If i could,
I would,
Carefully take you apart,
And put you back together,
Piece, by fragile piece,
And i would not cease,
Until the job was done.
Until the sun once again, shone from those lost, wondering eyes,
Until the cries that had chained you down,
Had been removed from the ground.

And if i could, i would,
Take my tools
And attentively drill out
Your insecurities,
All those flaws, you believe to be
Impurities
And ***** in self acceptance so tight,
So that never again at night,
Would you be reluctant, to hold yourself,
As you sparkle in the moonlight.

And if i could, i would,
Clamp together,
Your hopes and dreams,
Your self belief,
And tie them together at the seams
With double knots,
So that you never forgot, how
Capable you are.

I'd take each glittering star,
and plant them in the pupils of your eyes,
So that each time you cry
You'd be reminded of the beauty inside,
Of you.

And if i could, i would,
Paint over your frame work,
And tentatively cover up those scars,
So you'd never again see the hurt,
And never doubt
Just how perfectly imperfect you are.

And if i could, i would,
Saw away your sorrows
So when you thought of your tomorrows,
You weren't filled with dread,
You were filled with joy and hope
And optimism instead,
So that before you went to bed,
You were not filled with self defeating thoughts,
Ruminating inside, that pretty little head.

And if i could, i would,
Weld securely into place,
A genuinely happy smile,
Across your dainty face,
And a hand in yours,
So you'd never have to brace
Anything alone.

And if i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.

And if i could, i would,
Attach wings to your spine,
So there'd never be a time,
That you'd stumble and fall
You'd stand tall,
You'd rise above it all.

And if i could, i would,
Take the lonely shadows of your heart,
Rip them apart
And blaze them,
In a light so bright
It'd never die out,
You would never again doubt
All that you are,
And all that you can be.
And if i could, i would,
I'd set you free.

In case you forgot
that toolbox heart
you left out
has yet to return home

my life is a toolbox
waiting to be discoverd
so someone will no whats inside
so that God can use the tools within
and cunstruct a better toolshed

The poet's toolbox is
an onerous store for skills
with life and death
and words that ****.
Pandora's box with broken locks.

Hammering words,
chiselling words,
leaving the reader
nailed, *******, glued.

Pulsing phantoms through the brain,
playing tricks, memory ******.
But the writing keeps me sane.

If i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.

Language is an intricate map. One that we've collectively agreed upon as a means of communicating about the 'territory', or experience. Life.

We can draw a tree, and we can write the word "Tree", but neither are  trees.
We can draw a pipe, and we can call it a pipe, but it is still only an image of a pipe.
http://www.exoticexcess.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/this-is-not-a-pipe-by-rene-magritte.jpg

Language is not the territory.

Language is but a toolbox. A toolbox filled with lots of cool toys and fun sounding words and some interesting etymologies.
But sometimes the task at hand requires a tool we've not yet conceived of, let alone one we have in our toolbox.
Different languages have different tools, but many will suit similar tasks, even if not exactly the same.
This is no reason to assume that, because our particular map is imperfect, that the territory is somehow more absurd.

The absurdity arises when we fail to recognize and respect the fallacies of language. A spiritual person will understand this notion immediately.
This, however, isn't necessarily to say a religious person will grasp it, and likewise is also not to say that a totally secular person won't.

In fact, I find that many of our conflicts with ourselves and others only arise because we squabble about our interpretations of the maps instead of realizing that the maps are in fact tools to achieve an end, but not the end itself.

Once we can step back from our ego
Once we can admit that we can be wrong
Once we realize we've been deceived
Can we begin to again grow strong.

Borders are maps. Humanity is a territory.
Dogma is a map. Reality is a territory.
Education is a map. Life is a territory.

We mustn't allow our perceptions of maps to occlude our ability to live as we are, an interdependent family of meat-bags twirling around a rather uncaring furnace in space.
This is where dogma comes in, and tends to ruin it for the 'little' people.
This is where money comes in, and substitutes itself for value.
This is where entertainment comes in, and substitutes itself for truth.
This is where ACTA, SOPA, PIPA, the Patriot Acts, and the NDAA come in
And move us one step further towards the Vierte *****. (Fourth kingdom. The Nazis fancied themselves to be the Dritte *****, or Third Kingdom).

Recognize the signs. Fabricate your own map. Then learn to leave it on the shelf.

I recall the day, before she was five,
She asked to go, and play outside.
I answered, Yes, for awhile;
For I read his poem, about the road,
The travails she'll face far from home.
At our door I watched her play,
And saw the roads lead her away.

There'll be times she's on her own,
In a one-on-one, or in a throng;
In places where she won't belong;
Or find herself between right and wrong.

Yet, I untied the knot,
Dropped the tether; as a father,
I knew there'd be tools to hone,
Wits to sharpen, boards to carry,
An ax to edge on her whetstone.
There was work to be done.

If all goes well,
If I got it right,
It won't matter
Which path she roams;
She'll always know
Which lead her home.

When I think of satan
The dark lord
The dark prince
Yes the devil himself
I don't picture the traditional
Soul seeking, corruption and wealth
But more as a self made handy man
Carrying an old tool box in hands
Caring to the needs of all who seek
Greatest desires or dreams too bleak
Willing to pay a small toll
For dreams to be reality
A kiss and your soul
A perfect life for now
And then all of eternity
Don't always believe all you've heard
For no deceitful games or tricky words
The devil clearly states
The trade you are in for
Lucky for him
Humans are weak
So obsessed with possessions
The money and power streak
That we gladly sell our most prized
Light inside
For a few years as a god on earth
For eternity burning alive deep
Under the dirt

An eye on a bench next to a toolbox
He sees the sun, the park, and the the toolbox
His only friend is the toolbox
he say hi his only eye
Everyday he alway say hi in the morning.

Part 4*
When we last left poor Agnes
In her attic all alone
She couldn’t find her way back down,
And she had no telephone.
No light switch and no stairway
She couldn’t find the hall
The elevator disappeared
(It had sunk into the floor)
And to make her situation worse,
She couldn’t find the door!

But Agnes McDuff was pretty tough;
She didn’t mess around
She thought of stuff that she could use
To help her get back down.

First she lit the candlesticks
So she would have some light -
For an attic with no window
Is black as darkest night.

With candlelight, she now could see;
She dumped the clothes from all the boxes,
Put the boxes on the table,
Next she stacked the wooden blocks.
She found some nails and a hammer
In her Grandma’s toolbox.
She nailed it all together
And on top she nailed the chairs
Now Agnes had a set of crazy, crooked
Homemade stairs!
Agnes went back to the toolbox,
She saw a saw was there,
She carried it very carefully
As she climbed the crazy stair.

Now you might have a feeling
Of what she was going to do
Yes, she climbed up to the ceiling, and
Used the saw to cut right through!

She climbed back down and looked around
Found the rubber bands and string
Added several woolen socks
And made a giant sling!

She rummaged through the dumped out clothes
Found a wedding dress and suit
And with the needle and the spool of thread
Made a great big parachute!

She hooked the parachute to the bicycle
(The one without a spoke)
And tied the back wheel to the tuba
And that was NOT a joke.

The tuba was quite heavy
So it kept the bike at rest
Once again climbed up the crazy stair
And performed the final test.

She nailed both ends of the slingshot
Around the opening she’d sawn
Hooked the sling around the bicycle
Moved the stair, and then got on.

Somehow the clock was working!
It was ringing Three, Two, One
And just as Agnes cut the tie she thought
Boy! This could be FUN!

The slingshot worked!*
Shot Agnes out, on the bike, way up into the sky,
And she looked around in wonder thought,
Boy!  I’ve never been this high!

She went up a mile or so
Before she dared look down
She saw the long suspension bridge
And the other parts of town.
She saw the entrance to the tunnel
(The rest was under ground)
She saw the roundhouse and the avenue
The park and then the lake
Finally, she saw her house
There was no mistake!

So she deployed the parachute
And gently she descended
And this is where the story
Of Agnes Attic should have ended.

She walked up to the doorway
Turned the handle, now you see?
The door was locked from the inside,
Agnes McDuff forgot the key!
PwL  May 4, 2015

I looked into the mirror
I saw my true face for the first time.
For the distortion of "should be's" definitions...
"What I need to be's" definitions...
They were erased from my planning board.
Of my reinvention...
Television stars are "everybody's fools.."
As I listen to Amy Lee sing..
"People's entertainment" that my mind tricked me into having to imitate. Inadequate tools.
In my "wrecked toolbox" that I thought that I need to bring.
As I started to look at those "real" stars around me... Ones who selfeshly started to reeducate..
My mind to restock the tools in my once "wrecked" toolbox...
I saw what my face truly reflected..
A beautiful man mislead by needing to be "seen" as someone... A shining "star.'
I once shined just as bright until my insanity wrecked it.
Now that I've rebuild what I have destroyed...
I'm the new "man In the mirror.."
As I hear Michael Jackson sing "making the world very clearer."
Looking back at what things that I truly have achieved... I see a clearer image of my reflection in the mirror...
Images that are the "truer Me" and such are much more clearer.

You leave the dingy room 333 and walk
Out onto ***** honeycomb patterned carpet stretching
Down the infinite hall towards an open door
Where the housekeeper’s cart is parked
She emerges from behind the stacks of folded towels and ***** blankets
Body younger than it looks somehow she’s smiling in wrinkles of a sunken, toothless mouth
yet underneath the image is an original warmth untouched by a thousand years of junk
You say hello in passing and then onward down the steps covered with plastic
The ***** yellow carpet stains so worn they’ve become part of the design
A window overlooks a courtyard where junkies lay nodding in the sun
The girl at the front desk eyes you half suspicious as you slip out the door and into streets
of Denver where mountains loom in distant vistas obscured by skyscrapers
appearing as solemn watchers uncorrupted, beckoning some strange recognition
You remember your friend saying that the mountains play tricks, cast illusions
Stories of weary travelers confounded by the mountains, lost for days
Weather changing rapidly as buildings rising new construction in the city
You walk past the capital, past the U.S. mint, past the park where bums sleep or stare blankly
Openly with eyes dark as Moroccan hashish looking for a point of entry
A word you missed, a fumbled thought, a dropped coin
This will happen:
You will lock eyes with a man sitting on the cement, his hand gently resting
On an old rusted toolbox
He calls you over, more incantation than command
Says he’s got what you need
He opens up the box and calls you closer
Look
A box of uncut crystals shining in the high altitude
He smiles with a jagged and decayed knowing
You decline yet something insists you need these crystals
These stolen gypsy gems somehow imbued with meaning
Glittering in the sunlight in the park in the old worn out face like chewed leather
Glistening like the clear air rising up above the smell of **** and water seared meat and *****
You walk among the blind alleys where junkies shift and shuffle like shadows rearranging
They themselves part of the scenery, part of the alley backdrop and rattling train track sounds
You’re passing by and one calls out: “Don’t let ‘em tell ya I didn’t say live your life, son”
You look back and see a huddled shadow tying off beside a chain link fence
He’s looking right at you with perfect insect calm, features out of focus, dull and grey
You pass the scene in silence and feel the eyes of hunger casting subliminal fuzz down the alley
At midnight you will drink tequila in your room and hear the endless car noise of the city
While you sit smoking out the window staring at the brick wall and down into the alley below
Where windows of the hostel open up and your friend said once there was a woman
In the opposite room ******* and he took off all his clothes and they stood naked
Looking at one another from opposite windows but he never went across the hall to meet her
You will laugh and be amazed and get drunk
As the driving beat of car stereos, bass and hip-hop incantations rise up through the splintered window frame yellow like decay
You’ll sit out on the street corner smoking
A gigantic hash joint
Passing it back and forth
Denver’s finest
As you listen to the shrill harmony
Of the corner night club filled with glitter and women and alcohol all spilling out into the streets
& you will watch them all go running, howling, yelling, screaming, laughing, *******, and
spreading out like fireworks across a vast empty space
The cars that never end
Choked out exhaust and marijuana smoke twisting in the midnight air rising up untouchable where the mountain breezes cap the city
& penetrates the human circus all around you
You will disappear up the hostel steps returning
Higher than you’ve ever been before
Each step, each movement you are disappearing
Melting into the smoke-tinged plaster
Your pulse is in your footfalls there
Among the honeybees and hexagons
Your breath beat in rhythms of your skull
After an impossible moment
You arrive back at your room, 333
The demon door more unfamiliar
This will happen
You’ll go inside and lock the door
Knowing you have the fear
Raw and powerful
Pure animal chemical reaction
Every tissue and fiber now opposed
To the very situation, the very fact of existence, of
Immediate dislocation in space/time
Alien moments here in Colorado hostel room
Where junkies sit in vegetable stasis
Feeling nothing whatsoever
& there’s a needle hidden in the room somewhere
Your friend says not to worry man
& what did you expect anyway?
“Yeah it’s kind of a flophouse”
“Just throw it out the window”
You take a long deep breath and look
Into a mirror you see your form reflected
As your friend pulls out his friend, the trusty map
And there, emblazoned in ****** letters
Denver
The very words looks sinister
Denver
Written in ****** words of ******
You try to realize what you came here for
Not this
& breathing deeply you lay upon the bed
The too-thin mattress covered in plastic
& think of home
A lifetime & world of roads away
You seek to abandon all you know
And become attuned to the rhythmic engine of sound
You will become filled with desire and yet completely empty
Cockroach needle empty park wind howling distant peaks sculpted valleys
Self-reliant water smell pity bums like silent watchers in the night
Nature spreads her view of time in silent moments
Stillness in the room
In the spaces between sounds
In the fear of comfort separation
In the freeness of creation
In the wild faith of travel
In the foreign teachings
***** steps and office buildings
In the bars and libraries
In the hostel *******
In the wholly new experience
In the squalor of the uncontrollable
In the corridor passing like a phantom
In the stones and cactus flowers
In the romance of the body
Eager to pass through
Into this new dream
Tomorrow we are heading for the mountains

It was the boys’ bath night
and you had bathed
and were drying yourself

with the white towel
they had given you
when the bathroom door flew open

and Anne stood there one-legged
in her pink flowered nightdress
perching on her crutches like a hawk

her eyes bright and dark
a smile lingering on her lips
well ****** me

she said
what a sight
for a girl’s lovesick eyes

and she entered the bathroom
and pushed the door shut
behind her with her bottom

almost uncrutching herself
in the process
you pulled the towel

tight around you
and stared at her
it’s the boys’ bath night

you muttered
girls aren’t allowed in
while boys bath

she moved over
to the mirror
and gazed at herself

you’re right
she said
I’m not a boy

I’m a tight titted girl
and she laughed
and crutched herself

over towards you
making you flatten yourself
against the wall

gripping the towel with one hand
and holding her back
with the other

and she leaned down
and kiss the back of your hand
then looked you deep in the eyes

what have you got hidden
behind that towelling skirt then?  
she said

and you gripped the towel tighter
with both hands
and she menacingly moved

one hand cautiously towards the towel
her armpits gripping
the crutches tightly

as she moved
you shouldn’t be in here
you said

I’m not in there yet
she laughed and grabbed
the towel away with a force

that took her and the towel
toppling to the bathroom floor
where she lay

like an overturned beetle
you stood naked
your hands covering

what your father
called your toolbox
gazing down at her struggling

to get up
well don’t just stand there
like a prize parrot

help pick me up
she said
and so with one hand covering

you knelt down to help lift her up
but then she pulled you
down beside her

and laughed
and her laughter echoed
around the walls

but then she paused
and put a hand
over her mouth

hearing Sister Bridget’s
nearby footsteps
and noisy calls.

Wrong
Wrung
Ring
Ring my doorbell,
Wring my neck,
Rid me of this mortal wretch.
*****
Wrench
Can you fix it?
Get your toolbox
You're ill-equipped
I don't qualify
Quality
Quantity
I am not enough
For this.
Too tough
To kiss.
Rough life I've lived.
Live
Life
Lie
Lay back.
Just take it.
Let it happen.
Swallow
Swallow me up.
Swallow me whole.
Throw me down into a hole.
Wholly
Holy
Even God forgot me.
Oh his drones did try.
Saxophone & sweat
Promised hell when I die.
Choir girls & Inquisition
Tore my words, tried to burn me alive.
Then the good chaplain,
Samaritan?
Charlatan.
Daddy out of the way,
Me on the streets,
Mommy where he wants her
Worship at his feet.
Fret
Bet.
I am not afraid.
My debt is paid.
In blood, in tears.
Lost dreams, lost years.
Country roads, cold beers.
Bare
Bear
Burdens
I am brave.
Strength
Truth
Power
You'll have to cut them from my flesh.
Fresh
Blood
Brooding o'er my funeral,
Don't worry about my death.
I still feel pain,
I still draw breath.
My hearts not cold,
My soul is still old.
I haven't set a thing in stone.
******
Skipping rocks.
Flying planes,
Sail away from the docks.
Shoot me into outer space,
If this is Hell,
Heaven can wait.
I'm dancing with the Devil
& God is always fashionably late.
Create.
Tell
Tales
Tails
I'm not done yet.
Evolving
Incomplete
Completely me.
Pecan pie & sweet tea.
Nature
Treks
Blessed Be.
Naked
Exposed
Second for the money,
First for the show.
This is a test,
No time to be gauche.
Gross
Shocking grace.
There's still sand in my grave.
This cannibal inside
Still has a taste.
Human body beneath my tongue,
It's essence still fills my lungs.
Chest
Heart
Beats against this cage.
I'm too young to feel this age,
So don't you dare save the date.
Once the wolf works with the mirror
It's finally free.
Then I promise,
You'll be seeing me.

Sleepless, lost and wandering
Wondering what it all means
Beg the heavens for an answer
But silence is the only response from an overcast sky
The chain slackens and the cage drops
Cerebral bars block the paths of elated reflection
Contentment occasionally slips through the clefts
But is instantly devoured by sharks of agony
Grief, heartache, passion and sorrow
The artists toolbox
Blood, sweat and tears (fears)
Causation of our desire to die
Is what gives our work life

useless, this skyward nightblind stare
was it there, from lost flecks of  stardust
that God wrought
this species of heroes and heathens?
these eyes don't see much anymore

I've tired of my own sophic nonsense,
pretenses ****** to any screed that might buy words
to publish under slews of anonymous names...
real life is not vague
we chew it, hard crusty bread

before dinner, my own fingers rummaged deep
planted within loose root shards, chewed chicken thighs, other things
we've eaten,
ever since days as young children...

Our Father consumed simply

like a banged and dented '57 Chevy
adorned pretty with loose bananas and oranges
freed from paper cartons,
his rusty wrenches tucked in my toolbox
built solid, still colorful, if not as useful anymore;
a ***-stained carpet too good to throw away
left to rot in the driveway; I called a tow to haul it all
yesterday

Oh my Brother...

when it rains
I drown in his rolling wheelchair
and rubber-tipped canes, set out plastic buckets

... and I think to drink them in...

the stories of glory or warning,
conquests and war,
apple pies left to cool on a sill
awaiting harvest by the bravest soldier

today:
gifts of old shot glasses saved in the cellar
(I drink from the bottle)
a box of fine cedar from the back of the closet
(though odor not telling, for a decade at best)
more stories...

but still
we're both grown men now, and safer for past efforts,
the lawn neatly mowed if not always ****-free.

does it matter?
winter's soon coming.
what could it save me?

it's a cold wind -
in time enough, some men
newly minted, will gaze inward - outward, too
search for food left in the pantry
the paltry stocks I put up:
canned spaghetti, dollar store crackers, salty powdered soup mixes...

they'll wonder whether a father ever listened
cared enough to spout useful advice...
weigh one heathen,
the *** who wrote poems only for himself

There's an office away from the high street
Where the ordinance survey resides
And the walls there are painted with boredom
Not a singular giggle abides
But there's one room below, in the cellar
Where Connor completes the new maps
Adding green and blue spots and churches
Putting pine trees in all of the gaps

Now just two days before publication
He was feeling mischievous and bold
So he pulled out the map of his village
And he penned the words "Here Be Gold"
Then he folded them neatly and deftly
He took them for copy and print
Bid his colleagues a wonderful summer
And he left just approaching a sprint

So the map making season was over
And his handiwork soon was for sale
Connor waited and made preparation
To ensure that his scheme didn't fail
He rented a tired ice cream van
And he filled it with cunning supplies
When his phone rang one Saturday morning
He spoke with well measured surprise

That call brought a knock to his doorway
And a nod to a neighbouring field
With a mind to extract precious metals
And a promise of half of the yield
"That field belonged to my father"
Young Connor was quick to invent
"You can dig just as much as you like there
It's three hundred a day for the rent"

There was much in the way of discussion
Then a scratching of paper and pen
A shake of a hand and a smiling
They were gone by a quarter past ten
So he counted they money they left him
They had paid him a week in advance
It would certainly pay off the mortgage
With some left for a weekend in France

On Monday there came with a rumbling
A convoy of notable size
There were trailers with diggers and cabins
And vans full of tools and supplies
All halted by general consensus
They unloaded each pallet and crate
Not seeing that over the field
Young Connor had bolted the gate

With a fever they started to burrow
With the sun beating down on their backs
They were tiring by the mid morning
But provisions were curiously lax
When in rolled a tired ice cream van
Playing green sleeves in hideous tones
Soon the workers were queuing in masses
For Fanta and lollies and cones

But the bill drew a gasp from each punter
Though the thirst had them caught by the *****
So they paid the extortionate prices
And stripped to their workmanlike smalls
At the end of the day they departed
And only young Connor remained
With a plan and a shiny new toolbox
Which he'd only just lately obtained

The next day the foremen and drivers
Found their diggers unable to dig
The engines were gone from their bonnets
And the oil had escaped from their rig
There was much of the pointing and cursing
And some harsh accusations were made
In the end they decided to press on
And continue with bucket and *****

They made quite a hole in the field
And they slowly descended from sight
They were forty feet down by the evening
And lamenting the vanishing light
When one of them turned with a bucket
To ferry out some of the spoil
When he came to what should be a ladder
And found only two dents in the soil

Connor slept and he dreamed of his fortune
And was thankfully hardy and stout
Or he'd certainly be more exhausted
After dragging those ladders about
In the morning he took to the field
With a bag and a rope and a smile
He leaned forward and peering downwards
Did proclaim in benevolent style

"Ahoy there you diggers and bucket men
Are you stranded in this here hole?"
There were cries from the depths and more cursing
And pleas that would shatter the soul
"I am sorry but I have no ladders
But I do have a coil of rope
You'd better shed weight for I'm sickly
I'm afraid that I may well not cope"

"So take off your rings and your watches
Your mobile phones and your cash
And pile them into a bucket
I'll hoist them all out in a flash"
After further complaining and shouting
Connor stood with a bucket of loot
And with that he went back to his cottage
Twas a very successful commute

The next year in the ordinance survey
On the map of the place he resides
In the field that belonged to his father
Amid pine trees and yet more besides
There are words in the faintest of letters
Between pictures of diggers and tools
Saying "Here Be Gold if you know where to look
And a ****** great hole full of fools"

My doors are always  open, they swing both ways.
You can come in and be welcomed, leave just the same.
There is always some food in the frig,
the cabinet is usually  stocked.
You won't find anything fancy but if you're hungry, it will hit the spot.
There are two stacks of fire wood, in case you're here when it's cold.
One is for a quick fire, the other for all night long.
Upstairs is the extra bed, clean towels too , on shelves,
extra razor in the drawer, case you need to shave yourself.
Now the beer is in the bottom drawer of the frig out in the shop,
yes there is a bottle behind the toolbox, case you needing a shot.
I really only got a few rules , most folks have heard before.
Take what you need,  leave what aint yours.
Help with the chores if you get a chance,
clean up behind yourself.
When the time comes at you again, help those that caint help themselves. Welcome.

Ignorant; not a care in the world (~)

Holy socks drag on cracked sidewalks
She had a pink shirt,

Or what seemed like it was once pink
She wore a smile & talked to her friend
I never saw him, but I’m sure he’s nice
I swear, her jeans never came with holes,
She’s too young to sport that fashion
Her face was the moon, not the cheesy one,
but pale & distant
Her hair, matted and knotty like dad’s unused
twine ball sitting in his toolbox
Did she have a brother?
Where was he?
I’m sure that unclothed Barbie in her hand needed a Ken

                                                (~)

Recline­d with their hands dangling over ashtrays,
where the only entity in their mind calling for their attention
is a liver-punching depressant.
Where eyes open for another hit,
and close to the cries of their children
Tonka trucks make snow angels in ash covered carpets,
Walls inhale secondhand sadness; stained with the tears of neglect,
Unmade beds and unfolded clothes shower their unpaid apartment,
Eviction notices pinned to the fridge with
crayon drawings of “daddy”,
Her request for another beer echoes the empty room
& it crosses her mind

“where the **** is she?”

twenty six shapes,
empty spaces too,
dots and tailed dots,
squiggles,
syntax, usage,
certain rules,
phonetics,
with this simple toolbox
we present the sum of human expression
up to and including this one

Bolts go with screwdrivers
Wrenches install nails
and life keeps going.

Sadness goes with anger
Empty thoughts will never fill
and life keeps going.

For the first time since I can remember I felt like I was graced with the same regality as those who sit on thrones built from bricks of solid self-esteem, sealed with the plaster of confidence.

Every sweet silver tongued sentence that dripped from their mouths like honey helped to sow the seeds of yet another flower on my crown, blooming with the promise of an ever elusive beauty I have never had the honour of meeting before, until my crown blossomed with the sweetest scent and the prettiest petals you had ever seen.

These buds would encourage this forbidden nectar to fill in the gaps, to flow around and in between every crack and crevice in my self-polluted soul, mending, often overflowing leaving distinct pale pink kisses on the apples of my cheeks, and the dreaded dimple that is so often hidden would emerge from the shadows the moment that sweet nectar touched it and it was no longer afraid of showing.

Then you, sir, with your eyes shying from stardust could only speed the process, equipped with nothing but a rusty toolbox consisting of rosebud lips and blistered hands I know would never dare break my fragile stem, but be the foundations for my desperate, clinging vines to grasp so maybe someday I could taste the sunlight coating my lips, and veiling my skin the same way it did that one time I actually felt beautiful.

My legs were solid and strong, making just the right contact with the earth for me to keep my balance, my stomach a valley with just the right kind of hills and dips for my weary eyes to travel on, and I was blessed with a head held high paired with piercing eyes that only said that I wore all my flowers proud upon my crown.

Even if seeds of doubt still plant themselves in the caverns of your mind telling you that they will probably wilt the next day, you still water them with the tears you have left because ******* they are prettier alive.

Suddenly the sweet sound of ‘thank you’s echoed from my mouth to replace the bitter, constant taste of denial, and loathing took the form of loving and I embraced every second of it.

When someone at long last sees the galaxies in their own eyes and the pure luminescence of their soul, why must it be cruelly crushed by comments determined to blow them off course when they finally know exactly where they want to drop anchor, what is wrong if I decide to start with myself because I am living with me for the rest of my life and I realised I had better get comfortable. Self-respect, self-esteem, self-confidence, it all begins and ends with you, you are not just a chapter, you are the whole freaking book, so allow kind words to embed themselves in your skin and etch their outlines on your bones and it’s a pretty good way to start the first paragraph.

So let me be an empress, let me be a queen, no longer the princess of low self-esteem, rip off the nametag that reads ‘handle with care’ because you’re not breathing right you are not even aware of how much you are worth, step into your skin, accept every beautiful inch of you because you’re not going to win a battle where you fight by beating yourself, your body is not a warzone, but darling if you breathe in all the dirt you can take you’ll be exhaling the prettiest of flowers.

I know that it’s hard, but trust me, honey, you will grow so tall, you will blossom my friend, even though you may fall once, or twice while you climb.. keep your eyes fixed on that sun, and you’ll be just fine.

I am drawn towards the broken things
I am a sucker for the broken ones
I am a toolbox mending broken hearts
I am a craftsman building brand new souls
At times I stop and wonder what of mine?
What of my broken heart and fractured spirit?
But I am drawn towards the broken things
I mend to mend myself

It sounds so silly to be crying over this piece of something
But this piece of something was our everything
You choked back tears and told me there will always be the memories
But I looked around inside our place and was filled with nostalgia
"This is the last time I'll be in here," I thought
The thought made my eyes well up with tears, and I started to blink rapidly
No one could possibly understand how much it means
That rusted piece of metal that we drove around in was where it all started
Where we started

It all started in track, where the throwers hung out in your van
Awaiting practice, just killing time together, listening to music
It was a home, our haven, in some silly way, just for a little while
It was the **** of all the jokes, not some Porsche by any means
But there was something about it's feel that made it unique

After track, it was post prom, that I was there with you
Falling asleep at five in the morning, listening to the radio
With your hand on my knee, something just felt right
When we got back to my house, I thought you tried to kiss me, but I hugged you instead because I wasn't ready
You drove away listening to the song "Mirrors" by Justin Timberlake
And you still tells me that you knew it was a sign

As the school days wearied down, we grew together
Longer days, shorter nights, and warmer weather
We started to see each other more and more
You always wanted to drive me home, pick me up
Just to spend more time together
You lived for that in-between time in the car
Driving around with you just always felt right

At graduation he was there too, we named him, you see
JFE for his license plate, but we pronounce it Jeffie
I watched you walk across the stand, receiving your diploma
And after we walked back to him, because you had something for me
Which wasn't how I thought graduation worked
But nonetheless you asked me to go get a toolbox from him trunk
To help you with some nameless task
So I opened it, expecting a wrench, but I was met with wrapping paper instead
In it was a card saying that you knew that I was hurt, but you were trying your best to show that your feelings were honest
And in the box were webcams to help us make it through the upcoming summer apart

He was there those first two weeks of summer
I bet we totaled a thousand miles
Going back and forth from place to place
Just spending all the time we could before you had to go
Those beautiful weeks, the best of my life
We stayed out until two a.m.  in my front yard, just talking in the front seats
I always came inside expecting a lecture on the time of night and the worries my mother had
But, I really didn't care
I spent every single day with you before you left
I wanted to make the most of a bad situation
Because it was planned before we happened

He was there that day you told me of your love
Like it was something that had to be said, it was already seen
You confessed you would miss me because of your feelings
That encompassed your life
It took me two weeks to return it
Not out of lack of it, but because I wanted to be absolutely positive it was love
Now, there is no doubt, but then I was a little shook up
And when I said it, we were standing right next to him
His chipped maroon exterior, with power windows that seldom rolled up, and his creaky sliding doors
I have since said those three words a million times in his vicinity

He was there when he left, after the beautiful time
We were so unhappy to be separating, it was unbearable
But he always brought you straight back home to me
I would look out for him everywhere I went in case you were back in town again
Waiting for the rumble of his engine from the bottom of the hill
Then I knew you were home again


Since you have come home to stay, he has been there for all of our countless days
For all the good and bad ones together
He has seen us shine and diminish, but he has always been the place
If we needed to talk, you would just turn the key off and park somewhere to resolve it
While driving in him, we have told countless stories and memories
We became best friends and fell in love there

He was there for all the memories
The ones that cannot be bought or sold
Even though he was named with a price
In my mind, he is priceless
A treasure
One of a kind
Even though he was made on a factory line of thousands
*Just like him

Dear lover,
Remember the tattered throw rug we laid on,
when I discovered your birthmark shaped like a tangerine
on the back of your knee?
We were velcro back then.
You told me I had eyes of indigo
and the corners of my cellars smelled of sweet
honeysuckle in the fire months of summer.
That summer, we marinated in our fresh air
that filtered the stale, standstill atmosphere.

Now, the toolbox on the broken shelf,
the set your tired father provided for you,
is rusting at the hinges.
Like you and me.

The saltwater my indigo sight produces, confronts
the bolts and twists,
corroding anything it touches.
Lover, this can be reversed by binding
our loops and hooks together.
Lover, the tools have not yet been used
and only you and I can discover
each other again.

Always,
Me.