums/aa290/tracymay27/CowboyCampFire.jpg

terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018

i've come here to commit the quivering weak,
feeding scurrying beasts more reeking fodder
sentimental flesh no match for their razor sharp teeth
banging *** lids, stomping feet
hoping that rats near, feasting
on scraps and detritus will scatter amid bluster
before eyes dare to open - perhaps catch sight of things
that might scare us
our cans, never closed -
left always ajar, an offering of communion
lest they grow too hungry
gnaw through walls and come inside,
share foie gras with guests I'd hoped to impress
now seated and dining behind;
disgust them in sights of sins best hidden out back in the darkness
and leave fine linens soiled with meals yet digested

his body's been disposed before,
innocent specter resurrected by morning to fog up the mirror
reciting novenas as beads of his rosary roll in counts down its surface
never suspecting fate that awaits as night falls once more
daytime is easier, drowning sound
from his voice in symphonies of piano and strings
Mozart's or Mahler's  -
other things of distraction...
that aren't there to hide in when
sun fades and sleep, again, tries to invade
his figure repudiated, extracted
from a psyche dissected years ago, like a tumor threatening to grow
swallow the Now from which time's made.
in pretense of conversion for the moment,  i take his hand and lead him -
more fresh meat for the rodents
(even saints sometimes lie when they don't like the answers - they atone deception later)
he still cries when I leave him alone at the altar

once
a shaman shaking dried heads tied to a stick with palm leaves
promised mysterious potions that would strengthen the weak
reciting magical incantations expected to exorcise spirits within
for all those who believed
practicing his science of faith or faith in his science
for clients lined up at the door,
seeking doses of hope that he sold them -  returning each week for some more
but for those apostate, left to stare in the glare of florescent
humors never found balance in bloodletting
lancet nor leaches
the weakness of faithless was in never tasting the cure
or trusting tears could ever be wiped away by ice picks
he ****** deep in eye sockets, the sweet lies he told us
holes left in the soul could never filled by blue pills -
they couldn't reach there

missionaries positioned their ways
through that breach,
preaching a new theology requiring surrender
of my reliquary of cherished memories
as precondition for salvation,
discarding polished bones i'd kissed and prayed over:

Her precious pink t-shirt, coil of hair still stuck there,
though having no root it could never be proved
from whom it was groomed,
it was article of faith - who could dare question it;

the used ticket stub with date imprinted
indicating temporal evidence that
once something true existed
that i, too, felt part of;

words bound in a covenant sent by saints
in small pieces of lavender-scented mail
though having waited so long
faith in The Coming had wasted
and perfume, long ago, faded to imagination

and so, a soul abandoned all hope of redemption

a red rose rendered in oils
expressing devotion for eternity lost meaning
when it withered
watered by hope, as it was and forgotten;
our castle built on clouds came tumbling to the ground
when we looked up, stared at the sky;
the permanent brilliance of diamonds become mere stones in the garden
when sown from a window on high -
wealth for worms to covet and fight over,
though the fool still knelt to sift soil through his fingers
in search of lost sacrament
finally planting his hope
in the many graves that he'd made
otherwise, for forsaken,
faith is just hope not yet ready to die

then, there's the weak one i'll face in the morning,
likely still worshiping old bones and reciting from memory his ancient liturgy
when i let it, a cacophony of questions
can echo about paths never taken, and why some vows, not others;
and i wonder if there's a heaven for heathens when clocks cease their ticking
off nows that i try to live in

Rain comes down,
Heavy as ache, wet as blood,
Makes dirt sound
That shatters ground and mood
Drumming onto leaves.

Rain scabs earth,
Murky as love, dark as wound,
Sprinkles the cold
Forest that smokes out light,
Sun smothers into moon.

Rain races down,
No things seem to matter much,
Creatures disembodied
Come and go in lazy rushes
Even heart withholds.

Rain cleanses not
And there is no sky these days
For flights so empty,
Lost in the faraways of nows,
Sun blots away by moon.

Thimble List

Hug a stranger, create a friend,
Hug again, friendship has no end.
The first grain of sand.

Share a crooked bench, nibble a rib,
Laugh and sing and play and live.
Another grain of sand.

Share a table, bare our toes,
Take a chance, share a barefoot dance.
More and more grains of sand.

Share a heated seat, warm my heart,
Warm my hand, share our thoughts.
Play a song, share it all
Share a kiss, bare our soul

As grains of sand build a beach
Grains of time build we and each

Fill our thimble with the sand that passes
Top to bottom in each others hourglasses.

The sand reveals our pasts, and contains all our tomorrows
Each passing grain, a reminder to be here and in our nows.

The thimble's sand is a list for me and a list for you
Each grain an instant of what we've done and have yet to do

They control our society, turned slavery from colored to a variety, told you that communism was the enemy while you steadily remained under the trance of the real enemy, your pitiful symphony won't work here cause I'm past where you'll be next year, **** your publicity I don't need it, like the real reason to go to war was to keep the enemy bleeding, you're desegregated but your mind is still oblivious to the segregation, like putting up walls to separate us, think about what your great granddaughter will think before you allow the world to sink by the cats that will make it illegal for you to blink, I'll cut their throat before isotope comes crashing in along with pigs sliding from a rope, you're a joke like thinking Obama wrote the speeches he addresses after smoking dope from a few pieces, no more *******, *******, or white trash nows for a time flash of our countries history, came along like we meant to be, killed some natives, hanged em from a tree, their land replaced with our nation ruled by some racists, lied about it and killed people who want a trial on it, now we are blinded but in an onyx and the 1% have the fattest wallets, they arrive in, we applaud them, they smile back like you're less than a diamond, man **** a rock, you'll be left in shock when I'm done with you, cause history is not the way it's been told to you, they place hurdles in front of you, while you place a red carpet in front of them, you praise them like Jesus, but they don't give a **** if you make it past a fetus cause you're just another number stuck in a slumber like Tylenol PM, trust me you'll see them nukin your new pin, now you're dead with blood drenched in like that's a fair win, I don't think so take their car rims and bend em around passed ten, then chuck em and just **** em cause they have that exact mental attitude, I've achieved the highest altitude no going further just staying immortal like telepathic portals created along with your morals to keep you in place instead of getting ahead of the race that is sympathized by enterprise, you'll be terrified at the finish cause it will diminish your dreams that you worked hard to cherish like being an arctic fish moving forward but then caught in a net to be gutted and cut up for sale, I don't believe a thing they say cause the truth will outshine a lie any day

Now there's a look in your eyes
Like black holes in the sky

I am going to love you…
For
Commonality
******* In its intensity
Midnight whisper songs… and
Puns and metaphors
Gently passed between fits
Of giggles and almost morning breath…
For
Private Jokes… and
Running gags
Shouting matches… and
Makeup ***
Discarded baggage… and
Tender kisses
For screen doors
Hickory floors
Fishing reels… and
Ill-timed poems
For being unafraid
To grow old… encumbered and entwined…
I am going to love you
For right now… and
For all
the right nows
to come

hey miss miles,
way out gone I miss your smiles,
the power sun rays,
have betraded
the shower fun days back when faded,
lying out beneath the tree
frying us just fealing free,
fealin both our trips
both soft upon the lips
          
  nows  just drifting out like ships
out upon the eye on guard
  to cry would just be hard,
           day by day the words are lost but
  memories just never tossed,...
all we shared,
  the stunts we dared.
       you were there for sure of course you cared.
and still will do up high up on your hill
  things arnt the same but I'm still sain
about to pop this pill..

in my mind last place that You will still be found,
far out sure around but I'm just dying on this ground
                                        I'm gone no sound......

it feels odd trying to keep you alive through words pulled from my memory. but i don’t now why language always fails me when i need it most. i’m not drunk enough yet to miss you properly like i usually do.
when sea otters sleep they hold hands so they don’t float away from one another whilst dreaming, but while i sleep my phantom hand reaches for yours. on those nights i wake up in a panic because your hand is nowhere to be found. the only thing that calms me is going outside and saying ‘i love you’ as loud as i can in hopes that the heavens can hear me. when i see a star twinkling i know someone is saying it back. so suddenly, i don’t feel as alone.
during the day i am trying to learn how to be an adult who pays her own bills, drinks coffee, and doesn’t cry at words like ‘i think i just want to be friends’. i just want to believe i have the capability to make someone happy, but i know i don’t and thats kind of like religion isn’t it?
i should have been in california by now and you should have been graduating this year but you’re not and i’m not so thats why i don’t really believe the doctors when they say i’m getting better. i still read the last message you sent me on facebook before you blocked me. you said i could talk to you about anything whenever i need to. so i guess what i’m trying to say is, nows that time.

Don't ever think you're all alone
or that everythings your fault
And please don't lock your heart away
inside some kind of vault

Because everything thats happened
happened not only to you
there are others who have played their part
you think the blame might be theirs too?

Can you look into the mirror
and say you did your best
with honesty and integrity
when others did much less

If so then maybe just perhaps
you shoulder too much blame
tell me do the other parties
seem to be doing just the same?

Chances are most prob'ly not
after all they've you for that
you ever think that nows the time
you start to give some back

Don't to this yourself my love
the burden is too great
forgive yourself for what they've done
before it is too late

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threads of truth combine,
i look to a brighter time,
forget thought of pain,
wipe the slate clean, start again,
dust down and walk,
forget about all the talk,
rebuild and plan,
nows the time you can,
if its broken need to re-assemble,
even if it makes you tremble,
beads of sweat appear,
can someone help can someone steer,
beached upon your shore,
i'm watered down once more,
here i sit here i wait,
the jury is out about my fate.
phil