It just rained.

The sky is pale blue and
the wind is surely pleasing.
I might just think that the weather is perfectly made for me.

I see some tables and chairs,
some drinks and snacks,
some variety of people
I only see during this time of the day
and only during this kind of weather.

It's 6 PM and
it's almost as dark
as the deepest of the night.
The sky now is indigo blue
and the moon is already peaking.
It's smiling.
And god, what I'd do to smile like that.

I see drinks, I am holding a cup of rootbeer
while my friends hold a cup of red horse.

We talk about life, and how scary it is to live;
we talk about ending it, and the many ways we could consider trying;
we talk about enduring it, and how strong we are to have ourselves survive 'til today;
and we talk about staying, just because we're still here.

Though we're barely breathing,
we are here,
and just like the moon tonight,
with the cup of rootbeer in my hand
and with the cup of red horse they have,
we are smiling.

It's almost 8 PM and
the wind is still as pleasing.
It's touching my skin
and
it gives me a different feeling.
I see hands holding a grip to its last cup of beer;
I see eyes looking down, sleepy;
I see eyebags which I guess I can say as deep as the night;
I see crooked teeth;
I see imperfection.

Though we are as imperfect,
we are smiling,
we survived,
we're on our way home
with car lights reflecting on our faces.

We wave goodbye to the bottle of beer for two and my rootbeer.
We made it through the night.

There's Dasher and Dancer
Then Prancer and *****
Comet and Cupid
Then Donner and Blitzen

If you think these are reindeer
Then you would be wrong
And it's not crazy words
In some Christmassy song

See, they are my brothers
Don't anybody laugh
For these are hillbilly names
From Polecat Path

It's a place in the hills
In East Tennesee
On the top of a mountain
As high as can be

Here, Christmas is different
There's no reindeer or sleigh
We use an old covered wagon
It works better that way

We make toys in the smoke house
For most of the year
While smoking our hams
'Til Christmas is near

Then we load up the wagon
With granny on the reins
Her wooden teeth all gummy
With rootbeer stains

Now the wagon is pulled
By my brothers and I
We're plumb tuckered out
'Cause people can't fly

Well, you get the picture
About Christmas in the hills
It's a hillbilly adventure
On wagon wheels

Now there's much more to tell
But it's time to run off
'Cause we're loading the wagon
Your friend, Rudolph

I have anger issues like my dad. He’s in jail for drinking and driving. Reminds me of Bukowski, except not as smooth. I bet the liquor goes down smooth. Or the women Bukowski ******, I bet they went down pretty **** smooth. Either way I’m like both of them. A writer, drunk, lost soul, *** addict, emotionally unstable. It’s okay because I’m going places.
I tried the corner stores and the bars. They won’t sell to minors or they want to sell minors. **** men, I tell ya. So I always end up back at Jolly’s, the ice cream parlor. The owner has a lesbian granddaughter that I met at the beach last summer. She isn’t a good sight, tries to look like a boy, and still wears a bikini top. **** women, I tell ya. I usually order a rootbeer float. It’s a decent place because he gives you a legitamate amount of icecream. I suppose I’m a regular now, because I come in the winter. It’s not very fun, but it gets me out of the house. My dad called me Christmas Eve when I was orderin my icecream. The calls are 2 dollars for 20 minutes. My grandma pays for it. He said they were taking him to the hospital because of a error in his liver. He didn’t tell me details and I started to worry. Maybe it was cancer. He is a ******* drunk, or was. He’s been working on it for my sister and I. That call was 15 minutes and 5 seconds. He said goodbye and I told hm we had 5 more minutes. Then in the most weak voice I’d ever heard the man I believed to be the strongest he said, “ They’re taking me away now .” I told him I loved him, didnt finish my icecream, and pondered on that last sentence. Making it more deep than it was, but what can I say? I always finish my icecream.
I searched for liquor and went to all the stores to attempt to buy a pack. It didn’t work, A very kind-hearted lady gave me 2 of her smokes though. Back at home, I watered down mums stash and got a light buzz. If my father knew the things I do and have done. I’m so mature, worrying about him. It’s great because no one worries about you when you play the role. I’m a ******* actress. Then he called and I tried not to act happy or sad or anything because I wasn’t any of those. Yet my body does what it wants because it has been acting fake for all those rich men I go to dinner with. Stupid *****, those men. I roofie them. By the time we arrive at their dwelling they are out. I take the credit card numbers down, take all the *****, cigarettes, smash all electronics, drug em enough for 5 days and memory loss. Anyways, father told me it was nothing and that he was fine. I smiled and he smiled. I could feel it through the phone. We have an odd bond. So I started talking about my anger and road rage. I told him that he still owes me a knife and pepperspray. He agreed. I went on to propose he buy me a gun, so I could ‘pop a cap in a muthafukas tire’ when they drive like an idiot. He told me I was crazy like himself. We said we’d help eachother with our feelings.
“I love you baby girl”
“Love you too dad”
“Dont hurt no one”
“Okay”
Soon after I realized what he said and how it’d apply to us. I was in a car after all. I felt like I was going to cry. Then I started giggling. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. It was okay because I was going places in life. Following my dreams.
My father was okay and I could sneak into a crowded bar, so life was good. I ended up at home thinking about **** humans. It was angering. My partner was avoiding me. He called it ‘trying to not develop feelings’. I called it ‘******* dude, you better **** me’. He’s such an idiot. He calls me dumb, despises of my writing, and places his hand on the back of my head when I’m ******* him off. He’s a mental **** that thinks he’s the next Jimi Hendrix. He’s not going places though, he couldn’t follow his dreams if he wanted to. He makes me feel though. Rage. Nirvana. Jealousy. Oh how he brought another girl in once. Then had the nerve to hang her picture up. I suppose it wasn’t that bad, for I saw I was prettier physically. That’s when I got even more ******. What if he was in love with her? Not just her body, like he is with mine. So I wrote some poetry and wrote a letter to my non-existent friend. Basically wrote a diary entry. All this for a big **** in my ******? Wonder where I’m going. They broke up. Thank the lord satan! Maybe I’m going to hell.

Waiting for the summer heat to eclipse the somber thread of one day, an old man is gifted a brand new pair of sneakers.

Father, Son, Holy Ghost? The pinnacle of the "y" axis has paralyzed the saltiness of the old man's overcoat.

"Grand dad?" A young boy turns the corner and peeks in while the old man leans over in his chair to reach his feet and lace his sneaks. "You were breathing loudly and I was just making sure you're okay."

The boy continued, "cool sneakers grandpa."
This reminded the boy of a new student in his class who moved here from Scotland, or Ireland - he couldn't remember which. Guess what the new kid in my class calls his sneakers?"

The grandfather looks up and leans back, "he doesn't call them sneakers?" "Nope" the boy replies. "I would imagine he must call them shoes, or something like that."

"Not even close. He calls them 'runners'. He came into class one day with a pair of red sneakers and Miss Kerrington had him stand up in front of class to talk about them. She said that people in England probably call them runners as a nickname for running shoes."

The old man stood up with a groan and said, "That makes sense. It seems a bit odd, but I like it. As a matter of fact, I am gonna start using that to refer to all sneakers. What do you say we go for a walk around the block so I can break these puppies in? We'll stop for some rootbeer on the way home."

The two of them set out on their walk and the old man felt invigorated. As they continued, a light rain began and the old man said, "lets get to the store, this rain'll do damage to my new suedes."

When they finally made it to the store, the old man rushed in the door pushing his grandson out of the way. Upon his entrance his eyes met with the shopkeeper's. The shopkeeper's eyes shifted to the young boy coming in behind the man. At this moment the grandfather realized that he pushed his grandson aside in his haste to get inside the store and out of the rain.

The shopkeeper turned his attention back to the grandfather who shrugged his shoulders before gesturing to his feet with a smile and said, "I'm breaking in a new pair of runners. They're not gonna dry off as easily as he does."

Moby ****
may have been
a
big
       BIG
fish
and Ishmael
didn't have it so easy
But I need, I dream
of the epitome
of a flawless
                        ideal
                        ­          piece of whitefish

A Succulent Bite
                        A Taste of Right
Hand battered
                              Deep fried
A
crunch
into heaven
Mouth-watering
                                   yet light

Next to
              crisp
                        oh-so
          ­                         crisp
                                             fries


Draft Rootbeer
Foam
              in a mug
of delight

Mmmm Mmmmm
Seafood
See, this food
                           tastes like hope

Up North
I salivate
thinking of its
                              taste
thinking of
                           perfection

Man
Oh, Man
They don't make it
like this
anymore

So
      so
             fresh

This piece
Creates a sense
of peace

Harmony
on your palate

It turns
you up-turned nose







down
to the aroma
of a fisherman's skill

Natural Salt
of this world
                                brings you to a world
                                                           ­                  of pleasure
                                                      ­                                                 in a nibble
A coming together
on my plate

Skin-lined
Red Skin
potatoes

Frothy
Quenching
Rootbeer

                     ­                       Whitefish.

Simple Things
I found this fine trip

Combined with waterfall air
to breathe deep

My taste buds
had
gone up in
                                smoke.

My tongue
realized with
surprise
                                 *the possibilities of life.

He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.

We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.

In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.

He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.

This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.




This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.

This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.

I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.

We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.

This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.




This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.

He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.

I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.

We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.

He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.




My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.

We didn't talk again

My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
The smoking and drinking and snorting and fighting and drinking and crashes and drinking were not good for him.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One summer, when he was 16, everyday he would take a bottle of wine from his mother's liquor cabinet, buy a pack of cigarettes at the corner store, meet up with his friend Mario, who also stole a bottle of wine, and together they would ride down to the river and smoke and drink and swim. Everyday, for a full 1970's summer they did this.
And now he tells me, that at the time they were having fun and they were not worried about money or addictions or the future.
They were just having fun.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One day, in the dead of fall 1981, he and his friends Mario, Mark, ****** and John all got together at Mark's apartment on the corner of 51st and Diablo boulevard. They hit the town, drank, snuck into movie theatres, harassed girls and had a good time. They returned to Mark's apartment at 2 am and thought it a good idea to steal Mark's mom's new car. They decided to go to Reno.
Driving, as my dad put it, well above the speed limit on Highway 49, they collided head on with a big rig. There were no fatalities but my dad broke his shoulder and suffered a minor concussion. Mark's mom chose to not press charges nor did the driver of the big rig. The next day my father was back at work, refusing to adhere to the doctor's orders of taking it easy and wearing a soft cast, entrapping his left arm against his chest, climbing under cars, changing oil, and repairing engines.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One cold winter's day, in December of '82, my father's ever faithful companion, Mario, picked my father and his dog, Wimpy, up and they drove over to a small burger joint named Big A's. My father ordered two bacon cheeseburgers and a large rootbeer. Mario got the same, only with a single bacon cheeseburger. My father father gave his second bacon cheeseburger to his pitbull Wimpy.
My father was better to his dog than he was to his own body.
Now, my father coughs himself to sleep every night, and has chronic bronchitis. His liver and kidneys are shot and he plans to not live passed sixty. He will be turning fifty in two weeks.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.

Harolds rootbeer was warm but he was out of ice.
Josh said they never had any to begin with.

Harold searched the freezer desperately.
"I'm so ******* thirsty!"

Josh took out some popsicles and dropped them in Harold's glass.
"Problem solved!"

i want to kiss you five times with my rootbeer mouth

but there are some
funny little things
that you probably shouldnt know
and i probably wouldnt tell you

like how i cant look at
sunflowers
because they really arent
happy

or how certain names seem
too heavy for me
to wrap my tongue around

there are some funny little things
that shouldnt matter
but somehow they do

like how my taste for rootbeer
turned sour
when a boy who loved rootbeer
broke my heart

or a certain song on my playlist
has gone silent for years
but still takes up 4 megabytes on my phone

there are some funny little things
that i hate to acknowledge
as important
because i dont want them to be

but yet
somehow
some way
they are too important
to let go of

familiar faces
roadside challenges
laughter that never stops
we're following the stars around the world to the soundtrack of our childhoods in phrases of
remember when...?
remember when we were fearless?
remember when we didn't know who sang that song about the girl who would be loved but sang along at the top of our lungs because it didn't matter?
remember when we could fix broken friendships with rootbeer flavoured dum-dum lollipops?
remember when we were 14 and i made you call your crush?
remember how you cried into my arms when he didn't say "i love you" back and it felt like the world was spinning too quickly?
remember that summer when we jumped off that cliff?
remember that summer...
remember when
one day soon
we'll all have jobs
husbands
wives
children to look after
we'll say
Remember in college how we took that roadtrip right before graduation?
remember how we almost didn't make it back in time?
How many of us will remember in old age?
carpe
Carpe
Carpe diem,
he said to us
and we did
we seized the hell out of that day
CARPE DIEM!
we ran into the night, high on life, shouting
all for one and one for all!
CARPE DIEM, FOREVER!

I'll tell you a story, listen to me
About a man who sailed on the high seas
This man talked me onto his great big boat
I hoped on the waves and crashes it floats
Oh Won't you come on this trip with me please?
The captain told me, I thought about it

He agreed to pay me if I did it.
You don't know how happy you have made me!
I can have a good crewmate over these seas!
Now, do you know how to use this sail boat?
There is a round object that seems to float.
Oh, If you know how to sail, tell me please.

Captain didn't like how i couldn't sail a boat,
Well then, i wonder how well you can float.
'cause I am the captain you want to please.
So you better learn how to sail in it.
Or else you will have to entertain me.
By walking the plank into the vast sea.

The captain said to me one day, not pleased,
Have you learned the ropes, how to use it
It would be a great surprise to give me
I thought you'd be more useful on the sea
But now I see you're useless on a boat
Perhaps you're useful for a root beer float?

He ordered me to make a rootbeer float
And no he did not ask with a nice, "please"
More like "I'm the Captain, I command it.
Now bring me my root beer, bring it to me!
I need something to distract from the sea."
That was the words  the captain of the boat.

Turns out I am not cut out for the sea
I should never have gotten on that boat
Instead, i should've gone on a parade float.
But the man got me on by asking please!
Frankly, I'm getting sick and tired of it.
Says the tiny crewmate, that would be me!

In the end, we sailed the seas, all of it.
Just me, and the captain I had to please
I'm done with this boat, I'll see if he floats

This dream of consciousness will not end alarmingly,
though it leaves lines on Billo's face
smushed against pillows placed
strategically

The strategy?
To look tragically well put-together
to get her to lie in the bed I made hastily
Well - I say this, but the presentation's done tastefully:
Big blanket tucked
IN with style
OUT of luck since I've not been...
...touched in a while

I grinningly smile - it'll all be ok
(I'm not much for physical lovin' anyway)
...beyond hugging and kissing and getting to stay
for the night curled up close whispering "sweetie, sleep tight"

I've not got these dreams, but I've some aspirations
No sweetie, I'm not sweaty,
- I've no *** persperation
My room is too cold with the wind's drafty laughter
My bed is too cold since I've not quite yet asked her
to lie with me and lie to me that she is the one
and I will be won over,
over-nighting done right
...
Left to the imagination, day-dreaming's my vision
Pigeon-holing my gamboling gambling rambling
Not quite in shambles, see?
I get it: regretting is letting me settle into misery
"Mysterio the (not-so) great" is dutifully bound to wait
Patience is love doctors' medication - "Just wait!" they prescribe
and in time their patients' trepidation will end.

Inner peace outer space and I pace.
(without her face to grin at)
synapse fired
for nodding off on the job

**** awake, up for work
Woken, spurred
on toward spoken word
March forwards - four words
Reverse reverie never hurt
"But I don't dream!" I think
Does it stop me from trying?
From lying to and by myself,
in doubt in a drought
Good - buy myself a drink:
rootbeer, two shots of espresso
let's go, caffeine-Billo tag team
on the rocks, off the clock
(talk about self-deprecation, why don't you)
Chew on the cubes with contextual frustration
The drink's gone, I think long and hard at long last
ARRRG I yell in a fit mentally I'll
sleep on it.

My wife brought home a little man
He really doesn't talk very much
He mostly cries and ***** his thumb
And he poops a lot and such

A lot of times he just stares at me
Well, I cant just let him win
So I stare him down, til he's crosseyed
With drool running down his chin

He wears this thing called a diaper
You know, like speedos for a little dude
Everytime I tell him to put on some clothes
My wife says, "Quit being rude"

He drinks his milk from a bottle
I tell him to grow up, and be a man
So I hurry and finish my rootbeer
To show him I can crush a can

I told my wife he's not much of a man
He can't even grow a beard
Then I caught them playing patty cakes
The one thing that I've always feared

So I finally accused my wife of cheating
She said, "You idiot this is your child"
I said, "I knew that, do you think I'm stupid?"
She didn't answer, she just sit there and smiled

Well, I finally grew accustomed to his face
And it just couldn't be any finer
As long as he puts some clothes on
And stays out of my recliner

and sometimes in russia you can be found going to the opera, and drinking квас (rootbeer is the only known equivalent)... and you joke and say how it looks: k'bac (make the word batch acute... ć? actually... flatline the end of how k'bac would look like __). evidently, in a land where в = v and с = s... is not the same land where they do that k.c.s. trick of interpolation / interweaving... sure inter based on particularly worded example... otherwise intra basis for keeping a symbol that morphs; slippery *******, those phonetic eels.

i call it the samurai haircut...
because... it ****** well looks like...
the way dave rubin's hairline
becomes enclosed in the headphones?
    that'**** is ******* samurai...
mind you i'm drunk and looking
at the screen at a distance that would
suggest it to be so...
             *******'s donning a
                                          chonmage!
i'm all for carousels and ferris wheels...
i like the: whoop-d-doo-da'h
special effects, but this **** is twisted,
now i'm the one laughing...
                what the hell is up with that?
and when i listen to *tool's
cover of peaches you lied...
    one image... charon swinging left to right
(or right to left)... swinging a scythe,
very labourously (laboriously -
thing with post-german languages is that
they use too many vowels... ******* can't
get enough of them... spelling this *******
out is like them trying to learn to state
a sz sound... it's just a sh...
son darling, really? hush, or listen to some
deep purple or kula shaker... mm'kay?)        
                                             d      f
% 2 !          7    &         (looking for a dot,
given the faux pas aesthetic of ? followed by it...
of wait... for it is normal given ?!
                     oh look here! there's the little *******!
         .
               now that became completely pointless.
try covering blind melon's swong no rain...
   you'll probably find it easier taking
to a palette for roquefort cheese,
            or actually allowing milk to "go off"
until it becomes skisłe
also called bopping along / dancing in your chair...
wait a minute: i was only thinking about the spelling
the karousel... thinking about the ferris-wheel...
  and c... middle name's conrad...
never had "gone off" milk with warm potatoes?
so i'm guessing you never had yoghurt?
i do acknowledge that the consistency is parallel,
but skisłe milk? (add a w to combat the diacritical
distinction in the stated tongue)...
    that sort of milk is gone, way gone,
   you can't serve it with warm baby potatoes
immersed in butter and the herb dill...
   actually? **** it... can't be nostalgic about
the end of the 20th century, i just want to drink
the kind of milk that can go sour...
    and form clots... it's practically yoghurt...
                something an esklimo might call home...
but it's gone... too many preservatives,
the whole natural process is gone,
          this milk i'm drinking?
                            it won't turn sour... it will look
as it was originally intended, but when the counter-nature
movement moves in to allow it to degenerate
into something: o.k., i admit, when it turns
into a quasi yoghurt form...
  but that interview with dave rubin with joe rogan...
a ******* chonmage with the earphones dave...
i must be seeing double,
     maybe the drunk "glasses" can be put to
a more effective use; other than (insert english slang):
seeing a real butters queen-b of chav-dom.
              i'd still **** her though, drunk or sober,
like i once mentioned: anything that moves (to a friend).
now i realise this is getting serious,
    compromised on half an hour to write my
father's roofind invoice like chopin...
i rarely look at the keyboard... so it's either the machine-gun
or piano metaphor for the computer keyboard,
definitely not a general practitioner's
crow-pecking a snail out of dynamic... index peck...
peck... peck... index peck... peck...
                7 days' worth of activity done in half an hour...
he was watching chelsea vs. man utd. and it was
the quarter finals in the f.a. cup...
      i stood there trying to keep the supermarket
walk ritual open until 11pm for my usual dose...
in the 77th minute of the match i forgot the ballerinas
   and heard that there would be a semi-final draw...
back in a minute...
                          so off i went...
       and came back drinking a 85pence ale...
       mmm... fruity...
                             the wheat extract brew was much better
though; i actually had to sniff the head of the bottle
because i: wasn't shopping for perfumes.
that said, i can't remember the last time i washed my entire
body... armpits? sure, everyday... teeth?
what is preached to children, a pea sized dollop
and then the tactic of: quickly does it;
under 30seconds... they tell you you should do it for 3minutes?
they're into employing dentsists.
  oh yeah... that milk thing?
                           what's your suggestion on the sugar
lactose and diabetes?
     what's truly problematic though?
the form... i start of thin... and then my poems become
fat... it's annoying to the point that there is no comparison
to justify this demise...
             like i want a waterfall precision...
but end up with a pyramid (or thereabouts)...
uh, wonky, ~... doing the egyptian wavy hand
gesture... or more like a seesaw: left? right? right?
what?! left?!
                       but most of the time i think about
my uncle (my mother's brother) and the year
when red hot chili peppers released
   their album californication, and spending the summer
working on his vintage porsche, and eating
chips and hot chicken wings...
        mental illness? that's when you turn compuslive...
memory? i can't control my memory...
memories are just conjured like spells culminating
into a jinn being summoned...
                     it's true what they say:
you are bound to not think if the other two major
faculties as stressors to overcome the "need" to think
(and when did happen that einstein ran a marathon
and thought up his *******?) -
                       my main interest is memory,
and to counter the theory of natural selection...
i conjure up memory...
              obviously i have no care for darwinian arguments,
solipsistic? sure, why wouldn't i be?
                     with regard to how i was treated?
it's a pretty natural and readily available resource
to introduce a membrane akin to a cactus.

a pair of
combat boots
by my bed

a glass of rootbeer
on my nightstand

your toothbrush
on my bathroom sink

your hands
in my hair

these are all the ways
that you love me

these are all the ways
that you remain

I enjoyed my cake, thanks.
Actually it came in the form of a rootbeer float,
&& i took it in by my self.

I noticed the chicka-dee-dee on the fence,
as I listened to a timepiece from another era.
It fiddled with the **** from a cigarette long since smoked,
and i wondered if it was hungry, or just trying to catch a buzz.

He set it down, i leaped to action,
Threw the **** away, && returned to my seat.
Thought the loud chirping was directed towards me,
but of course he was getting laid in the rafters over yonder.

The significance? Not,
but if only to break the silence
between lovers long since broken apart.
Fresh laughter, lightness, and.. and..
Long, long pause, and return to silence.

I put all your physical words in a box-
"you are ADORABLE" scribbled on a receipt
          the book with the pictures of
          New York City and the one with
          the history of Christmas
the map from the pumpkin patch
          your band's cds
a 9 volt battery
          a button from the trails west
          festival
a ticket to the show your band played at your dream venue
          my ticket stub from This Is the
          End
directions to Kim's house
          the journal you gave me for  
          Christmas with a letter from you
          on the first two pages
a napkin I kept hidden in my wallet with "you are very cute" written in your smallest print
          a Virgil's Rootbeer bottle cap
          from our second first date
(god did you know I had kept all those things)-
but I can't figure out how to package all the sentences you left swimming around in my head

My heart is racing
Was what I just said okay?
Are you okay?
A moment that would never end.
I’m just a concerned person
To you I tried to hug you to
To me I was blocking you from the rain on our smoke break
I’m sorry it was my idea to come to this place
And you hunny studs couldn’t talk to me much
Because I was always looking at something else to do
Every glance away from you I had
I’m scared and you don’t understand why
But I understand why not so when you said “I’m going home”
Just because you didn’t want to deal with me as the worst of plenty before
I was concerned you don’t like me
Even as a human being..
Convinced you don’t
So before we parted in the dawn before a new day,
a rootbeer lollipop in hand you said goodnight and I said goodbye . -Walmart employee

Dad I loved you.
Your the only father I knew.
It should have been just us two.
Our memories are so few.

You showed me I could trust a tomcat or a puppy.
To pet him & make a buddy.
I still can't cook.
To find the right food.
Caravores are selfish, sick, & rude.

My vegan species is divided.
Separate dwellings unspecified are hided.
Recipes unconfided.

What is for lunch?
Besides rootbeer, cola, & fruit punch?

Is there no vegan chefs left?

Not enough vegan restaurants here.
Nothing close by or near.
To become extinct is something I fear.
Too many taverns with beer.
Vegan establishments this town & city needs to build.
In malls & shopping centers to be filled.

Vegans don't know where to look.
I want to write & publish a poetry book.
"Innocence Unattended" is my best work.

Where are we going
nowhere it seems

brown foam pouring
over the glass

a scoop of vanilla
slowly turning

to ice

as cream
mixes with soda

a rhyme without a reason
or perhaps no rhyme at all

shape form
or resolution

a treat

maybe egress
an exit

an escape?

whit howland © 2021

1/30/2016

we spoke in the darkened auditorium,
waiting for a dance,
waiting for stories told wordlessly

I told her about that summer and how
although I didn't like you I remembered it vividly,

and how you woke up at unbearable hours and i did it for you,
so I would wake up every 2 hours just to make sure I didn't

sleep past my 7 am alarm

I was home alone that summer
most of the time,
we laughed when my parents told us

we didn't spend enough time together
it was extraordinarily hot that summer
i remember, it was like breathing into an oven,

We drank a lot of rootbeer, sat on the porch with sandwiches, and you brought me blueberries and tried to make me laugh,

And you usually suceeded-
I hadn't yet succumbed to
tearing my hair off and sitting
in the white room like later

and I swear I've aged so much
in these two years
but I got carried away

and I told her
I don't love you at all
but rising  those chlorophyll mornings

I've never forgotten that,
I know not why-
maybe it was the light. maybe it was the heat, maybe it was my youth.

Scratchy secondhand sweaters,
spicy apple cider, rosy noses, and cherry pie cheeks,
crunchy grass, orange sunsets with firey trees,
teddy bear suckers, rootbeer floats,
blood and guts on cobblestone graves,
Carving big pumpkins, cold tile floors,
flannels that smell like bonfires and breeze,
snails at fall fest, tiny pencil skirts,
the warmth of you lying in cold crunchy leaves

Go to the Farmers Market
buy pears and cucumbers

wash the dishes
fold the laundry

water the plants
iron your pants

have
a rootbeer float


and more

items
on the list

taped

to a plastic bucket
from the Silver Legacy Casino

the jackpot never came
but the odd quarter

here and there
along with pennies

pinched

and stepped over
to get to dollars

in the end
added up to something big

folks

life was good
and don't let anyone kid you

the small stuff
did matter

I'm drawn to myths and legends
Maybe because I fear time
Legolas the Elf
Cranberry juice with rhyme

Please forgive my trespasses
Help me forgive others
Quietness at home
Memories of our mothers

Some trauma in my past
Like so many people
Please keep Mark safe
Silence is my steeple

Help comes from my dad
I miss my brother Scott
Endurance when I'm sad
Rootbeer floats we bought

                    Yum!