Chase.

I once told you I hoped that you wouldn’t chase,

the path made by my footprints as I ran away,

not to follow my feet as they endlessly tread,

places called “home” in my paranoid head,

your eyes used to follow my eyes,

As they darted about the night skies,

you’d trace a pinky down my cheeks,

Down the trails from tears deemed obsolete,

do not follow my confused insanity,

into the cursed forest of ancient trees,

I don’t want you to see as I mindlessly carve,

indecipherable messages into their bark,

I‘d rather that you might remember times,

when I still held a more lucid state of mind,

as I was back when I first asked of you

to someday cut me completely loose,

back when my feet could not yet carry through,

with any of the deeds that I still have to do,

do not falter in those old promises now,

you must override your heart, somehow,

you must stifle the desire you’ve come to feel,

to follow me into the darkness of Hell,

I’d rather you carry on in the warmth of the sun,

to pick up, dust off, and carry on,

Past all the times that your foolish pride,

had you believing that we were solidified,

but it’s time to defy what we feel inside,

just let go and let yourself bleed for a while,

the loss will fade eventually,

same as my footprints into the trees,

you must finally stop any pursuit of me,

and let me self-fulfill this unwell prophecy.

 

 

 

Loosed Arrows.

A remastering,
of such forgotten arts,
as those of loosed arrows,
leaving holes in my heart.

The rekindling,
of old smoldered flames,
as those of loosed arrows,
shooting darts at my name.

The reawakening,
of long-sleeping eyes,
as those of loosed arrows,
punching holes through the lies.

A remembering,
of shadows left behind,
like those of loosed arrows,
become lodged in my mind.

A reintroduction,
to the days behind me,
as those of loosed arrows,
are shot through both knees.

Silliness.

Silly, silly me,
to once again,
redundantly…
peel back,
broken skin,
to let it bleed…
the point,
as it had been,
is lost on me…

Silly, silly you,
to have,
misconstrued…
such a concisely,
spoken clearly,
cemented truth…
damn you,
to next see,
the full moon…

Yet – sillier still,
was the bend,
of so much will…
and even right now,
it’s twisted somehow,
my stomach’s ill…
over such an end,
in betrayal again,
a void I cannot fill…

Eating Thorns.

All this time

in between

then and now

been simmering

been building up

rather patiently

brooding silently

been grinding teeth

been stomping feet

been digging holes

with an upward swing

eating poisonous thorns from trees

like it’s sugarcane

with Mexico’s best peyote

cigars and syringes

sparkling fringes

champagne, cocaine

and pornography

somewhere out there

fathomed too deep

where I hardly sleep

but my eyes stay closed

my mouth remains sewn

over words of my own

this place is forsaken

this space can’t be taken

the loose change shaken

from the secret pockets

sewn inside my cheeks.

 

Chopping Block.

Once I,bowed,
my head down,
and I,
at long last
really looked…
through and passed,
all the rest,
at the ground,
my body’s distress,
blocked out,
the noisy sounds,
the hive buzzing,
crowds humming
shouts coming,
from all around,
head swimming,
thoughts shut-down…
the dark of night,
the flash of light,
forcing open eyes,
I was surprised,
at myself,
with what my eyes found,
a shock,
still felt,
within me now,
heads scatter the ground,
trumpets blaring,
The chopping block,
once a daring,
reddish-brown
its surface wiped down,
all scrubbed off,
blood-free and clean,
of the guillotine,
…somehow.

Thrown.

The thoughts,
are the same,
as what they’ve,
always been…
the uneasiness,
steady lingers,
in each pore of,
my crawling skin…
the hatred,
still grows,
to spill blood,
from my nose…
forced perceptions,
well imposed,
self-deception,
in overload…
the plan,
now unfolds,
adding more heat,
to the coals…
the signs,
have been here,
in a language,
crystal clear…
the nights,
have been darker,
and absent of fear…
the truth,
shall appear,
the lies too,
have no fear…
the curtain,
has now closed,
the padlock’s,
been thrown…
the desire,
has left me,
in darkness,
and, alone.

Ashes to Dust.

Somewhere is a hallway lined,
by door upon closed-door,
each one leading to,
its own room full of lies,
boxes stacked up four high,
and color coded to the eye,
the naked eye sees right,
and someday, somebody,
will discover this place,
set off an explosive device,
to open up each doorway,
to be told every herein lie,
to be snowed,
to have the wool,
pull back over those eyes,
to be plowed,
mown over,
set on fire,
and then left alone to die,
in this hallway that’s burning,
in this place full of lies,
there’s no escape,
from what we choose,
to believe to be right,
only choice left is to embrace,
the flames,
the blazing light,
as the discoverer renders,
the discovery statement,
ashes are tendered,
before a gathered crowd,
only to be poured,
onto the dirt floor,
to the ground.

Stand Tall.

Remember when you were small,

a future that made no sense at all,

hovered over your head all the time,

covered the dread too vague to define;

then the puzzles to Life seemed to multiply,

came the fizzle of fight in the blink of an eye,

lovers come and go without any preference,

scraps for the Scrapbook without significance,

days stack higher in a pile with Father Time,

nights drag heavily through the oceans cried,

Remember the day that you began to see,

how the world functions in all actuality,

remember cutting your lip on the brim,

and it dripped as you sipped at a future so grim;

these moments afforded no gracious subtly,

that slap in the face somehow still stings me,

the universe has its own separate itinerary,

and cares little for you and even less for me.

Full of Guts and Seeking Glory.

We had spent all of ‘eternity’,

as we both knew the word to be,

swaying in time to a ticking,

the archaic music of a dying breed,

a mixture of feelings,

stacked up to the ceiling,

the shift in direction so subtly,

akin to the route of my thinking,

I define what is the lonely,

unyielding and unbending,

I despise my own tale’s ending,

tired of telling the story,

full of guts and seeking glory,

I will seek for all my days,

I will break for my own sake,

you can’t console me,

you won’t be able to hold me,

I seem to slip on through,

no stitching remains rip-free,

tears up and along the seam,

those same old railroad tracks to my dreams,

I shake awake too late to warn you,

we’ve already gone,

you and me.

Apocryphal.

What’s a young life that’s been checked and abused,

just naturally expected to someday evolve into?

Is it possible that most people don’t have a clue?

But then, how could they feel the fit of my shoes?

It seems probable that those who life’s been good to,

with the spring in their’ steps as they walk down the avenue,

will each live and die miles from any Life that is true,

without walking the line down hard times, blind to virtue.

Because, what’s an old girl supposed to do,

at the appearance of that elusive “moment of truth”?

When the truth doesn’t seem to at all recognize you,

and instead, fills your head and keeps lying to you.

 

Or Shall I Say?

Go on,

hah, giddy up

run along

don’t fuck it up

your will feels strong

to try your luck

make it rain

down the drain

more bang for the buck

Or shall I say

more buck

for the bang

more overtime play

of never fading

head games

Or shall I

try to summarize

the way I’ve changed

over time

there’s nothing gained

that’s right

drink it up

no fucking way

will I pass my cup

or shall I

try to remind

try to connect

the broken lines

I can’t relay

with any accuracy

with any subtlety

the way it feels

when you look at me

try some sympathy

try a different view

something new

might surprise

the stiffened likes of you

look into these eyes

beyond the lies

they feed to you

or shall I

compartmentalize

my sympathetic view?

Eating Thorns.

All this time

in between

then and now

been simmering

been building up

rather patiently

brooding silently

been grinding teeth

been stomping feet

been digging holes

with an upward swing

eating poisonous thorns from trees

like it’s sugarcane

with Mexico’s best peyote

cigars and syringes

sparkling fringes

champagne, cocaine

and pornography

somewhere out there

fathomed too deep

where I hardly sleep

but my eyes stay closed

my mouth remains sewn

over words of my own

this place is forsaken

this space can’t be taken

the loose change shaken

from the secret pockets

sewn inside my cheeks.

 

Chaotic.

We never love them,
those flickers of,
Life’s candlelight,
when we get them,
nano-seconds in Love,
in the present tense,
in all its fickleness,
we fail to look deeply,
beyond the warmth,
of such selfishness,
we fail to recognize,
so we sit stupidly,
as nano-seconds,
swim right on by,
like robotic drones,
it is foolishness,
how soon we forget,
our very own,
flesh and bone,
where we came from,
childhood homes,
for we are not,
not a single one,
born to those,
with voices, drowned,
neither did we,
bore the woes,
Of Royalty,
donning the crown,
of the overthrown,
in the halls of the dead,
in the heads of the gone,
we will stand as one,
to the depths,
from the heights,
stars and sun,
days and nights,
like statues set in stone.

Kneel.

Days…
like today:
I am too low to partake;
my mind’s in rapid decay,
the throb of a headache –

mistakes…
that I’ve made:
stupid things that I’ve said;
serenade a percussion parade,
through the confusion in my head –

evenings…
like this:
make my heart reminisce;
I didn’t know he was built like this,
the King in my castle has been dismissed –

regrets…
that I feel:
fester beneath this raw deal;
the question of what’s even real,
about the man in the boots at which I kneel.

Filigree.

Lettered in decorative filigree,
in a language as old as history,
carved along into ancient stone,
words that cut me to the very bone;
a message of archaic and ancient redundancy,
written in a lost language, once spoken globally,
this was no permanent resting place for the dead,
just a slice out of time to get right in the head;

there were spoken aloud then, unexpectedly,
words that were heard by the dark heart in me,
in a voice that rang with blood as mine own,
urging my feet to keep trudging towards home;

“You cannot decide now to give up and lie down…”
at the very same moment my face hit the ground,
“it’s not up to you to resign or to retreat…
do what you must to act and move on, immediately…”
The words seemed to be spoken exclusively,
to those of old who died down on their’ knees,
no mistaking such an undertaking is not meant for me,
so I rise in rebellion and keep shuffling my feet.

Scotch Whiskey Wet-suit.

I soaked my wet-suit,
in Scotch whiskey,
a dead man’s trick,
that my Mama taught me,
a plastic beach pail,
and two fifths of Bell’s,
to numb down the fear,
and drown out my tears,
that’ll send me right back,
out there to the swells;
A Scotch whiskey wet-suit,
weighs down heavy, it’s true,
heavy enough to snap the strings,
to my perceptions of reality,
and the trick behind the trickery,
is to find the shore eventually,
a return that’s most likely,
not destined to be seen through,
if the body in the wet-suit,
doesn’t make a toast to me.

Shortcomings.

Why must there suddenly be,

so much daunting irony,

out of thin air, magically,

from nowhere, seemingly;

faceted edges glittering,

smell of engine oil burning,

a billion ions shimmering,

anywhere my eyes perceive;

materializes instantaneously,

recollected quite unexpectedly,

jaw-dropping moments of clarity,

from the mirror and back at me;

long-standing silences in between,

questions I’ve posed so desperately,

and answers returned, in-comprehensively,

from Gods that supposedly see everything;

I, too, believe in such a possibility,

of the Gods taking pleasure in our misery,

when every day brings yesterday’s injury,

nobody can say that the Gods smile upon me.

Pocket-less.

When every single face becomes
just a reason to divert my eyes
and every carbon-based “human”
alerts my nerves to stand on high
when every time that I try to break ahead
just enough to finish this looking alive
a backpedal finds me a crack in my head
and then I stupidly struggle to survive
where progression is stunted by stagnancy
and my clothes are all pocket-less
the place between strength and subjectivity
where I stand without answers to this
And every day brings another slap to the face
every night finds me hollow and numb
each decision that I’m left unable to dominate
every turn of the screws in my thumbs
where I’m hungry often but hardly ever eat
and my shades stay drawn all year round
there’s no word for such charged irritability
every day becomes just a target to take down
I am overly tired and I am deeply annoyed
there is a train wreck surging through my veins
I’m living in the body of a fabricated android
being taunted by the distant cries of a runaway.

Future Reference.

I most certainly
won’t turn out to be
a textbook reference
to “romance poetry”;

the words I write
only seem to spite
the rest of me
with a venomous bite;

perhaps if I wait
they will appreciate
my left-field prose
made from concentrate;

or perhaps, maybe
in the next century
my poems won’t be read
by much of anybody;

damn the legless hypocrisy,
can’t let the critics bother me
no poet ever lives to long enough
to see people fall in love with his poetry.

Astray.

Days my feet led me astray
leave me deeply longing
puncturing the foundation
In any sense of belonging
Drifting further astray
From where I’m meant to be
In the wind as it blows
There’s no rescuing me
in too many ways
trails my baggage behind
the wake of these teardrops
the break of this mind
caught in a Jetstream
of most perilous speed
you might catch a glimpse
but there’s no rescuing me
for too many days
have I pondered in stealth
and observed in earnest
the corruption of Self
and, along my merry way
I failed to stay in the sun
I forgot to listen, or think
I forgot where I come from
Nights my feet led me away
from all things promising
try as you might to understand
there’s still no rescuing me

Tear-Stained Lines.

I dreamed of filling notebooks,

the same old tear-stained lines,

spiral bound and self-evident,

are these memories, unkind;

I dreamed of emptied oceans,

stripped to sand by Father Time,

doomed and underestimated,

are the pages left, unsigned;

I dreamed of darkened places,

with my fate not far behind,

the rotten, hollow carcass,

with a face the same as mine;

I dreamed of scrapping metal,

from machinery left behind,

and bleeding as I cut away,

each bolt to my bloodline;

I dreamed I found a serpent,

with spiders for its eyes,

and a carapace of razors,

closing in from every side;

I dreamed of Live Oak forests,

throttled by smoke and brine,

I opened my eyes this morning,

to the same old tear-stained lines.

Chase.

I once told you I wished you wouldn’t chase,

the path made by my footsteps as I ran away,

not to follow my feet as they endlessly tread,

places called “home” in my paranoid head,

you used to follow my eyes,

darting about the night skies,

you’d trace a pinky down my cheeks,

trails from tears deemed obsolete,

do not follow my confused insanity,

into the cursed forest of ancient trees,

I’d rather you don’t see me as I mindlessly carve,

indecipherable messages into the archaic bark,

I‘d rather that you might instead, remember times,

when I still maintained a much more lucid state of mind,

as I was back when I first asked of you

to someday cut me completely loose,

back when my feet could not yet carry through,

with the deeds that I still have to do,

do not falter in those old promises now,

you must override your heart, somehow,

you must stifle the desire you to feel,

to follow me into the darkness of Hell,

I’d rather you carry on in the warmth of the sun,

I would that you pick up, dust off and carry along,

all these times, your foolish pride,

had you believing that we were solidified,

but it’s time to defy what we feel inside,

just let go and let yourself bleed for a while,

the loss will fade eventually,

same as my footsteps into the trees,

at which you will stop any pursuit of me,

and let me self-fulfill my own prophecy.

 

 

 

Bourbon-Smooth.

Halt; I stop, I stand, and I think,

of the ability you harbor, so secretly,

to demolish walls built up around me,

the Bourbon-smooth tickle of Mystery;

 

As you know, I feel your flow,

winding tightly to and fro,

with each and every breath, it grows,

until it permeates through to my soul;

 

With you, comes a sizzling sound,

it’s like you carry seismic energy around,

when you speak, I hear no other sound,

the missing element to the true compound;

 

And, as the time slips by us each day,

against the joke of existence we spend separately,

just know that nobody else makes me behave,

like the dumbass that you seem to cultivate.

Shortcomings.

Why must there suddenly be,

so much daunting irony,

out of thin air, magically,

from nowhere, seemingly;

faceted edges glittering,

smell of engine oil burning,

a billion ions shimmering,

anywhere my eyes perceive;

materializes instantaneously,

recollected quite unexpectedly,

jaw-dropping moments of clarity,

from the mirror and back at me;

long-standing silences in between,

questions I’ve posed so desperately,

and answers returned, in-comprehensively,

from Gods that supposedly see everything;

I, too, believe in such a possibility,

of the Gods taking pleasure in our misery,

when every day brings yesterday’s injury,

nobody can say that the Gods smile upon me.

Numbered.

Like the razor-edged bite of barbed wire,

a brander freshly pulled from a bright bonfire,

a kind of rhythm that does little to inspire,

this heart’s beat to slow it’s lethal rapid-fire;

Like a carrot stick that snaps in half,

an old and dog-eared photograph,

a forgotten joke and forgotten laugh,

a wall built up with a million death masks;

Like an eternity and how it cruelly passes,

killing me slowly as it rolls like molasses,

the bee that stings in the sweetest of grasses,

the ancient tire swing in the pine tree branches;

Like the moment Father Time finally catches up,

when you finally see the empty bottom of your cup,

when everything you’ll ever be is just beyond your touch,

no need to take a number when it’s yours that has come up.

 

Diorama.

I count the many drawn-out days,

pass through this feebly clinging brain,

walk in the shine of a sun that is fake,

I exist in a time made of Paper Mache;

A tableau that depicts alternate ways,

the many varying twists and turns of my days,

the illusion of a normalcy frozen in place,

the gentlest wind blows the facade away;

the wheeling of paper-thin figures that blow,

from the set of this warm and fuzzy side-show,

the diorama scene that rips, and tears and folds,

beneath my fingertips as I fight to keep my hold;

the pieces burn and sizzle in my palm as hot as coal.

 

Too Many.

In a motion more like teetering,
than it could be described as anything;
I sway back and forth,
to these blues my Life sings,
I’ve been burnt by the torch,
I’ve been charged with carrying…
Up and around and right through me,
comes the whipping sound of irony;
I pray to the Gods,
give promise to each and every,
I’ve seen too much blood,
I’ve seen one year too many…

Chow Mein.

It isn’t so bad,
when I think on it;
the way that my brain,
becomes like chowmein,
after taking so much of it,
the dumbass bullshit…
it doesn’t surprise me,
maybe not even slightly;
how much it might take,
before I finally break,
cut my nose from my face,
just to spite me…

Filigree.

Lettered in decorative filigree,
in a language as old as history,
carved along into ancient stone,
words that hit me to the bone:

“You cannot decide here and now to lie down…”
right in the place my tired face hits the ground,
“it’s not up to you to resign or retreat…
do what you must to get back on your feet…”

These words seemed to be written exclusively,
for the eyes of those who died down on their’ knees,
no mistaking such an undertaking is not the end for me,
unless I stay here, where I’ve stumbled to fade out in misery…

Off-Stage.

How is that we…
are on again suddenly?
Because you’ve heard,
the word…
on the fucking street,
all about my baby,
of all things –
the only thing –
worth anything to me…
I find it infuriating,
that you found the time,
to slither your way,
into my fucked up day,
and presume to take,
any despair of mine…
before my now-grown,
daughter was gone,
you never cared to know,
what was going on;
and now,
that shit’s hit the fan,
you sad excuse,
for a man,
or as a “friend”,
don’t come here,
don’t pretend,
to see the situation,
and POOF!…
you suddenly care,
about what’s false,
or what might be true ,
and the traumas,
she’s running from –
and right back into,
get the fuck away,
from my overwhelming,
world of pain,
you’d never make it,
through a single day…
the shallows seep,
to water the deep,
and keep any,
reality at bay;
don’t talk to me today,
when you have,
nothing real to say,
no questions or inquiries,
of my daughter’s state…
no acting,
no faking,
get your ass off the stage.

Silliness.

Silly, silly me,
to once again,
redundantly…
peel back,
broken skin,
to let it bleed…
the point,
as it had been,
is lost on me…

Silly, silly you,
to have,
misconstrued…
such a concisely,
spoken clearly,
cemented truth…
damn you,
to next see,
the full moon…

Yet – sillier still,
was the bend,
of so much will…
and even right now,
it’s twisted somehow,
my stomach’s ill…
over such an end,
in betrayal again,
a void I cannot fill…

Thrown.

The thoughts,
are the same,
as what they’ve,
always been…
the uneasiness,
steady lingers,
in each pore of,
my crawling skin…
the hatred,
still grows,
to spill blood,
from my nose…
forced perceptions,
well imposed,
self-deception,
in overload…
the plan,
now unfolds,
adding more heat,
to the coals…
the signs,
have been here,
in a language,
crystal clear…
the nights,
have been darker,
and absent of fear…
the truth,
shall appear,
the lies too,
have no fear…
the curtain,
has now closed,
the padlock’s,
been thrown…
the desire,
has left me,
in darkness,
and, alone.

So Sexy.

Un-tuck my blouse hastily,
while you kiss and shove me,
backwards – towards the bedroom,
exactly the place I want to be…

Your kisses so sweet and deep,
like licorice flavored whiskey,
I just can’t break eye contact with you,
your very DNA is intoxicating…

Loop.

The looped-sound,
had been there,
in the background,
annoying,
skin-crawling,
spinning around…
thought-twirling,
discerning,
any new learning,
or knowledge found,
high frequency,
ear-drum atrocity,
this noise,
is killing me…
the noise,
resounds,
above the soil,
and underground,
molten-melted foil,
of a dead King’s,
former crown,
reminiscent…
of the tears,
dropped down,
residually,
hanging,
on its sound,
dripping water,
drops…
to the ground,
above,
my head,
sadness surrounds,
whirring,
winding,
tightly around,
this thumping,
this beating,
this…
primordial sound,
commands me,
moves me,
to speak,
concisely,
certainly expound.

Vulpine.

Drummed beating,
tongued speaking,
I’m venturing beneath…
to somewhere –
down where…
a growling beast,
awaits,
my company…
a deep purring,
tail-wags,
whirring,
wrapping tightly,
‘round my knees…
winding strings,
to my being,
mightily,
perpetually,
to water the seeds…
“What powers have you…
…to pass unto me ?”
please, Spirit Beast,
please pass along,
anything you see,
pour it on strong,
don’t hold a thing,
back from me…
shine some light,
ahead brightly,
point –
anoint,
the path I need,
to follow,
along,
life,
and death songs…
played over,
and over,
too Gods damned long…
I’m open,
and waiting,
to achieve these things,
come, little vulpine –
totem spirit-beast.

Vessel.

No anchor,
been thrown,
no line,
being towed,
a vessel’s ghost,
defective lifeboat;
it’s a truth,
indeed,
to behold,
adrift,
afloat,
a dead pirate’s,
stronghold,
beloved,
lifelong sailboat;
tried and tied,
only by,
the darkness,
of the bays,
skippered,
by the lies,
of yesterday;
anyone who,
thinks he wants to,
try to sail in,
and be made,
to look a fool,
on location,
will only ever see,
this vessel sink,
into the sea,
or over the,
horizon’s brink;
can’t quite ping,
my position,
most secret,
of traditions;
alone,
all gone,
no rise,
of the sun,
moonlight,
shines strong,
my metaphoric,
aquatic tombstone.

Kneel.

Days…
like today:
I am too low to partake;
my mind’s in rapid decay,
the throb of a headache –

mistakes…
that I’ve made:
stupid things that I’ve said;
serenade a percussion parade,
through the confusion in my head –

evenings…
like this:
make my heart reminisce;
I didn’t know he was built like this,
the King in my castle has been dismissed –

regrets…
that I feel:
fester beneath this raw deal;
the question of what’s even real,
about the man in the boots at which I kneel.

The Word.

The curse,
of the poet,
was born,
in the tongue;
a thought,
turned to word,
and the damage –
is done;
the art,
of the sonnet,
has risen,
to fall down;
a truth,
trumpeted,
all the world,
around;
the words,
of a poet,
like grains,
of fine sands;
that scatter,
and remain,
wherever,
it lands;
a story,
still unfolding,
being written,
across the age;
each muse,
every trauma,
becomes another page.

Butt-End.

I feel sick to my stomach since I woke up today,
drizzling outside despite triple digits on Monday;

a new thorn stuck into my freshly healed side,
a truth to replace the waste left behind the falsified;

indeed, that as ugly as it is, this new reality standing-off with me,
it is always worse to be on Bang End of the gun barrel, undoubtedly;

You know pretty well: that I’m “OK to Corral”,
I count to ten pretty Gods damned well;

I’ve got little to fear as the long moments linger,
Chambered a round and I’m dead-steady fingered;

I have been recently reminded again,
so let me clarify it for you, Little Man;

the “shooter” always gets the last laughed upper hand,
and here and now – that would be ME holding the butt-end.

Heatstroke and Snow.

Imprisoned amidst the vastness of all things labyrinthine,
the backdrop to my own failed romantic meanderings,
the endless saga of a tale that I can’t stand reading,
a maze of pits and sinkholes designs a twisted serpentine…
my soul: sold to the devils hanging outside from the trees,
a bucket of pain in exchange for a lifetime on my knees,
behold that’s last year’s intel and it’s no surprise to me,
men come and go same as heatstroke and snow, apparently…
and in truth it’s no use to say it’s not fine in my mind,
it’s better that way: short and sweet, hello – goodbye,
you’ve seen my bare ass and smiling face for the last time,
boots on and laced, and I’ve already outpaced your front line.

A Scotch Whiskey Wetsuit.

I soaked my wetsuit,
in Scotch whiskey,
a dead man’s trick,
my Mama taught me,
a plastic beach pail,
two fifths of Bell’s,
to fight off any fears,
and drowned any tears,
to send me right back,
out there to the swells;
A Scotch whiskey wetsuit,
weighs down heavy it’s true,
weight enough to snap the strings,
of my given perceptions of reality,
and the trick behind the trickery,
is to swim back to shore eventually,
a return most likely,
not destined to be,
if the swimmer in the wetsuit,
also indulges in Scotch whiskey.

Warning Shots.

Click. Bang. Click.
First warning shot:
Please…
don’t say,
anything to me…
your words,
cut and slash,
my skin invisibly…
Click. Bang. Click.
Number two for you:
See…
it’s about,
the powdery,
kegs full and ready,
to explode,
beneath my feet…
Click. Bang. Click.
Number three:
Believe…
when I swear,
on everything,
dear to me,
to make my way,
someday,
my own blaze,
of my own glory…
Click. Bang. Click.
Last kind gesture:
Leave…
if you’re smart,
if you can see,
the truth,
monumentality,
the far reach,
of little ol’ me.