Everything plus-minus,
Venus, I beg you
to sponge me
All her fishes
Swim to surplus
and I imagine John
and all the people living
in peace but your niece looks
like Octopus
A priority the postman comes
Again twice got sponged
paid another
wet your
palate
price

His sturdy strong
legs
Milkman diary
but so many legs
But not enough time
Seattle rain
dating site
of Squid
She said to put a
lid on it
With such fluid
of water legs

They can really swim
Diet of fish my mask had
holes Swiss cheese lace
The golf game hole in one
sponge
I am home cooking
Calamari all knifed
inside like
Samkari  Uncle Sam
Sponged in with a lady
in her Mercedes

All squid-crabmeat
Those fish cakes water
crabby women
town
Sponge Bob aquarium
what an age
The college sorority
took over
the man's legs
Colliegate Girly
Fun side
authority sponge me
anytime no cell phone
So precocious hair rinse
game
So fictitious
legs so pompous
showing
Something always
more flirtatious
Sponge wet lips
she thought things were
clean delicious women
why do we
get devious wanting
what others have
You cannot share
your way too jealous
everyone became about the
The next winner New Jersey
Mrs. Cleaner not the dry ones
joy luck don't press me out
Club sandwich of legs
Got sponged
obnoxiously
I Apple phones
too much of a bite
She got bugged
things had to change
They deleted
everyone's name
Those monstrous

Mother in laws belly buttons
with gems rings of octopus
Everytime the same things
Octopus every October
They were Cowboy riders
And baked trio swingers
Quickdraw Mcdonald burglar
the gun always the silencer
Those sponge ladies love
to clean with their dancer's legs
Hitting some ***** spots
with her sponge
Those octopus men muscles
Leg lift Taylor Swift
Men love their leggy
eating muscles
Snake eyes of Venom
That jellyfish way too clean
lemon
Those surrenders
and wet calender
reminders
They got suspicious email
But lemons are the climate
Of October clean
Halloween became
beyond nasty
Thirteen sides slippery
Got slimy at the Door concert
Jimmy with his Morris(sons)
  Octopus
Octopus caused a vigorous
scene smashing pumpkins
There is no science to an
Octopus and sponge
But she loves her computer
and it was
an infectious disease
She was overly had
obsessive-compulsive
behavior

Cleaning it with her sponge
Eating her blueberry
sponge cake big mistake
She became on this sugar
leg kick really sick
Aggressiveness
So reckless or
Metamorphosis
Wheres her thesis
What a day for the sponge to
be doomed with curses
Sponge talk ***** lounge
Cafe with mud packs
Dilemmas

Sponge sticking to Mamas
Octopuses garden wanting
to hold your hand
The Beatles pin cushion shaped;
like an Octopus needles
I am the Walrus all doodles
Meretricious appliances
Her child had
Octopus performance
What allowances

Woodstock New York
The concerts heavy rained on
Purple haze Octopus
You needed to ring it
out on the clothesline
This felt like a pipe dream
The Octopus needed
more money

All burlesque Cher legs I got you
Sponged
The seamstress what madness
The butterfly lost her wings
Hannibal all Octopuses cannibal
They were sewed into the
Octopus picnic outing
Salads calamari tomato rotten
Got crush from her leggy

Going out of the country but
I cant back down
Tom Petty got sponged
with a  million buggies
Dr. Seus Octopus in the hat
Her legs got flat
That's a Jerry Mcquire Hire
Octopus got so baked I wonder
who made the fire

Gratified and mutilated
upon the river I came
I bathed in the water
sopping,sponged and soaked
cleaner than clean
scrubbed to white bone
bliss of cleanliness
of purity
in this one moment,
Head under the water
deeper and yet deeper
blissfully clean
I let go...

Somewhere deep in the skies of Montana
a lonely street corner flickers
casting coded light
upon the distant albino hillside

It was once a great lake
of snow and ice and melt and
unseen by life
It drained and died

and its beautiful lakebed sands
became the hillside
again

to tumble and fall
into valley and time
again

there we built an impermanent road
we pave and pave
maintain
with trucks and slabs of dirt and grain
roaming those Roman roads
again

Somewhere deep in that heartland
the strings that pumped the musculature
of a dying nation
slowly giving way to a violent attack
from within
oxidize and pool
into great tides
to one day see the coast

I am in California
but I see it clearly as a dream
where the great plains meet the mountain face
and the Cheyenne carved their heels into the dirt
for a bit
spirit
eroded into the winds

today the miners spit
at a coffee-town bar
into copper cans
licker than split
Owning the land that shakes
and shifts
redrawing god's lines
with a paper pad and a pen
for a bit

And the dresses the ladies wear shine
lacquered wood and the horses cry
and beside the interstate
the trucks steam and chuff
and their drivers gaze starry-eyed
onward, beyond into the night
beyond those flanking hillsides
to the flat ocean land sponged anew
that left the oil fields in Texas and the tar sands in
Athabasca
set ablaze in the fervor
of a death rattle
American heart
pumping to feed these hillsides
again

for tomorrow we begin.

I still remember her pinay almond eyes and peanut butter smile
even though she was a cracked nut.

I still remember chewing on her whiskey-sponged lips
her Koala cheeks and the Melbourne burn of her voice.

I still remember her throwing fits and things at me
we’ll chalk that up as the hazards of dating a Dominican woman.

I still remember her Grand Canyonized Salma Hayek thighs
as fat and meaty as her spicy Mexican tortas.

I still remember the coca leaf nature of her walk
and the precise coffee of her eyes that kept me up all night.

I still remember her catracha scent when escaping her man
just to lay the blue frosting of her clandestine mouth on mine.

I still remember her swiftly poetic like a Chico Barque song
the Brazilian beauty who netted in my heart a Pelé-size goal.

I still remember them.

Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your ***, magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?

THE MARE Alix breaks the world's trotting record one day. I see her heels flash down the dust of an Illinois race track on a summer afternoon. I see the timekeepers put their heads together over stopwatches, and call to the grand stand a split second is clipped off the old world's record and a new world's record fixed.

I see the mare Alix led away by men in undershirts and streaked faces. Dripping Alix in foam of white on the harness and shafts. And the men in undershirts kiss her ears and rub her nose, and tie blankets on her, and take her away to have the sweat sponged.

I see the grand stand jammed with prairie people yelling themselves hoarse. Almost the grand stand and the crowd of thousands are one pair of legs and one voice standing up and yelling hurrah.

I see the driver of Alix and the owner smothered in a fury of handshakes, a mob of caresses. I see the wives of the driver and owner smothered in a crush of white summer dresses and parasols.

Hours later, at sundown, gray dew creeping on the sod and sheds, I see Alix again:
      Dark, shining-velvet Alix,
      Night-sky Alix in a gray blanket,
      Led back and forth by a ******.
      Velvet and night-eyed Alix
      With slim legs of steel.

And I want to rub my nose against the nose of the mare Alix.

In the set square sat a round
racket of positivity, molecules
cherished in cherry smiles
chimed 18 x 9am daily dongs
a song known through sound and
vision secrets saved in silent cheeks
mothed up in ***** of tremulous tongues
tough eccentrics bull dozing blindly
baked on 1000 degress, ovened out
softened in soap suds, sponged
free, out of site of the black dog who never
wags his tail, hung dog look gallops
through the aisles, hopping hopscotch, set
squares sitting with round racket ruminators

My skies are sponged in soft grey
water-pressed, water folded
water borne.
Anon, I have only ever been remembered in this way:
When the light is wan.
But I promise you, more than
the sky now promises a hopeful sleep
I will love you beyond hills and houses
Beyond clay, which melts in the rain
My love is a kiln, I am caught in the
hearth with you
And now if I was thrown,
I would be shattered instantly.
But I can stand a thousand days of rain
I can hold under high heat
I am glossy earthenware
Finer than any diamond or gold nugget
I will nourish, comfort, and warm you
I will love you such.

As I reflect on my experience of you
I remember the first time we met.
You were placed in my arms.
As I unwrapped you, you opened one eye,
Sized me up and went to sleep.
In that moment I got to see
The being you truly are – PERFECT.

Unfortunately it was not long until I got caught up in the role
of what I thought a parent ought to be –
Which was not to become like my parents.
I started working on the long list stored in my mind.
The memos that began with "a parent should not"
Somehow were the easiest ones for me to repeat.

Luckily in time, with your help,
I realized I was reflecting myself on to you.
With the result that I was behaving in an inappropriate manner.
I'm  now sorry for the pain my ignorance caused you.
Me reflecting my inadequacies on to you,
was my attempt to teach me what I had forgotten,
And that was just how perfect you are.

I also had forgotten how perfect
I was when I too arrived on this planet.
So the game of parenting had begun.
Your training began with me teaching you my faults
which of course I was reflecting on to you.
You in your quiet way stood your ground
and showed me what I wanted to see.
                            

What I admire you so much for,
is that  you remembered who you are,
you began teaching me life as you saw it.
I was a puppet in your hands.
With each lesson you taught me,
I landed up richer in experience
And my mind was stretched
into seeing a different aspect of truth.

Today I am able to ask "What is truth?
What you taught me? is that truth is what it is.
And when it comes from an open mind
and a loving heart it is always kind and supportive
and that there always is room in it for growth.
  I think that  I known that when you were younger
you would have had an easier time.

You gave me so many wonderful opportunities
of seeing life through your innocent eyes.
The games we played together
and the stories we read enabled me to see
many other aspects of life,

As you sponged up experience and knowledge
I little realized that I was absorbing things anew.
The person you are has made me a better person
than I could ever have been without you.

From the window she sees
A sponged together sky
And chalky clouds
And a trail of wisteria buds
Which dribble into the street
From the window she sees
The men who watch cricket
Scoffing at the TV
Above their takeaway opposite
And she sees the polystyrene cartons
That people leave in their gutter
From the window she sees
A drabble of changing children
A laugh, a scrabble, a sliver of a tear
A road that’s been scrubbed down grey
And little dust particles
That creep upon it and sing
And break and smile, relentless
From the window she sees
Hope
And prays she’s not outgrown it

I could have been this and I could been have that,
But there were too many hurdles and the plans fell flat.

I could have been like her, a very big star,
But my bad luck, opportunities were few and far.

I had the grace; I could have been a dancer,
But there were too many objections with no solutions or answers.

I had a sweet voice; I could have been a singer,
But I was sole earner of family, and it sponged me dry like a wringer.

I played so well with colours, I could have been a painter,
But the paints were costly and with no one to guide, dreams became fainter.

I had skills; I could have been anything I wanted,
All I needed was a spirit which would have saved me from being daunted.

Is it too late to start again?
Pick up the brush or the pen and let my dreams be my swain?

Just let go of all resentments and start!
And not let the past tear my present and future apart!

It has been so tiring, carrying disappointments and resentments for so long,
Let me start fresh as if I was born today, fire the passion and let it grow strong.

Yes, that's what I will do, I owe it to myself and this god gifted life,
I will not cry over what I didn't get, instead use gift and opportunities which today are rife.

Yes, that’s the way to go;
I will give my best shot to my dreams
and what I always wanted to be,
For if the world ends tomorrow
I will be contented and proud
to have taken that dip
and rescued me.

I took out a pen and some paper, looseleaf,
Not worth the words I sponged onto it but it’ll do
I wrote down my feelings about everything
The silence of people on a subway ride to work
The closest star to us that isn’t the Sun
How the Bermuda Triangle got its shape and why the other ones
Weren’t cut out for it
Were it not for the clocks in my room, serving as reminders
That time still existed and would far outlive me
I swear I would have written forever
I swear I would have

Sometimes I would write letters to friends and never send them
Instead cram them into envelopes and into larger envelopes
And stack them in the fireplace, under the wood
And sometimes light it, other times just hold out my hands
And feel invisible warmth

The ones I did send, though, felt hollow
Words typed or written but not the words I needed
Or wanted
To say then. I’d rather ask you how your day was than to receive
A strange ****** expression because a question concerning
Cosmic dust and how it rushes together to create man
Doesn’t really serve as a good icebreaker.
Most of the unsent letters were to you
You and the clouds that guide you around, shifting rain
Back toward the sky

I wrote how are you today?
And meant I want you to keep auditioning for dance because you’re wonderful
I wrote doesn’t this weather feel strange?
And meant get a bigger umbrella so I can be under it too
We should try to go for dinner
We need to have an excuse to be together
Are tattoos a bad thing?
Look, topics to occupy us
My house is empty tonight
Where are you so late and what do you think about?
I miss the vase we sold
I miss you
I feel like today is longer than yesterday and will be shorter than tomorrow
I miss you

And they stacked, one upon the other
The spaces between each squeezed under the weight of the next
The weight of the words compounded more than the previous
Filling the spaces of my apartment to the point where
I could not see out the windows

“Today is Monday the 16th.  To whom it may concern, I’ve contemplated the ideas laid before me and can finally take confidence that I’ve chosen the right one. Many people say that virtuosity is next to solace and I believe that. Many people also claim that it takes a life to learn how to live, and I believe that too. I’ve so many things to say to everyone, even the people I’ve only met once or twice. But those people are just as important.

I can hear echoing between the televisions between the open rooms. The same words delayed by seconds but still audible and clear.  The reactions aren’t echoed, they’re different, variant on the person and how they feel about it. To make sense of my claim, I guess it’s just a matter of perspective, and now my perspective is clear, and now I want it to echo between the people to whom I send these letters. Whether the variation between reactions will be the same or not I am all-around unclear, but I know the reactions may have enough weight to keep me held to the ground, or even a bit lower than that. Either way, I’ve spent my life reacting to things as if acting on an echo.  I want to change the channel now. I want to close my door so the sound can fill the room and make the stacks of unsent letters shudder. I want to keep it there and turn the air the color of the closest star to us other than the Sun. I want to-“

I wanted a lot of things, to do and to say
But that letter and those that followed joined the others in the quiet spaces
Spaces which kept the frays of this life muffled and still
Like an ocean scooped into a bucket
Or the world’s smallest word
Backspaced by one letter

I slashed his throat

Dreamt a madman me did attack,
With knife, he came upon me,
Enraged, engaged, I took his blade away,
Slashed his throat,
Watched his life
And mine,
Bleed away.

As she sponged my brow,
But a dream, hush,
But I knew better,
For the rage and the lust
Was primordial, a man's must,
His blood on my fingertips,
A secret  smile on my face.

I could have been this and I could been have that,
But there were too many hurdles and the plans fell flat.

I could have been like her, a very big star,
But my bad luck, opportunities were few and far.

I had the grace; I could have been a dancer,
But there were too many objections with no solutions or answers.

I had a sweet voice; I could have been a singer,
But I was sole earner of family, and it sponged me dry like a wringer.

I played so well with colours, I could have been a painter,
But the paints were costly and with no one to guide, dreams became fainter.

I had skills; I could have been anything I wanted,
All I needed was a spirit which would have saved me from being daunted.

Is it too late to start again?
Pick up the brush or the pen and let my dreams be my swain?

Just let go of all resentments and start!
And not let the past tear my present and future apart!

It has been so tiring, carrying disappointments and resentments for so long,
Let me start fresh as if I was born today, fire the passion and let it grow strong.

Yes, that's what I will do, I owe it to myself and this god gifted life,
I will not cry over what I didn't get, instead use gift and opportunities which today are rife.

Yes, that’s the way to go; I will give my best shot to my dreams and what I always wanted to be,
For if the world ends tomorrow I will be contented and proud to have taken that dip and rescued me.

Before…

Before I knew you as Divine woman, I longed for your presence, In time i knew nothing could break our bond…

but that was before I knew you,

I know you now, and time is of the essence I was right all along, you indeed are my true sister. My confidant. I call you Mother.one of four souls highly blessed due to their grandfather's highly respected works through preaching the gospel humbly,
truly one of a kind, everyone loves their grandparents and deem them special. and I am no different,
To have known my grandfather Neo Garvin, is to have known what it means to be touched by an angel,
He and My grandmother(still young and beautiful as ever) chose to choose one another until death bid them ado,
The reaper comes to collect the souls of the ******,
God comes and gets his children, he sends special hands to aid in the process, he is always with me that i know is certain, unlike any other thing in this world, with every theory, every question,problem and solution is a percentage of dis-trust in it..
conflicting irony they call it,
how can you dis-trust and love, they are opposite.
we are made in God's image, we are made in the image of LOVE, does that mean perfection is granted to all those who are believers?
depending on how you see life ,
the pitcher there, do you see it as half empty or half full
what about your gratitude towards your parents how do you see that glass?
Would seeing the glass as half full when you believe it is in fact as empty as a sponged, squeezed?
just give it a  paradoxical shrug, these kinds of situations are difficult, but normal, bound to happen right?
God chose belief in my ordanement , redeemed aren't I ?
Redeemed until validated my the ticket holder of my life and heart, the judge of my doings, the criticism I openly accept, as long as it's through verbal or small practical eveyday spiritual acts . I accept that I am chosen for his kingdom, that his love has an actual warmth, sitting in a melting *** of the fireplace infused with the cold air knocking, like an unwelcomed visitor .
The irony sets in
we'd all had a good laugh at that, we'd laugh so hard and got it all on camera, I think we'd have a shot and one of those zestful family movies, we'd at least get a premiere on abc channel  and its got just enough of a zoetiec vibe for lifetime.
the dictionary's failed attempt at defining the depth and the vague imprint it left on my brain, torturing me to awaken from my cocoon and speak,
for my ancestors and the divine woman that is Deidra, Thee divine woman(along with the help of the divine masculine) who taught me to open my mouth if you've got something to say,
Who knew that those words were seeds!?
I studied her as she sewed them everyday religiously, even on the rainy days when life seemed to be in the midst of hurricane force winds, she watered that garden the best she knew how and to me it is perfection.I'd try to convince her not to worry about my garden so much that she'd forget to have her flowers bloom
The divine woman a natural incubator , genetically undeniable that we are the divinity this world needs. She knew of my reaping harvest and that it would grow to be my inner voice, that is love.I am wise
you know what zoetic means to me?
zoetic is the slashes against my back until the age of seventeen, i think zoetic are the beautiful dressings that hold us
capture us, in fear of  running off into something so beautifully damaged people might -pay more attention to the clown than the performance.
one of those and even the "non spitiual people",
what right did i have to be set apart from the world
an evolving theory that grows only in fondness and size of it's essence,
only air , unparalleled
you dare not have a speck of shame you, look in the mirror if you'd like but careful not to interfere with his creation, or its is a matter of time before your left like ...
adam and eve...
floating.
to have that privilege, to my mother

I imagined what our past-times would resemble, that you’d vacate my soul with a message, in times, I need, remember.

maybe it would be poetic, or wise in hindsight, something that’d force my mind to clear the mess in the backseat to make room for a new shotgun rider

an inquiry you leave me with daily, as our hands unmesh and I drift off into sleep, that is the only time you leave, and quickly appear as i awake, without you, How could i face the day?

A stone immortal you are, with no works of erosion, to seep through your cracks, your spirit un-touched, you are the concrete to my heart, unfinished knicks and knacks. i’d never put  youdown, divine in me tells me “reach for your crown, it’s time we take a break, I’ll never leave you but it is now my time, to clear the backseat and make way.”.

as i watch her tidy up the backseat moving chaos and fear into the far right corner, she hops in the back and sits where I can see her,

navigating me, acting as an GPS, divine in me I trust in nothing less.

of course
young letters
of dear
crow and holy
scare

had to
survive

and the
papering
of my insides

with smoke

that, too,

and these: (a paw print she sponged from tile) (a cup the size
of devil hoof) (wrists
of clay colossus) (who giggled in us poorly)

for love

In this place poetry's taboo
It's not like there are rules to say
That writing's bad and poetry's gay
But read some out and see what you
Will get

I use my phone to write
Or my computer when I have it
Footsteps hover, words are writ'
My finger hovers over the light
Of the home button

No one knows I'm unhealthy
My warmth is sponged from alien thought
Mock exposition is a teaching truly taught
As a poet and a writer I'm stealthy
And alone

Or maybe they already know
Maybe they're down there now
Laughing long about him, how
He needs the light of words to grow
Taller

Or maybe they don't place
Poetry and writing as gay
For there are no written rules to say
As no one writes in this dark space
Or at least they think

Could they be proud?
Possibly, but then
They'd have to know first and when
I tell them I'd have to speak aloud
Of all the times I cried as well

she sponged up all of the new things
with the knowledge she had, she grew wings
she flew through the sky
left her old world behind
let the sound of her future ring

immersed
soaked
sponged

I think things like~

what if every raindrop was
encapsulated in a wax casing?

and what of all that rain
and all those wax casings?

would the wax coagulate
in some weird way
while coolness of clouds cover?

or when heat of sunshine
broke through, would they what?

turn into sloshy slicks of slippery drippings?

would the water molecules
find their way to each other
to form rivers?

and would the wax bank itself
in coagulated forces of gravity
and magnetism yet to be understood?

what if all the wax was spectrum sensitive?

and its rainbow reflective
properties sponged twisting
of tentacled wonder from
every imaginable surface

what then?

would all dullness slip away?

or would we all be burdened
by a way of life unknown
at this juncture of elemental uncertainty?

I stare into the filmy rainbow swirls
of gasoline floating on puddles
and wonder

when will crude discovery of
what a waxy mess we've made
of petrol dependence finally
plop upon us?

when and why?

Colours of pink and orange
smeared together with yellow,
couple touches of pretty lilac.

Lavender sponged through the sky,
A splash of burnt sienna.
highlights, white, up in the clouds
floating to the distance.

Fields below, full of wheat,
a godsend for the farmers.
their crisp, clean lines flow with the wind
despite the land that's dry and bare.

Fences keep the people out,
It's classed as private land.
The tractor, red. Ahead the sun
looks like a shadow standing tall.

One more stroke across the line,
then left to breathe some air.
Placed on a wall for many eyes,
so they can all see beauty within.

her grace
like a deep sleep
without dreams

her eyes
ugly patient sponged
by a beautiful nurse

her lipstick
small cloth on heroine
to avoid censor..

her teeth
lightening that caution
weak heart

her ear studs
a divine passage
decorated for lover

her finger
shows a ring
a prey already trapped..

close. displaced.
not intended for proximity.
scented. touch like
lambs ear plants.
and. here.
how do you know my song?
not bone. not *****.
not book. not elder.
ear and ask.
sponged floor. gate.
latch. four feet.
looped finger print.
stones shrinking in size.
eyes. eyes. eyes.
table. water. sky.
avoid, retreat, return.
a new herb. taste.
how do i mix you in?
not pattern. not copy.
not stamp. not then.
salt air. tomatoes.
earth. bare feet.
i want
and i do
i think
want
but too and clock
my head and pillow
crechendos,
no not harmony, now
hands brace, i
    think you
you you you you you you you
i want
    not you
but you
   not want
but to
know every ridge
nerve, ending
   before handle turns
planted, on roof
you grow, maybe
                                i fall.

The Ride

 .

Again the stars were plucked

from her mind and the world below

leapt up and sponged her with its flame.

That summer she made a wish upon her chains

and walked the deserted farmyards.

The ravens followed her through the weeds

and heat, keeping up conversation. At night

she sang to the beating of the rain and stroked the head

of the dead bug in her pocket.

She was neither of the mountains nor of the desert.

She was calm as crazy sometimes gets, and the thunder

hissed out her name as the June's morning rays

danced her a sermon. She talked

to her shadow when the birds had gone,

and her fingernails were brittle as cracked ice.

On the seventeenth day her breath collapsed with

the rising sun as the cobwebs about her sparkled, stirred

by a sweetened wind.

.

.

Copyright © 2002 by Allison Grayhurst
.
.
First published in "Full of Crow" 2013

He always put others first once he talked about making moves and moving on they'd turn on him. He did what they wanted but needed to do it his way. It always led to conflict and fall outs because of conflict of interest. He was use to being the bad guy because everyone has to be right never admitting their wrongs.
He was done always for them they shook him down. If he ever asked for help or a favor they'd treat him like a nobody after. Made him feel useless and invisible. While they sponged and leeched doing all the things they told him not to do.