My Ears Always Ring

I sit in this sun baked corner
no one to offer me shade
while so many climb into my closet
where they wrench from their guts
so many secrets and lies
pound on my insides when outraged
never once imagining the way
this makes me feel so used.

They never care I am so sensitive
unto being their place to vent intimacy
make me endure hearing
every sordid detail of a life
that I can’t ever shared.

So I have to see the sky and dream
Let those tales I must tolerate
That they sing so passionately
Into my essence with their details
paint me with such vivid longings,
still they are only mind mirages for me,
none carry the anguish I suffer
from my dread over a lack of feet.

All I can do is be their comfort,
hold them in silence as they vent
let each emotion sting my inner core
and quietly hold onto my fantasy
over how someday I too
might know of love
untarnished by the perils unto my sanity
by the forced concrete servitude.

 

The Stripes Of The Sun

Lines of radiance
burn deep into the mind,
cut their vibrant etchings
into the crannies where we scream,
we shelter our thoughts from their creations
or worship their scorching
by the images they induce
only never can we say
there is no artist in the dawn,
no tattoo that is placed
upon the morning.

Whatever the eyes choose to see
among the brushes of rays
will be the tints we mix
within our own brains,
where some feel a sting
others a caress,
but it always leaves a mark
for us to love or protest.

 

Glimpses

Gallery glimpses
framing frozen seconds
in ballerina charade.

Leotard life
forms a hangman noose,
dangling from crystal chandelier
shining upon her opulent
display case cell.

Shudders from toxic masquerade
fractured the glassy veil.

Finally heading
out into the light
upon the stage
made of concrete and asphalt,
dancing for the first time
in moves not rehearsed,
steps as if in the sky
when done to a song
that you wrote yourself.

A Simple Stroll

I shall treat your precious pooch as if he were my own,
so proud I would be to take him for a simple stroll.

And show him the sights of Hollywood
a walked down its enchanted avenues,
stopping a Hollywood and Vine
where dreams were made,
before step or two along the Walk of Fame
so we can touch each celebrity star
while I told him all the tales about their famous name.

Then inhale the visual panoply of eye feasts
over every denizen of its cinematic realm.
Taking him to see the Wax Museum,
maybe even a fabulous meal at a taco stand
sitting next to a woman dressed
as the Statue of Liberty that is named, Godiva Jones,
who keeps her Martian buddies
in her grocery cart, underneath her ball of lint
and collection of empty beer cans.

Next we could mosey to admire all the ladies
dressing in their provocative attire,
being sure I pointed out their rainbow colored mustaches.

Also the wonderful guys
peddling maps to the star's homes
wearing raincoats in July,
but nothing else
except for black socks and red sneakers.

And if we had the time,
to show him all the friendly folks,
couples, men holding hands with their buds,
ladies walking arm and arm
all enchanting in their black leathers.

Would certainly be day to remembered,
perhaps even get out picture taken as a souvenir
from a guy wearing a tin foil pyramid on his head,
he says the pictures will be ready on Tuesday,
providing the world doesn't it.

Ah, it will be precious memory to cherished always
even introducing him to all those with their own pets,
which only they can see.

Silver Sojourns

Tattling tales the tongue translates
from each layer of seconds lived.
Does the voice that sleeps in the mind
really have a compass for the night?

Beguiled of lust and vented by quips,
each glance into the looking glass critic
is cause for invention and excuse.

Never comes the day of reconciliation
when eyes and image are in harmony
just passages from our past and future.

We hold with a ticket to lofty isles
where one is divine, unblemished and holy
it evaporates in our gazes
as face staring back into our secrets
stirs so many oxymorons one tried to live.

Somewhere in the questions one can't answer,
the reflection journey traveled reaches a pit stop
whether it become oasis or cemetery
depends on how close to truth
one cares to dwell.

Faith's Cliff

What conviction
vows with
fervent lips
and what heart
believes,
only becomes truth
when life pushes
one off faith's cliff,
either trusting God's wings
or decides gravity
is death sentence.

Liberty

Trapped in the realm of mummified souls,
the stallion inside so longs to run free,
but the day is stale and suffocating
so tarnished by the tainted thoughts
that stain the heart and ruined the vision.

Softly speaks the feathered siren,
a creature awakened by winds of encouragement
who slumbers in the mind so very encumbered
unable to imagine breathing or dreaming
with hope and power to truly believe
there is life beyond this crippling mental morgue,
somewhere totally filled with liberty.

Slowly the dawn rises within the spirit
when the still small voice inside
urges, and inspires to hold
onto the plumes of independence
and feel the fresh clean air of true reliance
upon those quiet ascensions
above the tombs where so many are prisoner.

Oh gently glide that finally brings release
unto the life so it can float with bliss,
touch the skies never before reached,
While eventually realizing
the wake of transcendence
that siren was God’s presence
as wisdom’s expression in awakening.

Blankets

Old tattered threads of traditions
clung to as part of one’s heritage and past,
wrapped to tightly over the heart and soul
until you feel the ancestral resonance
ring through its fabric and into the spirit,
it summons the visions of a proud legacy
though it has faded over the decades.

Still that weave is apart of your essence,
an integral and essential element of your identity,
which cries out with your name
because it makes you hold onto your memory
even the frayed fragments of tales
told as legends and lore by relatives.

To feel it buffer from the wind,
the inevitable swirls of endless change
that seem to swallow that bond
with the inheritance of cherished celebrations
making life so tied to the circle of life.

Huddle in the cold of night
while using that old mantle for comfort and peace
so you know regardless of the perils
given flight over any day or hour
as long as the garment is there to warm
because it has love stitched into its design
then the silence won’t slay the dreams
and morning shall still come with hopes.

Gaps

Alone so far from the hearth of serenity
where in better dreams it was home,
such suspended in a gap
between joy’s haven and sorrow’s snare.

Heaven is felt in the mind
as the vision of sky born flights
far from the rain of tears.

Below is the gray foggy haze
of what is unknown
though the ghosts of the past,
the terrors and tyrants howl
to make the skin cringe
from the fear they might wait again
if one dares to descend
into that maze called reality.

While their sounds dig into the nerves
every sense recalls that pains,
yet feeling so empty inside
over just sitting where there is no happiness
just a cold silence archway
ever inviting one to bridge
each concern and anxiety
and discover the gems of life.

Migrations

The soul sails the eternal call
from celestial miasma shadows
ferried by the sandman’s
slipstream of cosmic echoes.

Their sounds guide towards the waiting star lights,
those shining spheres from veracity’s timeless suns
who glimmer by their everlasting illumination,
its iridescence causes as catharsis
in clarity felt as a flame that ignites wisdom’s flare,
a flame for the mental night as a nova for the mind.

Silently the shimmer burns its message
as the heart bathes in the flood of tranquility,
and by the dawn is swept along a calming current
from the oneness infused in the glide
between self and the universe.

What lingered as menace
over the vast unknown
becomes a companion before the day,
peace chimes upon that union
where the images cast
while aloft above the pillow
are etched in their stunning elegance
with vital and vivid reflections.

At last having ascended
to the constellations of being
no longer just a meteorite of musing
that tried to chase a glow amid the galaxies within,
now evolved both body and spirit
into an energy with purpose and point,
one more cerebral projectile who finally reached
that world inside where one is not an alien.

A Different Kind Of Free

Is there yet a place
where words mean what is said,
that liberty doesn’t have strings
to wrap around your expectations
so nothing is given
without a price tag
or the bill on what was marked as free?

I want to know lips
who bless without a fee,
don’t offer gifts tied with bows
you have to pay in order to remove.

When the chains are truly removed,
not hidden from view
and hearts don’t carry cuffs
for restraining what you hope,
then perhaps we can finally stop cringing
anytime somebody offers help
through a simple act of loving charity,
because we are so conditioned
at knowing they always
have so many unspoken conditions.

Then share a time
when we don’t have to be slave
in dread of lies and deception,
just be able to accept
what is provided
while not having to worry
about an added charge coming later.

Fading Sunrises

Withered warriors clinging to their war,
one last clash to gleam its prize
one last dream of past victories
to obey the heart of their embattled life,
but fate is the villain lying in wait,
they prowess of military skill
pitted against its fickle wilds.

Harsh and brutal it collects
a bloody trophy for their effort,
nobody wins in the duel
death the only master left,
but in the end they remain
soldiers fighting the war inside.

Finally moving to a epilogue of fatal honor
against the enemy they can’t avoid,
along the way they leave a trail
of blood drops, bullet laden bodies
and the reality of old west life.

Oh the past is their ghost that haunt
because progress is its own minions
who march in a parade
where the wild bunch are unwanted,
hunted and regarded as criminals
undeserving of mercy.

That’s the unspoken rule of their world,
survival has no middle ground of peace
and knights in the saddle easily fall,
their tarnished armor splattered in claret stains.

Then in a moment of respite
someone looks for a person to blame,
“they” is muttered by a young follower,
an old veteran just butchers that phantom guilty term,
like a reality of acceptance
there is no retirement
for the crusader
just a grave that doesn’t care their life.

Inspiration

One droplet of encounter
ripples the lake within the mind,
waves of inspiration
disturbed the lethargic calm.

And it washes over the thoughts
drenching them with new images
suddenly riding a crest of creativity
until it causes a cascade
of deep refreshing wash,
unto an immersion
in the genesis of concepts
where something is born
so different and amazing
as it becomes like a drink
totally inebriating in its influence
since its origin is inside.

Keys

Afternoon skeleton keys of inebriation
slipping on its honey through a crack
in the mind’s door to yesterdays
as a journey of signs
read on the highway in the head.

But the ride was never alone
another’s hand was also on the wheel,
got to find the arch under which to pass
on this cruise out of sobs.

Radio tuned to every ballad
that is a saddle torch song,
it never kills the feeling
of being on rewind,
yet it allows the heart to hum
and vibrate another entrance
to the living room of serenity
where the television plays
epic happy endings
out of youth’s toy chest.

Wish this road was straight
had no detours into walls,
wish there was a destination
called peace
that didn’t end up
at some fast food café,
which only sells greasy lies
leaving a bitter aftertaste inside.

Expired

No longer content to wait
for you to taint the feast
you always served with deception's flair
containing another ounce of toxic trust
giving me a sugar delicacy of fabrication
which left me languishing
from amore's food poisoning.

This time the seductive chocolate icing
your lips wiped over my heart
might have tasted so sweet
until truth soured its flavor,
will no longer ruin my appetite
to seek what will fed my hunger soul
beyond a snack that burns in afterglow.

Now I've seen the cook of passions
underneath that serpent's charm you possess
who kills with smiles
biting with invisible fangs of betrayal
venom in your veins instead of love

At last I've noticed the expiration date
upon your soul and conscience,
regretting I didn't see it was past prime usage
before we even met.

Salvaged

Scanning the refuse soaked in sorrow's sanguine cesspool
vacuous intent to gleam in essence what is mentally drooled as dross,
for seeing in the wasteland lament stretching with wretched writhing
chasms were neglect has tarnished the silvery slivers of essence
grazing in the decay with gourmet prevarications that restores lost glimmer
knowing with right seasoning what seems a festering pustule is really a diamond.

Genesis

Upon the inaugural dais of patriotism’s plank
the symbolic herald of hope,
stood the living light of tomorrow,
our new guardian and sentinel.

His presence brings a ladder
to help lift a nation’s spirit
from the pit of deception
having been drug
across the thorny thickets
in fabrications.

Letting his voice and wisdom
wave a flag within our hearts,
upon a vision’s wind.

That we might again
breathe freedom’s air
feel the crisp breeze of democracy’s sky
spread over the land,
hands in hands,
celebrating a rebirth
of our lost dreams.

Once again to see our sacred soil
as the womb of equality,
where we follow our new leader
along a path
not using a rhetoric map
that was written by minds
more concerned about their own survival
than the common good.

Shaped

Before the tangled tentacles of technology
formed a Gordian knot over the mind,
when fingers still possessed the power of sensitivity
to caress and explore with care
any of the emblems of our souls,
life was a passage of more intense artistry.
It was a song from the heart molded in shapes
and we all breathed with intention
to know, discover, taste, embrace and savor
every vivid and vibrant essence
for all the treasure they truly held.

That was the past time of poetic winds
where beauty was fondled and cherished,
where hands crafted the meaning of life
in the subtle abstract embryos of creativity.

Now is the winter of that sunlight,
the time of cold, shrouded and silent mementoes
of an evolved conscious,
full of surreal and distant souvenirs,
using dialogues by emails and texts
instead of hearts and lips.
Taken on journeys of pragmatic meanderings
on cyber walkways of vague and hazy truths.

Lost is the touch that spoke of bonds,
those objects we held and treated as gems
because they were crafted by the spirit
with love and passion to give them life.

Machines are the gods with programming
for a genesis of feigned progress,
they have become the sovereigns of imagination
cranking out the monotonous myriads of sameness
we accept as our only remaining choice.

Before the tangled tentacles of technology
formed a Gordian knot over the mind,
when fingers still possessed the power of sensitivity
to caress and explore with care
any of the emblems of our souls,
life was a passage of more intense artistry.
It was a song from the heart molded in shapes
and we all breathed with intention
to know, discover, taste, embrace and savor
every vivid and vibrant essence
for all the treasure they truly held.

That was the past time of poetic winds
where beauty was fondled and cherished,
where hands crafted the meaning of life
in the subtle abstract embryos of creativity.

Now is the winter of that sunlight,
the time of cold, shrouded and silent mementoes
of an evolved conscious,
full of surreal and distant souvenirs,
using dialogues by emails and texts
instead of hearts and lips.
Taken on journeys of pragmatic meanderings
on cyber walkways of vague and hazy truths.

Lost is the touch that spoke of bonds,
those objects we held and treated as gems
because they were crafted by the spirit
with love and passion to give them life.

Machines are the gods with programming
for a genesis of feigned progress,
they have become the sovereigns of imagination
cranking out the monotonous myriads of sameness
we accept as our only remaining choice.

Oh Blessed Miracle

I’m counting my blessings now every day
thanks to this cleaner I bought off of Ebay,
it’s fantastic and perfect in every single way
for how it wipes off errors even in what I say.

Best of all the fumes that rise from that can
makes my head see things like a UFO fan,
ah who can ask for more bliss out of life
than a fluid that removes any sense of strife?

And if anyone decides to question what I say is reality
one whiff of this stuff makes them agree with me,
so I’m just thrilled and filled with complete ecstasy
over how a chemical eliminates every problem I see.

Yeah, I might pass out from sniffing it too much,
but it sure takes away every stress and such,
even removes the blunders from what I might touch,
which makes me love it as my error erasing crutch.

Going to take some out to stick in my boss’s desk
to be sure he stops thinking my mistakes are grotesque,
will be a delight when his brain to goes into some haze
that allows my goof up to be worthy of a big fat raise.



 

Sheltered

There’s no key to the lock on the brain
because it is a sign of independence,
nor is the mind really imprisoned
inside a windowless box
for it is shelter against evil.

All the tales invented in stoic silence,
muted memories stilled by writing
on the walls of that oppressive chamber
called safety instead of fear’s cellar.

It’s the dementia of pride
carefully contriving creative causes
about the shivers and shakes
so you don’t have to admit
this cell where thoughts go to die
is more a morgue than haven.

How exquisite is the eloquence of fractured reality
where existence is seen as paradise,
forget the summers outside
when the heat made the veins simmer
and every day was full of surprises.

Those were ramblings of a precocious innocence
not fact or truth you have to live,
much more tolerable
being entomb where you were the mortician
so the cold and death of that cursed climate
can be explained as peace
even after the moans rob the night of quiet.

Seedlings

Seedlings sleep beneath potential's surface,
they germinate from water's flowing out of mouths,
drenching in golden nutrients,
nurturing the essence,
or if the fertilizer by toxins
stagnating what might have bloomed.

Eyes fondling the future
gaze at seeds with flower visions,
carefully and thoughtfully cultivating
what the senses say awaits to be awaken.

The face the eventually is revealed
for each gem that is planted
is never forged and fixed
when love's husbandry culls
its depth of what can truly shine.

How often life's petals,
viewed as strangling vines,
transform into a gift of beauty
if lips have more water than fire.

Hearts always sprout
from the soil where they are sewn,
finding their way to sunlight
with petals full of grace and wonder.

Unless they were drowned in waste
poured out from a mental outhouse,
which only brings into being
the foliage of negativity
so often mirroring the fingers of caustic desires
who tended to the growth.

Morning

Cold concrete holds the tomb of passions,
but the footsteps still echo like ghosts
for their vibrations never cease,
because in the middle of the chaos,
the loss of self and submission,
still the identity screams for its own sunrise.

Ornaments of prosperity
are strewn like litter on the streets,
this holiday of avarice
observed as a tradition
with suit and briefcase
and gowns tightly tailored to conform,
it’s all the diary of vaporous dreams
spent in mental soliloquies of questions
about the treasure and loves
that slipped through the fingers
before disappearing into the shadows.

Yet, inside their simmers hope
another morning will awaken the eagle inside,
time to soar and seek a nest
on top of a skyscraper
only seen in magazines.

Today will bring more crisis
another heart wrenching awakening
of being other than immortal.
Walking those pavements will allow
a chance to step on what has rule
over one’s fate,
by silent , reflective steps
one mind rises on a elevator
to stand on the top floor of any steeple.

 

Nakedness

Swimming so long in the sea of solitude
so far apart from that shore
where hearts dwell whose songs
echo their notes in your mind,
but still moving through the waters
in search for what will fill the quiet,
drown the loneliness that flows like a tide
over the spirit and the mind.

In that drifting flow,
finally stripping away every illusion.
At least submersed enough
beneath the swells of struggle
to reach so deep inside
and touch the truth that was cloaked.

Silently releasing all the tangles
of sorrow’s kelp,
finally feeling free of each sadness
like a swimmin floating so featherweight
through the current.

Somewhere from that abyss
there comes the touch of wave song,
its notes like the sea shell caress
from reaching that rendezvous
with the self that was sunken
below the face in the mirror.

Eventually rising again
unto the light and air
no longer trapped to hold one’s breath
for liberty of that release
makes a blessing
out of the dive to find
the missing coral of the heart.

The Narrow Path

The smell of cigarettes and stench of whiskey
clung to her nostrils in a perennial pungent bouquet.
Even when teaching her grade school kids
and more so during her Sunday school class,
like it was God’s punishment on her nose
for nights that were blurred images of bars,
blended with the naked flesh of nameless lovers
met and spent in endless trails to motels.

Inside, sometimes the guilt and panic would devour her,
but she was cursed, her body addicted
to the constant, shameless journeys into inebriated ecstasy.
Perhaps it was why she felt no discomfort
over the times she stripped off her clothes
then lied down to let anyone, male or female,
do as they desired with her.

Part of her did cringe during the flashbacks
as she would relive the hazy recollections
from those nights of pure ravished pleasures
just pushing aside the depths she fell
because it was all a game with no winner.

One swig of Bourbon tonight
stung as it went down her throat,
it didn’t matter, just didn’t matter
was what she kept telling herself.

Somewhere within this same old voice,
a soft sounding siren of sympathy
told her it was all acceptable,
part of her walking that narrow path,
this odd journey of rebellion
against her mother’s ancestry.

So she refused to succumb to the black sorcery legacy
wouldn’t let herself join that dark, evil voyage
of incredibly intense wickedness.
Only the price of rebellion
meant to dwell by night
in the realm of lust and wine,
which all made it somehow tolerable
to her mind that was trapped
within a murky mental maze of misdeeds.

Across The Desert

Across the desert of rituals, dogma and traditions
have I tread as a wounded soiled soul,
clad in my filthy rags, always stumbling,
always straying from the narrow path
even though in my heart
I wanted to be different and less flawed.

Oh, the sin inside never ended
no matter what I learned
or what I did to feel it was gone,
it just left me feeling so dry and brittle,
totally unworthy of my Lord’s attention.

Years spent in that wilderness
have never rid me of every mar to my heart,
they still cling to my life
until at nights I feel that heaviness of my inadequacies.

But the Lord’s spirit comes as a soft, cooling wind,
He breathes over my wounds and doubts,
as I hear His voice speak that wonderful word of grace,
then I am renewed in my strength,
comforted in my failings,
while reminded that of how
perfection is never the path to heaven
since none of us capable of being sinless,
instead He opens His gate of unmerited favor,
the amazing blessing of His unconditional love.

Then I feel the peace comes
within my ache
happy to hold onto his promises by faith
not because I am deserving or righteous,
just because I take Him at His word.

Inspiration's Prey

Pet's owner
considered herself an artists,
carefully creating tasty sculptures
upon demand of growing customer base.

Thought it was pure genius
when she made the tuna
for a fisherman's birthday.

So proud the way she mixed real tuna fish
with the fruit
to make it look and smell like real thing.

Leaving it on box while getting cleaned up,
returning to find Fluffy purring and content,
sitting where her masterpiece use to be,
her burp the feline stamp of approval.

Where Wings Touch

Eternal is the song that sings in the soul
written by the heart of God,
that carries the notes of His everlasting love
where wings touch.

For in His eyes all are cherubs,
meant to share the garments of compassion
not just for those wearing
success's shimmering vanity raiments,
nor the plastic masquerades of manicured elegance,
which shallow orbs define as mankind's alluring opulence.

Beauty that Heaven crafts among the earthen tapestry
takes shapes and forms to be adored
because they are the Lord's creation
regardless of their flawed facets or fractured features.

When we can gaze into the heap of life's refuse
and not find only stains,
but also discover the gold hidden,
then we have learned how to weigh value
by a scale having no false measure of worth,
instead celebrating with mercy and charity
in ways we are viewed and cared about
as in the place of everlasting hugs
given without need for justification,
over why we spend more time thinking of ways to harm
than ways to inspire.

Food Poisoning

Gorging on arrogance's fast food,
pride's grease clogs ego's veins,
headache comes from swelling
in vanity's blood pressure.

Stomach sours from chemicals
of self deception's additives,
mind suffers from diabetic reality.

Palate of boasting taste buds
ruined when sugar of greed
leads to prostrating side effects
in one's esteem posture.

Starving from having
one's gourmet meals
out of reach.

Force to eat humility's mud pies
in order to survive.

The taste is bittersweet
and one that is never forgotten.

In chill of quiet calm

In chill of quiet calm
a weave of wintry white
bewitches in its icy serenity
as if nature slept in sound reprieve
exhaling a majestic alabaster breath
over the scenic canvas of ageless tales
from the hearth of democracy's soul.

But the spirit calling from the clusters
of weather's defiant trees,
speaks to the quintessence of ardent force,
which dwells in subtle pulse
inside the faces of creation.

River's relentless flow
through its dark water resilience,
brings its resonance in defiant reliance,
giving a serenade of stamina's theme
immersing the one standing in gaze
at its inspiring metaphor of endurance.

To stroll the wooden bridge with focused eyes
and sense the residue of drama
from past performances,
is to sense the visionary template of freedom
bespeaking to the fire that burns,
which bears a light as sun unto one's shadows,
marching vicarious in images of the yesteryear
on the heels of the tests and trials
of which it reminds,
hearing the cadence of independence
strike its beat within the mind.

Touchdowns

Goal post dreams beset his soul,
roar of crowds bore in haunting vaporize images,
how the heart could feel every victory
the body missed when scrimmaging against
all the impossibilities.
He was a god upon the high school campus
for the fleeting months of fall,
rest of the year spent reliving each glory,
dying underneath his illusion’s face mask
because it wasn’t more than a game,
no scholarships waited to complete his fantasies
to the university’s that were portals to the pros.

At home the trophy shelf
was a tribute to his father’ obsession
having forged his life to model the athlete
which his dad had never been.

It felt good to gain that first award,
but they became hollow shells of pride
when it didn’t fill the emptiness
spreading as a cancer inside.

What aches his soul
was the denial of self in that jock mask worn
smothered the heart of his passions,
calling forth in the night as a seductress,
the endless symphony of questions
on ways he could satisfy his cravings
for more than sweat and running,
where is that touchdown for his life
that would make it more than a uniform?

On the field he silenced his fears,
all the moaning creatures from his anxiety
over spending his life
always practicing and never feeling any real peace.

Letterman’s jacket clothed his secrets,
knowing it would fade in time
hoping he’ll find some game plan
where the being trapped within
finally gets to be first string.

On The Clock

The world is a stopwatch
constantly, ticking, ticking,
every life having a deadline,
each creation carefully crafted
with a timepiece of aging.

You can’t stroll any avenue,
linger somewhere just to taste the wind
that the sounds of alarm clocks
won’t be heard in the head.

Born aware it seems
some schedule is foreordained,
nothing exists without an expiration date.

Walking the ramparts of reality
confronted by an added layer
in the second’s charted lines
stripped of any immortal illusions
by funerals and the constant changes.

Even existence is precarious,
learning how falling asteroids might doom the planet
or some prophetic visions
have swore the future will bring some pain.

So we spend the moments
silencing all the sirens,
quietly muffling their dreaded resound
grabbing hold of the fleeting joy
wherever it can be found,
because as long as history
still has hour hands
it is far better to savor its movement
than give up on any plans.

The Sky Kissers

Their nose is so high in the air
minds can possible know
anything below the clouds
because angels are holding them skybound
above the muck and filth,
perfect, pristine, beyond capacity
never making a single mistake.

Naturally, nobody else
can match their flawless flight,
it is their duty, a sacred calling
to described in precise detail
every miniscule mar in your life,
make sure your smallest goof
is seen as a capital crime.

Can’t allow anything to exist
unless it is dissected and slaughtered
god forbid a word might be uttered
possessed of a syllable in hope.

The world would be vaporized
before they uttered one kindness
or didn’t use your heart
as a stone to sharpen their knife.

Should by chance you expired
they would point out
how your corpse was littering
and doing it with bad form
after all death is no excuse
for letting your body
stop trying to be as matchless as theirs.

But then they would no doubt
have no need for a coffin
why bother when you will
just float up to heaven
and sit on your throne.