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3.2k · Oct 2010
Minerals Added For Taste
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
The pen shakes in my hand; to write these words
Sleep all day, sleep all night, doesn't matter
Haven't missed much, an empty conversation
Exchanged under this leaking roof in whispers
Slumping on the porch, watching it all drip down
Pinging off of empty brown bottles in the grass
Keeping time by your breathing, the rain pours down
As I hold your hand in mine, side by side
Puddles overflow, spilling their cloudy contents
Only to fill another puddle
2.8k · Nov 2012
Sunflower
Patrick Kennon Nov 2012
Lilies  bloom in the shade of broken teeth and crooked
smiles
A life spent between blaring plastic
headphones
Smiles like cheap neon and artificial camera
flash
Capturing a moment, destroyed like hummingbird
heartbeats
Synchronized silence worldwide, a breath
exhaled
Musical stones rushing back to oceans
beckoning
Rushing in sand and salt water, forgotten
noise
Her smile broke me
My smile gave the lie away
From the heartburn and ***** came
solitude
Half finished bottles of ***** on the
floor
And smiles exclusive to
inebriation
I dreamed of your touch
But coldness prevailed
I sacrifice my heart to sunflowers
Dead words whispered
Dead words hanging from stalks in the field
Crooked backs and dull tools
Stories of my fathers, and those before
Dead men with echos like
thunder
Crushed aluminum cans on the floor
My secret sickness, a breath of cancer
exhaled
Ashes like snowflakes on my worn
boots
Words like blue tears crumpled on stiff
paper
And we die for our words
And our words will die
with us
2.6k · May 2011
Her Bamboo
Patrick Kennon May 2011
A quiet book of words, from a lonely man in his room
Her tiny voice, like pebbles rolling down a stream,
surrounded by pines
Sand between her toes, humming a song her mother used to sing,
forgot the words
Holding my head in your arms, blue little room, listening to
the wind chimes
Your bamboo forest, outside this ***** window, full of
ladybugs & grasshoppers
Green grass drying to hollow shells, snapped off by careless hands
Brushed away by gentle winds, spread among limestone & juniper
Standing barefoot on the paving stones, her toenails painted
yellow with black dandelions
A sip of iced tea, lemon, a bite of steamed rice
Trying to put a few thoughts together, letting the day simmer down
We'll sit together a while longer, listen to the crickets in the bamboo
Waiting, quietly waiting on your voice, the only thing
that keeps me dreaming anymore
2.0k · Jul 2012
Ants
Patrick Kennon Jul 2012
Green garden, my lovely little garden
over run with weeds
Cracked dirt, no water to be found
broke the spigot
Neat rows, gouged between spiny thorns
sweating, back bent
Such a waste, to throw down this seed
poached by ants
Some day I'll till it all, lovely garden
never work again
1.9k · Jun 2012
Organix
Patrick Kennon Jun 2012
How is it three years, and I still have the same dreams?
Can you explain that to me, lovely sparrow?
Clutching olive branch and yew bark
Grabbing in the dark for cold water, sweating down the glass
Bitter chlorine and calcium built up on the face
Mineral finger-paints, broken down with linseed oil and worn palms
Your eyes behind those old glasses, working clay on the wheel
Such pride in glazed pots collecting rain on the patio
Paving stones laid in sand, the last few crooked on account of the cervesa
Dry in the mouth like panting dogs, deadweight collapsed on threadbare carpet
How do we convince ourselves that it is desirable to be alone?
I hold you in my arms in a dream, whoever you are
Pulling all the strands out of a wicker basket, creating uselessness
Chattering keys on a laptop like shivering teeth
Coughing, faceless, men, the embodiment of misery in this night
The most beautiful pair of eyes I've ever seen, what other secrets lie beneath
that hijab?
Just a passing glance, most of the people we see, we will never see again
How is it some make such a profound impression with nothing more than a
smile?
Lying under the Joshua tree, surrounded by dirt roads leading nowhere in particular
Warm water mingles with the sweat on your lip
A sigh that send chills through me
The restless wind, nothing more
1.9k · Jun 2016
Step one: Bipolar 1
Patrick Kennon Jun 2016
Let's take it day by day.
We will
Please
Of course baby
Day by day
Is the best way
I wanna meditate and do yoga with you
And just keep touching you
And watch you make art
And watch the curve of your body in candlelight
My goddess..
Muse
Etc.
Panda
1.8k · Mar 2012
Air
Patrick Kennon Mar 2012
Air
Lost my air from a parting glance, a split second that haunts my
memories
The crunch of gravel beneath our bare feet, tired arms
around my neck
Dancing drunk in the morning, waiting for the dandelions to unfold dying
arms
Feta cheese and Greek olives, hummus on flat bread, a sip of
merlot
A kiss with dim eyes under live oak branches, a parting breath,
exhaled into open skies
I turn under the disc of the sun, chased by moon and clouds,
the clear quiet of night
I surrender my thoughts to the dead leaves, broken branches,
my holy totems
I lay my voice on wild grasses; let it float down, drip into
running water
I write my words on ***** walls, tomorrow scratched to illegible
nothings
Outlines of small hands on colored paper, hard to believe we were all
children, once
1.8k · Oct 2010
Deep Rooted
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
Scribbles on a yellow notepad, this ink won't last
Letting sweat dry from a long walk, half way there
I didn't notice it on my first passing, or my second
Third time is the charm they say, don't they?
Now I sit in this scummy drainage ditch, writing
A tree, growing from a pile of waste concrete
Dumped carelessly by rough, tired, hands
Green leaves adorn it, this oddity, only a sapling
Like a flower on the peak of Mount Everest
Or an ice cube in the middle of the Gobi
This is not so grand, this urban contradiction
Some day it will be as tall as me, maybe taller
Stretching its limbs, eroding its base
Praising sun rays through photosynthesis
Pushing down roots through man made constructions
Reclaiming the soil from which all life springs & returns
1.8k · Mar 2012
Hyacinth
Patrick Kennon Mar 2012
Uncounted words on the page, attempting to mimic brilliance
Predictable as playing Russian roulette with an automatic
Forced sterility, impossible as drawing a straight line
The wrist won’t comply, simply cannot, no reason to attempt it
We fool ourselves with second hand ambition, discard our
own greatness
Quiet and sublime, carelessly letting our spark burn out
Do you remember what it was to be a child?
Nothing but used up memories with no sound
Black and white like some old movie, lips moving, no voice
Barefoot dreams are all that remain for me
Empty promises made to one’s self, surrendered so
easily
Nights of Bach on the radio, hiding behind closed doors and
cheap wine
Days of endless monotony, dark stairs and the smell of
scrubbed mildew
An afternoon spent in your arms, making love under the
pecan trees
I almost saw your yesterdays, beautiful creature, when I met your
eyes, laying there
A little girl, running with a sparkler in each hand, screaming her
defiance to the world
Holding onto what’s left of each other, two halves, trying to make a
whole
1.7k · Jun 2013
Swallows & Crows
Patrick Kennon Jun 2013
All the clouds went away today
The sky decided to **** me
Sweat burning, eyes cloudy
Shake the sand from rotten boots
Pick the pebbles from **** scabs
I clear my throat & fill my lungs
***** my soul with another
tasteless cigarette
This is life & we all want
no part of it anymore
1.3k · Feb 2012
Ballpoint Graffiti
Patrick Kennon Feb 2012
The grass bends down beneath my feet accordingly, only to rise,
rise again
The waves break on pebbles, sand, only to crash again on
distant shores
Pulled back through quiet memories, the soft smoked smell of
mesquite & juniper
Lying in the heart of a gray metal shell, laid length-wise, molded into
a mad-mans image
Falling through old, tired, lives, with such innocence, clean &
unburdened by life
Accumulating this tiredness, begrudgingly ground down, absently
tossed aside
Never asking why, like beasts led to slaughter, not of flesh & bone,
put principle & ideal
Dreams of silver, fading into tarnished piles of rust, distorted image,
mocking faded beauty
Quiet nights spent in the shade of moonlight, watching the stars go
down with you
Dreaming of sunshine as the dew collects on our sleeping
faces
Awakened by the fleeting song of cardinals, staring into lattice-work
clouds
1.3k · Jun 2013
Desert Voodoo
Patrick Kennon Jun 2013
Stones in my pocket, dirt on my face, in my lungs
I couldn't quite respond when you first smiled at me
Such pale eyes, you sat in your blue room
among wilted wildflowers & bamboo out the window
I felt so perfectly awkward, shy as a child
Reading in the corner, the silence spoke for us
You smile for wind chimes & laugh at the sunrise
Took my hands & traced your tattoos with bitten fingernails
Sparrows in black & white, held me there between collar bones, rising & falling
Held me when I slept, somehow our dreams were in step in the morning
I write this today, the bamboo long gone, your touch a memory
From a blue room, nothing more than paint chips on the floor
Perfect days wasted between your pale arms, somehow I
can't forget them
1.2k · Jan 2013
Latitude & Longitude
Patrick Kennon Jan 2013
I always thought one day I’d write something worth reading
So far, just lines and lines, used up catchphrases
I slumber in the pine needles and breathe in the scent of cut
Juniper
Bathe in the shadow of sundials as the day fades, turns smiles to
moonlit slumber
In the green grass among the dead leaves I lay my head and listen to
leaves changing color
On the cold sand I listen to high tide turn to low, the rolling of the rocks and the
breaking waves of foam
The birds in the trees sing of bamboo forests in her backyard, blue room where she
collected rocks and lucky charms
Books with pages torn out, arrowheads she found in the field, a feather in
her hair
Pale blue eyes which reflected my dullness, reading Camus by the door
She used to read to me, when the sun was sinking and my head was spinning from the
last cigarette
And hold me like a child, hold me with my eyes shut and my lungs screaming to speak one
simple phrase
To grab the pen, to open my eyes and speak symbols onto the page, make my ballpoint
sing
To read a word worth reading, to write a line worth writing, this is my desire
1.2k · Aug 2012
Gin Bottle Blues
Patrick Kennon Aug 2012
Broken glass mosaics in gutters and sidewalk cracks
Endless nights of glowing screens and quiet music
Long haired children with surfboards and cigarettes
I flick the ashes off mine in greeting to hollow eyed friends
Shaking from early morning hangovers
The clouds settling in low places among scrub hills
Ocean crashing reminds me I’m still human
Sand castle dreams viewed through broken windows
Pulled a thousand directions in a moment, comprehend none of it
Smiling for no reason when fingertips meet and eyes cascade radiance
Laughing in deep places with no expression
And out of our togetherness, there is profound silence
In dark concrete rooms with the smell of detergent
Unfolded clothing on the bed and empty bottles of gin
Words on the page, meant so much more last night
Now just scratches in ink and pencil, another idea to discard
Sparrows scatter from high lines and we take our first
breath
1.1k · Sep 2012
Blood Medicine
Patrick Kennon Sep 2012
Bills in my wallet folded into wads, unsorted in their random cacophony
Smiles on the faces of those ignorant enough to ignore suffering
Cuts on her feet like symbols in the stars
From her voice I was told the taste of kiwis and ****** root
From her kiss I was sharing nicotine and half exhaled cigarette smoke
And from our silence there is an overlapping ambience of dead noise
From our comprehension we realize our ignorance
From our comprehension we realize out insignificance
It is reassuring to know that you are a compilation of subatomic structures
It is comforting to know your matter is just recycled stardust
From a smile between crooked teeth and chipped molars I find comfort
In knowing that your heart is like a sponge absorbing all my poison
And somehow you exhale such radiance, a phenomenon
I marvel from my spot in the yard, watching sparrows chase
crows
1.1k · Sep 7
Peace?
Could we all
just get along
for one day?
1.1k · Jan 2014
Satun Hippy
Patrick Kennon Jan 2014
She found the breaks in my hand as easy as she could feel the knuckles, didn't miss a
one
Beautiful eyelashes she said, for a boy, for a boy, a smile like an hour broken
open
I spoke with the thickness of dry mouth sake and cigarettes, I spoke from distance & impregnable
solitude
Tracing my tattoos to guess the age by the scars
A smile in the half light, a sigh in the night light
Time spent among aluminum cigarette trays with the smell of burnt
plastic
I thought for a moment the ghost had left the shell, the sparrow found the gap
in the cage
But the cedar blocks still sit in the corner as temporary as ever
The wind still finds its way through your eyelashes
& the ocean still gives up her soul for the rain
I sit in the passenger seat and watch it unfold, the sea and the sea and the endless
sea
And I pursue a certain spot between sandy shore and energy in motion of
mosaics unfolding
An exhale of smoke and a tightening of eyes
A drink to loosen it all up, repeat, repeat, fall down,
repeat
That lovely mixture of caffeine, nicotine, and alcohol
Somehow toeing the line, somehow making it through just
fine
1.0k · Jul 2011
Rejoice
Patrick Kennon Jul 2011
Smashing light bulbs in the dark to see
shattered sparks
Growing flowers to pull off all the petals
individually
Saved in the pages of unread novels, piles of
words
By some madman who had something to say, still has
something to say
Collect yourself for the next day, take a deep breath &
sleep
Because it will likely be worse than today, if not,
rejoice
Because you beat the odds, gamed the game
for once
I quietly thumb through faded photographs, trying
to remember that day
One of them, any of them, something to try for
again
Because I cannot dream anymore, I forgot
how
Somewhere along the line, it all drained
away
Crushed every morning at five thirty by screaming
alarm clocks
Damning me, sending me to hell, glaring red
numbers
Sweating out the anger, childishly smashing my
knuckles to pieces
I am temporary as the clouds spinning 'round the
mountains
One of these days, I'll climb them & try my luck at
flying
1.0k · Dec 2012
Sleeping In The Rain
Patrick Kennon Dec 2012
Another drunk poem between headphones, static & blank screens
surround me
Awoke in the morning with a gamblers smile, like seagulls flocking,
resting, gliding
Broken, crushed, words like quiet jokes until that last whisper under
***** sheets in a cheap motel
Yet we sip our poison and smoke our cancer, brothers and friends crammed
into closeness
Smiles spent on the eyes of those to lovely to smile back, yet their
hearts were warmed
By gapped tooth grins and young men with dirt under
bitten fingernails
Last night the headlights behind me made silver halos
in the mist
As I walked down gravel roads with mud stuck everywhere, my
constant companion
Some days I forget I’m human, that I exist, sitting in the passenger seat,
watching the world run by
Two kids with backpacks and a stray cat, asked them where they were heading,
“Hitchhiking to nowhere..”
Nowhere sounds about right right now, looking at the
state of things
A place of fragrant trees and uncut grasses, stones unturned and
clear running streams
The broken limestone memories of my childhood call
to me
Not much left of that anymore, just fragments like a
smashed tooth
Can’t even think some days, easier not to I think, easier to let
it all pass by
I saw a darkness today, and I closed my eyes to try for
light
Standing under rusty bridges, flicking dead embers
away
Between blue lines on the page I spill thoughts like
spoilt milk
Scribbles and scratches, wasted and unwanted, lost between
memories
Memories I claim, not sure if they’re even mine
anymore
Twenty two years old with a death wish by thirty
Dots and lines, a splash of smiles and laughter, stains
in the carpet
And we sit here like corpses, the two of us, cigarette butts between
twitching fingers
Stilled by the last exhale, the moment between
inaction and locomotion
Our still waters stirred, clear blue skies filled with rain clouds, still
blue above them
Your room, surrounded by rooms full of people, washing dishes or
watching their dreams die on T.V. screens
None of that matters to me, just your breath and hearing your voice for a second
before sleep takes over
I left a note in that book you told me you’d read, guess you
never got around to it
Patrick Kennon Jun 2016
It took me
This long
If you read it from the bottom to the top
0326am, TX time 20160622
To come of of my Bipolar as I know it
I hope this lasts.
Now you understand the significance of that period V down there
But that period down there
Is somehow a thought
that has to be spoken to myself
Before I can tell you all
I love Marena
With all of myself
Fullstop














Bipolar Poem 2: 20160622

You're probably gonna cry reading this Patrick
Hi, my name is Patrick
This is gonna be really hard
And if I finish it
It means maybe I got better
Or maybe worse
Because losing your empathy, is terrible
And I feel like I have not understood empathy on a fundamental level for so long, that I have tried to rush myself through literature and anything else, but in a way, not really listen
If I finish this as a poem
I need to shut up
Right
The
****
Now.


#1: Valporic Acid (3)
#2: Have family Read (no number for this one remember, you put a bracket/or whatever they are called there, haha idiot.
3:Ask forgiveness from family for being total ****
4: Have been being a total ****
5: I love you guys to much
6: I'll try to write things from this more linear from now on because I like it that way, read this all the way through, might make sense.
7: See, it changed directions again
8: Bi
9: Polar
10: Wikipedia, and a mood stabilizer, gotta find those n keep track, you needed one earlier, like when you copy pasted all those definitions off of youtube[wikipedia-google search] haha!

The last line in this is, baby, I wrote this because you stuck by my side
And you know what, I want to write this for a long time, with you
And I want to see what happens in OUR life together. Fullstop
I
Love
You
Full
Stop.





And see what happens
[This is me starting a story, the brackets really don't matter right now, because I think we'll just keep going with this
[Because you're probably going to hate me first, then understand, I think, because I'll just write it out, as best I can.
[I think reading it backwards will make more sense
[The meaning of grace and love, the meaning of beauty
[]A list of groceries in your hand
[]Love
[]Sparrows
[]Took a screenshot, sent it to one drive
[CS] - means Control, shift on your keyboard
[I'm gonna try to make this super clear, so if I'm using vernacular or whatever, it might make more sense if you read it from back to front, ya know what I mean?]
[Decided to write a book] Guess it's gonna be backwards, you can just scroll up, should work just fine.]
[Remembered phone, forgot it somewhere in the room, but knew exactly where it was like 2 ******* seconds ago, bipolar ***** sometimes. Whoop let's go look.] *have not found wallet yet, 3:03am, same date

[Wanted to get back on the internet
So I did it
Nice man
I guess this is what talking to yourself is.
It's funny that you've done it all your life
And somehow never realized
You were doing it
Must have been
That ******* BiPolar
That runs in your family
And you're probably having a slight manic episode right now
Awesome
So at this point we calm down
And do something else for a while
Because
**** that.]






[This is what you currently consider flow of consciousness writing]
[This is what I went and got from the internet while having a minor bipolar episode, AKA probably in the Delayed Entry Program. Think it helped me be good at my job in the Marine Corps.]




[Cause: Internet went down
Effect: Triggered first recorded bipolar episode
Execution"]

^
Bipolar episode or PTSD?
Another question for another time!!]




[Bipolar Episode #1
Recorded at 2:40 AM Central time, 6/22/2016, by
[This is me starting a story, the brackets really don't matter right now, because I think we'll just keep going with this
[Because you're probably going to hate me first, then understand, I think, because I'll just write it out, as best I can.
[I think reading it backwards will make more sense
[The meaning of grace and love, the meaning of beauty
[]A list of groceries in your hand
[]Love
[]Sparrows
[]Took a screenshot, sent it to one drive
[CS] - means Control, shift on your keyboard
[I'm gonna try to make this super clear, so if I'm using vernacular or whatever, it might make more sense if you read it from back to front, ya know what I mean?]
[Decided to write a book] Guess it's gonna be backwards, you can just scroll up, should work just fine.]
[Remembered phone, forgot it somewhere in the room, but knew exactly where it was like 2 ******* seconds ago, bipolar ***** sometimes. Whoop let's go look.]

[Wanted to get back on the internet
So I did it
Nice man
I guess this is what talking to yourself is.
It's funny that you've done it all your life
And somehow never realized
You were doing it
Must have been
That ******* BiPolar
That runs in your family
And you're probably having a slight manic episode right now
Awesome
So at this point we calm down
And do something else for a while
Because
**** that.]






[This is what you currently consider flow of consciousness writing]
[This is what I went and got from the internet while having a minor bipolar episode, AKA probably in the Delayed Entry Program. Think it helped me be good at my job in the Marine Corps.]




[Cause: Internet went down
Effect: Triggered first recorded bipolar episode
Execution"]

^
Bipolar episode or PTSD?
Another question for another time!!]




[Bipolar Episode #1
Recorded at 2:40 AM Central time, 6/22/2016, by
.
First iteration:]



! [especially regarding the nature and behavior of light, space, time, and gravity.



Quantum theory is the theoretical basis of modern physics that explains the nature and behavior of matter and energy on the atomic and subatomic level. The nature and behavior of matter and energy at that level is sometimes referred to as quantum physics and quantum mechanics.



me·chan·ics
məˈkaniks/Submit
noun
1.
the branch of applied mathematics dealing with motion and forces producing motion.
2.
the machinery or working parts of something.
"he looks at the mechanics of a car before the bodywork"

math·e·mat·ics
maTH(ə)ˈmadiks/
noun
the abstract science of number, quantity, and space. Mathematics may be studied in its own right ( pure mathematics ), or as it is applied to other disciplines such as physics and engineering ( applied mathematics ).
the mathematical aspects of something.
plural noun: mathematics
"the mathematics of general relativity"


Not first thing written, was a not for something else, in the very first part of this bracketing system I am using, will continue to use, and will explian, if you give me the time[bipolar+meglomania?]
First iteration:]



[especially regarding the nature and behavior of light, space, time, and gravity.



Quantum theory is the theoretical basis of modern physics that explains the nature and behavior of matter and energy on the atomic and subatomic level. The nature and behavior of matter and energy at that level is sometimes referred to as quantum physics and quantum mechanics.



me·chan·ics
məˈkaniks/Submit
noun
1.
the branch of applied mathematics dealing with motion and forces producing motion.
2.
the machinery or working parts of something.
"he looks at the mechanics of a car before the bodywork"

math·e·mat·ics
maTH(ə)ˈmadiks/
noun
the abstract science of number, quantity, and space. Mathematics may be studied in its own right ( pure mathematics ), or as it is applied to other disciplines such as physics and engineering ( applied mathematics ).
the mathematical aspects of something.
plural noun: mathematics
"the mathematics of general relativity"


Not first thing written, was a not for something else, in the very first part of this bracketing system I am using, will continue to use, and will explian, if you give me the time[bipolar+meglomania]<----Was this a question I was asking myself, or a question I was asking about this condition, in relation to other people, and how many other people felt like I did, and never knew it.
Hmn.
Now that line might make sense right now.
But why do I keep jumping around
Let's get to the **** point
And write a book or whatever
About whatever
And we'll just work the bipolar in with it.
Cool.
Signing off for the night, this is RadioThailand, sitting square in the middle of Tejas, signing off.
Bipolar Bi Polar Bipolar Disorder
992 · Jun 2012
Gramineae
Patrick Kennon Jun 2012
Bones in the rye field they sang, brittle stems of iron spreading leaves of
rust
A hidden look in watery eyes, secret sickness, ripping my guts
asunder
That space between midnight and morning when the world has been reduced
to monotone
In the blue-gray lucidity we sit, absorbed in cigarettes and gusting
wind
A few notes of Satie and I’m sitting in that blue room again, bamboo out the
window
Your voice like a finger running up my spine, singing to me, drowned out by
spring showers
Clay pots on the shelves, wilted sunflowers on the floor, grass pushing its way
through the floorboards
I step into falling rain, dream of sleep, dream of nothing, the blankness between
wakefulness
Hands carrying the scars of a thousand days, much like the day before, unconscious of
its passing
In tired two syllable words we exchange our hearts
In smiling kisses we pass each other breath, fresh like fertile ground split by
rugged plow
Black and white photographs in odd fitting drawers with cheap brass
handles
A pocket watch carried by many men before me, strewn upon stained counters
and newspaper clippings
I will these tired eyes to come to their senses, absorbed in a single word in a single
line
Losing their focus for minutes at a time, the sensation of drifting, the feeling of
fading
Like watercolor or lines in well-trod earth, shuffled into meaningless
harmonics
I still miss the sound of your violin, though you thought no one listened through
that ***** window
Scraps of Scriabin and Brahms, your symphonies saved me many a night
Such frail hands and white scalp, but you did not shake when bow met
fingers
Those nights of cheap Merlot, secretly stealing a moment of calm from your
skilled hands
The records never quite rivaled those nights, my unknown
friend
961 · Oct 2010
Fool's Gold
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
How the Dandelions wave on your neat little grave,
in a ghost town in Colorado.
Gutted cabins rotting into dirt, little piles
of split wood memories.
A rusting stove where you cooked their meals,
among the pines, surrounded by snow.
Now that iron is thin as paper, rusted holes,
inhabited by birds nests.
Your little headstone says you died of pneumonia,
at the age of thirty seven.
Two children you had, by a worthless drunk man,
who could barely hold it together.
One son took up a job down on ******* Creek,
searching for fools gold.
He died a young mans life, no chance to grow old,
gone at nineteen, never came out of that hole.
Another worked the railroad, running down those tracks,
until he heard a nations call.
Didn't stand a chance, shelled in those trenches of France,
too much mustard gas, didn't last long.
They're buried here, in this little aspen grove,
forgotten in their repose.
But those Dandelions still dance & wave,
among those lonely graves.
The Dandelions still grow, despite it all.
958 · Oct 2010
Log Cabins
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
The sky rushes by in spilt milk splendor
A fading memory of August, listening to the rain
Thunder in the mountains, echoes in empty spaces
Rocky tree lines, kissed by melting snow
The flow of time undefined by thought
Only a concept, only an illusion
The deeper meaning of silent meditation
In solitary places among the pines
946 · Oct 2010
Spraycan Blues
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
***** beats, kids barefoot in the street
Running up & down across two yellow lines
In little parks with iron fences, dead grass
Surrounded by broken fences & empty houses
Rotting off their own foundations
Slowly the foundation crumbles,
after the frame is long gone.
Slowly the grass reclaims concrete,
transmutes into soil.
With roots as deep as oily puddles,
runoff after the downpour.
Waste your life in four cornered rooms
Contain your life in ceilings & floors
End your life under cheap sheets
There is a garden out back, full of weeds
Strangling out sunlight with noxious yellow flowers
I've turned over that soil so many times
But only weeds grow
864 · Aug 2012
Dirty War
Patrick Kennon Aug 2012
Tired static over old A.M. radios, voices like ghosts, slurring Slavic,
the faded label on a bottle of Stolichnaya
Burnt embers on the tip of shaking cigarettes, flicked into open space,
falling like snow flakes
Tired eyes half shut, dimly replaying a far away song behind flickering
eyelashes
No smiles, no laughs, no interruptions of voice or spirit to dislodge this sublime
apathy
Quotes from Mehmedinović on crumpled pieces of paper, jammed into pockets or
wallets
Blue bands around the arms so his comrades know who to shoot
at
The laughter of children, who have seen so much sorrow, to laugh is
to cry
These children become men, to pick up their guns, and join friends
as corpses at the base of Lapišnica
"This is the way it's always been, Sasha." hollow voices repeat, thin as
reeds, breathing the phrase many times a day
Overturned like a cup of bad coffee, lives spilled on the floor and left
to dry
Boot prints in the mud, one after another, someday they'll collect grass
and we'll all forget
Shining brass casings among the lilies, someday they'll be covered by weeds
and we'll all forget
The walls will be rebuilt, plaster spread, lives sewn together like ripped
clothing
Someday we’ll all forget, this blessing of
silence
833 · May 2011
Maria
Patrick Kennon May 2011
No memories, no plans, just empty days full of
headaches
Sour apples on the window sill, sour grapes with
no seeds
Bought in sterile supermarkets where everything is
half-price
Wilting in the halflight of ***** windows and
paintchips
Smile with me, Maria, the day is almost done,
We can dip our hands in the canal, wash it away
Carry me where you will, among the brambles and
reeds
Let me sleep in your arms, just hold me,
please
799 · Jun 2011
Lia
Patrick Kennon Jun 2011
Lia
Collapsing by the blue wall where the flies come to die
Where the sun is just hot enough to give you a headache
Flicking embers off, reducing themselves to ashes
Half a cigarette and I’m off
Drag myself up with tired, cracking hands
Push myself on with a bad ankle, old eyes
So many footprints in this dirt, lost its identity
Just a placeholder for a thousand impressions
Grass pushes itself up between the door frame
Green threads in her little blue room
Listening for the wind chimes in their silence
Listening for your footsteps, barefoot in the
bamboo
797 · Oct 2010
Handprints
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
Rains turned a blind eye, & the world dried to dust,
choked.
Then all the worms died, baking in cracked, rotten
soil.
When this is over, it'll be like we never really were in
the first place.
Just dirt, soon enough at least, when we find our place
among the worms.
No page will remember our names, who would care to
know them?
Another wave of life, pushed over the edge, into
the organic meat grinder, six feet under.
Do we keep breathing, this same breath, or do we
stop all together.
Do we walk on, or pause & listen to the
oceans crashing music.
Do we blink, or let our eyes dry, sitting behind
***** glass windows, watching it all cave in.
Endless streets, scattered faces, a million different
stories, untold.
I'd like to know the names of cavemen, to utter
them once again.
Just to say I didn't forget, just to pretend I
tried.
I saw your hand prints, outlines from smoke on
rocky walls.
I wish I knew your stories, your common words
& wisdom.
It's that way for every name through history,
recorded or otherwise.
If we took every misery suffered by man, and wrote a book,
would you read it?
Would you burn it?
785 · Oct 2010
My Four Corners
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
Sun rays roll down the green grass & ochre weeds
Yellow, bitter, flowers, litter the hillside
Long red rays turning pink as split figs
Orange as hot coals, blue as the ocean
Then the bustle of twilight, such noise
Streaking headlights fade into receding redness
Carrying their sound with them, down the road
Figures, sillouhetes, wander by me, quiet conversations
Wind stirs their outlines, rustles their clothing, their hair
Bringing me the scent of dust, of split juniper
Darkness descends, but it cannot ***** out street lights
Or the flourescent floodlights, glaring artifical brightness
Or the blinking red eyes of radio masts
I'll peddle back now, chased by headlights
Down black asphalt roads, black as the night
Radiated heat, gathered from this boiling day
Sweat pouring down my face, into my eyes
Breath tearing at my chest, blood racing through veins
I have to outrun the night, to make it on time
To that quiet destination, a little room on the second story
With a chair, a desk, a shelf full of unread books
A yellow notepad, a pen that doesn't work so well
Arrowheads and unshaped stones, a bullet on the dresser
My grandpas old knife, a symbol of the ****** Mary
Your charms that you carelessly left behind
A small tiled room with a shower to stand under
Watch it drain away, dirt & soap, all of it
A face stares back at me, changed, distorted
A reflection in the mirror, a reflection that was me
745 · Oct 2010
Rusted Iron
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
My back is stiff, my eyes are heavy
Sitting under live oak branches, waiting for the rain
Pecans litter the ground, their shells hard & matte
Yet the core is rotten, the shells deception
I watch your calloused hands, blistered & raw
A face drawn tight with every rasping breath
Telling stories through wine-stained lips
Of open country, trails that lead to nowhere
My heartache disguised behind a smile
Sounds of wet wood catching in the open fire
Add another log, to see us through this hour
Tell me another story, father..
743 · Apr 2015
Heather
Patrick Kennon Apr 2015
This one wild eyed child,
with the breath like
gin,
those cedar branches between teeth,
those handfuls of eyes,
those broken whispers and spit on my eyelashes,
a kiss between a day broken like cigarettes in the package.

Could you make love to a series of words,
or a painting on the wall,
or maybe a laugh between ***** sheets where our skulls bounce off each other,
could you love a dead smile?
725 · May 2011
Over Yonder Hills
Patrick Kennon May 2011
The dust in kicking up, windy night in New Mexico
Watching the moon rise up over cactus & canals
Listening to rocks become pebbles
Filling our stomachs with cold water
Under the blanket you wove for me, the one
we slept in
On that cold October night, when we thought the
sun would never rise
And when it did, it shone with such brillance
Stuck our hands out, between the cracks, just
to catch its radiance
To stop the shaking, it set me on edge
Made me want to run, just to feel myself sweat
But I'd just fall facedown in the snow
Lost in a canyon, full of black rocks,
dead trees
And a silence we forgot existed
724 · Oct 2010
Long Walk
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
Knee deep in swaying green grass
Moving like salsa dancers, tempo, tempo
Walking along old paved roads
Fragments of tejano from speeding, *****, trucks
Rushing towards me, receding into the distance
Step, step, one after another, clear blue sky
Shadows of barbed wire criss-cross, rusty, hooked, threads
Moon lingering in the sky, waiting for its turn
A swig of warm water, to wash the dust away
Spat onto burning pavement, dreaming of shade
722 · Oct 2010
Cast Iron Love
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
She is the calmness of night in the burning sunlight
The rain falling from clouds that can't hold water
Salt of the ocean, stone pulled from wet earth,
after the downpour.
He is grass growing from broken ground in the field
The cedar tree pushing its limbs towards sunshine
Clear cold water, cascading down pitted limestone
walls, eroding the face.
Their love is the world, from which all life springs
The beating drum of nature & instinct, intertwined
Inorganic love, brittle as cast iron, rusting itself
away.
710 · Oct 2010
Blue City
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
I walk through this city blue
Writing books of unwritten verse
From simple, daily, conversations
Jotted down on cheap notepads
A couple walks together, same routine
Adopted from uncounted years, together
A cigarette hangs from cracked, chapped, lips
His cane taps out a rhythm, hobbling along
Sounds overlap, reverberate off cinder block walls
Voices blend into seamless harmony
A lonely man sits alone in his apartment
Surrounded by books stacked on creaking shelves
Waiting on a call, just to hear her voice
Cars come but never go, an endless procession
Ebbing & flowing, tides of gasoline & steel
Filling blank lines with mass produced ink
While I watch a game of chess in the park
Strategies countered by intuition, or luck
Blind to the outside world, they play on
Paint chips off walls as blurred faces walk by
Cracked concrete crumbles by paces & strides
Only to be overrun by sprouting, spiny, weeds
Crushed into pulp by careless, rushing, feet
Beats of a jazz quartet, pouring from an open door
Echoing down empty hallways, finding my ears by chance
I'll keep walking, through this blue city, until I find you once again
I wrote a letter to you, my love, to this day its not been sent
709 · Oct 2010
Heterocera
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
White wings with brown circles
Plates of armor, black and orange
They discovered your weakness in the night
A ***** in your chitinous plate
All you sought was the shining fluorescent light
As you rested on the window sill
Now your wings flutter uselessly, a vain attempt
To fly away on morning breezes, all for naught
This cast iron tombstone, your final resting place
How dignified, you must think?
Dying on a piece of cheap lawn furniture
Don't worry; your broken wings will fly again
In the beaks of sparrows and crows
702 · Oct 2010
Out The Window
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
Isn't it funny
How the day can be so sunny
The clouds just seem to run away
Wispy fingers of condensation
Receding into vapor, invisible
Coming and going like spring showers
As subtle as silence
Reforming themselves on their blue tapestry
To an orchestra of grasshoppers
692 · Oct 2010
Cardboard Kingdom
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
A dreary September day, raindrops the size of quarters,
smacking into the windshield at 60 miles per hour.
Passing through this subdued city, a concrete jungle,
grown quiet in the tempest.
Gravel & broken glass tumble over flattened bottle caps
& cigarette butts, into the gutter.
A lone man in a white shirt & blue tie rushes for his car,
stomping through puddles, newspaper covering his bald head.
He must be thinking about getting out of the rain,
or getting back to his office, his tired cubicle life,
or how he's going to make it through another endless day.
Selling his soul & happiness for enough money to support
three kids, his wife & his mother, to put bread on the table.
To have a nice little house in a nice little suburb with a
nice little lawn, a tombstone, a paragraph in the obituaries.
Now we're crawling along the asphalt, the scene replaying itself,
a different story, but the same, always the same.
A figure strolling between dumpsters, looking for a dry spot,
a blur down an alleyway as we speed by.
If it wasn't raining, she'd be on the corner with a sign,
living on dollars a day, enough to buy a few beers &
forget about it all for a while, until the next day.
To many signs with "Veteran" or "I have children"
or simply "Help." To many people with signs.
Then you really begin to see them, crouching under balconies,
one or two at first, do you really even notice?
Just a nameless name, a faceless face among faces, a storyless
story, with so many stories to tell you.
Mismatched shoes, a shirt to small & to thin for this
ripping wind, this freezing, tearing wind.
Under overhangs in any dry place they can find,
a kingdom of soggy cardboard & pipe dreams.
But this is nothing compared to the overpasses,
every single one packed to the brim with the homeless,
escaping from the downpour, trying to find a place to sleep.
The night is coming and the rains still pouring, and the winds
still howling, and I have a warm bed to collapse on.
I have food in the pantry & food in my stomach, & clothes on
my back, & hope for tomorrow, such hope I have, such illusion.
I remember his face, as we sat at the red light,
waiting for the trivial green to wave us on our way.
Old enough to be my father, huddled in his blue poncho, slick
from the rain, shaking from the cold, waiting for the night.
Beard like tangled roots, hair gray as concrete,
just like concrete.
His eyes told of emptyness, of routine, clenching that
brown bag idly, watching the world pass by.
Another name that fell through the cracks, for no particular
reason, things piled up, what could you do?
No job would hire you, you were just a pink slip, then a
foreclosure, then it all went to ****.
Your eyes catch mine, for that brief second as we pull away,
& I finally see your sign, such beautiful handwriting:
"I am human."
689 · May 2011
Ha-ile
Patrick Kennon May 2011
Breaking up stones to see sea shell patterns
Staring at stumps to see rings degrading, slowly
Sitting on a cardboard box in an empty room
Blowing out my mind with mechanical precision
Today I wrote all my poems in a letter, sent them
to my father
Told him to open it if I didn't make it home
I want him to open that letter
685 · Jul 2016
My Ocean, Your Sea
Patrick Kennon Jul 2016
Eyes opening in the morning twilight
Nautical dispersion, sounds of high tide
Rough spun cotton cocooning naked bodies
The taste of ***** on your tongue
Eyes in the morning
like hammocks on Culebra, swaying in breeze
Eyes in the evening
Like ******* belts, simple & kind
The sand in our toes a microcosm within a macrocosm
The wind in your hair like notes of music to my ears
  Embrace me, my love
   my heart flys away
    like sparrows
     in the morning
Somehow found each other, our other half
Shells in the sand to a passerby
Patterns in a cloud like eyes staring towards blind stars
Feel of graphite disintegrating into words on paper
Backwash of proletariat diaspora, like my corazon
Emptiness suddenly filled with affection
Can a dead soul absorb such life?
Like the ocean you touch all my shores
Like waves, mingle my soil with your salt
Three words: I love you.
633 · Oct 2010
Cedar Smoke
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
The burden of silence, punctuated by the rain
Lonely days, happily interrupted by your smile
Charms off your necklace, sitting behind collected stones
From my days of wandering, forgotten days of youth
playing you a song I've never heard before
Chords at random, eyes closed, fret by fret
Your hands flutter through photographs, discolored by age
Snapshots of faces gone or going, only a fuzzy memory
Like crossed out letters, names on a list, slowly piling up
Yellowed pages crumbling, swept away by grasping wind
Sending fragments of thought wherever they chance to land
In the form of drifting lines of verse, carried on breezes
Stomped into mud puddles, flattened by rain
Spilling ink into saturated soil, a stain among stains
Reincarnated in curling blades of grass
632 · Oct 2011
Inkstain
Patrick Kennon Oct 2011
A streetlamp, spilling artificial brightness, illuminating my
exhaled cancer
Humming quietly, flickering off, on, distracting the moths
lazy tumble
Since April I’ve stared at this same scene, this field of
grit &  asphalt
Brimming with the glossy colored shells of vehicles, now silent
& dull with grime
Sickly yellow light cascading over them, automated, dead,
light
I remember the ocean, so very different to be out in it then
standing on the shore
Watching the swells through a maze of gray pipes, a window
into blue nothing
With a rifle in my hand, the very same I’ve held for many months
now
Sitting under the shade of boulders & netting, watching the
shadows rearrange themselves
Clothing stiff & stinking from my sweat, the dirt worked into my
skin
Wrapped in a poncho liner, boots left on, praying to stop thinking,
merciful sleep
Most nights I can find it with ease, but others, like tonight, it evades
me
At the edge of unconsciousness I am suddenly confronted by some voice
behind my eyes
Teasing me with memories I’m not sure are memories anymore, so much
as scenes from another’s life
Something long gone, like a smoking **** flicked away, or that first breath
on a September morning
Staring into a blue sky, Cardinals singing in the branches
628 · May 2011
Monotone Existence
Patrick Kennon May 2011
I live in my red brick house on the sea
Forgetting my days as days run past
Forgetting the past like words on the wind
Forever floating away on the tides of though
My eyes have ceased seeing, my hands lack feeling
Everything is monotone darkness, nothing but absence
I grasp the sand blindly, crying out in frustration
Is this how you saw yourself so long ago?
Such ambitions you had, such dreams and aspirations
Hold back the tears, hold back the bitter thoughts,
Yesterday I could see, today my eyes betray me.
612 · May 2011
Puzzlegrass
Patrick Kennon May 2011
Rusting in the shade of sycamore trees, fields of
puzzlegrass
Naked in pools of water, naked on the rocks in
the sun
Sweat melting down into puddles of ice, blown back
& forth
Erasing lines on the page, crumpling up fingerpaint
pictures
Your beautiful handwriting on my back, ink under our
fingernails
Quiet little lines in my notepad, saved for you
alone
Reflections of sleepless nights with your charms
on the nightstand
Left carelessly in the morning, lovingly left
behind
I read those pages, & with a sigh, rip them to
pieces
602 · Mar 2013
Lustless
Patrick Kennon Mar 2013
Some days the sky hurts more than the rain that falls
from it
Broken pots on hand wheels, smoked cigarette butts in the
gutter
Half sipped bottles of Beam and Cognac on the
floor
I found a lovely ray of sunshine today
Smoking in the half-light of dead buildings
We used to drink here, remember?
On cold December nights when the lights were
waning moon, dim
I grab at mornings slept in
I grasp days unattended
Wasted days like empty bottles
Pour out the rainwater on dried up
plants
Nothing much left to do but
light another
For a while at least..
602 · Sep 2012
Shot In The Smile
Patrick Kennon Sep 2012
Silence is the beat of a dead man’s heart
Raindrops have never felt colder, at one
in the morning
A cigarette in the thunder and darkness,
destroying me
Satellites rolling from my shoulder blades
down my spine
Transmitting quiet thoughts into my
eyelids
Refracting memories at heartbeats a
second
This ambient sound engulfs
thought
And the pen stroke outruns the
thought
A few brews deep and you’re already thinking of
tomorrow
But those days are beyond your grasp, forget them for
the present
Where the tangible become reality, and reality
becomes livable
Reflecting a thought on the edge of
consciousness
And from our awareness comes
discontent
And the falling, heavy, raindrops, forget
their impact
Shattering like liquid glass on the tongues of
dying men
595 · Jul 2016
Haiku?
Patrick Kennon Jul 2016
Haiku is seven five seven.
Does that mean we leave things out?
Or leave it for interpretation?
592 · Oct 2010
Lay Fallow
Patrick Kennon Oct 2010
I am here and here I will stay
Find me and keep me if I chance to run astray
Tender hands, lead me to cool waters
Wash the sweat and dirt away
Sitting in tall grass, the wind stirs it rhythmically
Whispering her secrets to curling brown blades
Strong backs till the soil, lines in the field
Calloused hands, tossing stones aside, endlessly
Hands rubbed raw, spilling seed down rows
Old eyes watch clouds rush by, denying their heavy burden
Promising themselves it will be just another day
Where do we go from here, the question resonates
I've asked myself for many years, no answer yet
Another road to walk down, winding its way out of sight
Nothing to do but walk
583 · Jan 2012
11:58 & A Stack Of Pennies
Patrick Kennon Jan 2012
Living life with everything you own stuffed into bags, two of them, dragging yourself
along
Living for that hour on the phone, once a day where you can really breathe
again
By blind luck or some odd chance I stand barefoot on this cold, tile, floor,
tonight
Coughing out the last drag of a cigarette, waiting for the last load to finish spin
cycle
Crammed into rooms of what were once strangers, now brothers, more so than
blood
Brothers through mutual suffering, who have stood by you in the rain & sun, we slept
with our boots on
I fill the page with thoughts, but crumple them into ugliness, only to try again, my
definition of insanity
Awash in unnoticed silence, bombarded by ignored white noise, that is truly
inescapable
To experience that silence one must sleep, dreamless, but does one even register
that blissful absence?
Or do we simply drift in & out of these days, unconscious of our own consciousness,
simply breathing?
Someone once said “we are all alone together”, truly we are simply alone,
nothing more
When you step back from it, life becomes almost comical, a grand production,
on a world scale
We are so trapped in our plastic & concrete lives; we have forgotten the feeling of
dirt between our toes, in our hair, under your perfect, pink, fingernails
To stand naked in the creek & watch the sun burn through lazy piles of
clouds
We try to remember those things, but it is tarnished, like cheap silverware, stained
like her cheap china plates
We toil & we sweat & we sign our lives away to walk into a coffin, all that’s left a
pile of bones & pictures on the fridge
To fit a mold, to achieve some sterile, dictionary definition of happiness, a tie & suit
smile & a pack of smokes a day
Drinking to forget the sound of the alarm clock, the feeling of that dull razor dragging
across your face
And this page is worthless, like the words “****” scratched out In the bathroom stall,
faded black lines
And these words are pointless, if I hung it somewhere it would be torn down, if I read it aloud
I’d be laughed at
But I sit here & lie to myself again, push another line out of this careless
ballpoint
The buzzer clicks on & I throw the socks in the dryer, they’ve shed their dirt, but mine
is harder to wash away
564 · Jan 2012
Handful Of Dirt
Patrick Kennon Jan 2012
I stubbornly waste time that could have been better spent
daydreaming
I quietly waste lines, fill them with **** thoughts, should have
laid down the pen
Exhaling the last drag, sudden lightness, inevitably followed by
relentless heaviness
Eyes wide shut
I attempt to slow myself down, but my legs won’t allow it, my
hands plainly refuse it
Though my mind screams for it, fueled by caffeine & nicotine,
crashing & burning occasionally
Always resurrected by your memory, our memory
Faded & worn around the edges like boxes of old photographs,
collecting dust
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