in pockets that haven't been washed

in days.

Carries darts of a mood killer.

Pocket knife that cuts out emotion

so no one has to see inconvenient tears.

2 am and he growls.

“Just give in.”

I can't go.

Dark is wearing my name

like dirt on a grave.

Deep under

Skinned knees where I fell

to the prayer

waiting at the edge of the creek.

Another snarl,

“How can you be afraid of death

when you haven't lived in years?”

Become the burial.

Shame of aching teeth,

raw snot coated throat,

callused feet that only travel in circles.

Stop chasing better.

Write the letter.

Let go.

Have good hair. Think Elvis in his prime.

Dancing not necessary.

Singing non negotiable.

Creative as a rubber band on the loose.

Funny, but not too funny. (I'm rhe funny one in this band).

on based on the mood of the room.

Sepia tone nightlight,

growing into dreams.

Hide seek was just a game

not a way to survive the night.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

“An artist.”

What do you want to be…

“Quiet enough.”

What do you want…

“To go outside until the shouting stops. “

What…

“Is the point of wondering?”

I walk to haunt the fog.

Should have planted

bare feet in the creek.

Should have settled

for sediment between my toes.

Should have stayed away

so we could still be close.

Crawl away

from solitude

to find who I am.

Crazy wave of healing

that feels more like drowning.

I keep saying, it's ok not to be ok.

I know you don't believe me yet.

That's ok too.

I'm here to sit with the silence

you need to process what comes next.

A steady hand to help you

stay where the calm begins.

I am here to be the voice of others.

Those still treading trepidation.

Those who think their worries and ideas don't matter.

Band aids are useful, but not if you never change them out.

Keep clean the dreams

you've cradled all this time.

Wipe away the grime of doubt.

Sterilize the infection of others opinions.

Let outrage and hope

guide you to the light of creativity.

No more holding back.

You've got 3 minutes max.

Story, poem, piece of advice that absolutely everyone will find clever and endearing, but absolutely no one will take to heart.

Beat It, like the song

A dead horse,

A bean bag with a leak and all the teeny tiny floamy bits squish out and stick to your hands and your hair and now it looks like some mutant insect laid its teeny eggs on your skin.

But it's ok.

To not be ok.

Don't let the alien embryos get ya down.

(Unless you like that sort of thing… I'm not judging. But auto correct just changed judging to hungry so you will definitely get your head bit off by some sort of royal praying mantis entity!)

Monday is half over and I was suppose to be somewhere at five past yesterday, but then you guys distracted me. So if I get fired its on you and I will be coming to crash on your couch.

and one day you'll play the piano

like an angel.”

I wasn't listening.

But I hear her now.

Skin and bones and shadow

encased in satin.

Soft silence

cast by September shine

on the linoleum of the church floor.

The first time I ran away

from my grandma and not into her arms.

I still don't play.

Have never even touched the keys

of the promise I made.

That's all.

That's it.

No followers?

No Subscribers?

No community? (Online of course, real people don't count and their aren't any real ones anyway… delusional much?)

No Sleep.

No Breath.

No Morning.

Don't stay tuned for my next article, story, poem, trauma dump, dad joke, lyrics to the song we keep humming, but have no idea what the tune is at all.

I plan to recreate myself.

Plant anew.

without bathing bare feet

in the mud bed.

Silk silt and pebble toe jam.

Tadpoles and lassos of moss

skimming by beneath

footprints

with no where to sink.

Calm water reaching

out to hold the river,

mouth agape with wonder.

Canoe doesn't have a map,

or the sense to fear a nest

of waves on the prowl.

Ankle deep, then knee,

rapids take a bite, lose sight of land.

Floating refuses to obey weak limbs.

Pushed and pulled until

the ocean enters in the spotlight sun.

All the Dunes a stage

and he says, “Lets write our names

in mud

beg the seashells to stay put.”

I do the same,

but waves take him anyway.

I wish he'd swim back.

Return on the ferry

where he

promised

this was only the beginning.

Let the pen keep gliding.

ideas freely guiding

the chaos less frightening.

It squeaks real loud as you back pedal

out the door.

Friend.

friend.

fiend.

No. I apologize.

That went a bit too far,

the fiends did nothing to deserve

being compared to you.

Eww.

I find your “innocent” communication absurd.

You don't care.

Never did.

Want to reconnect?

I reject it to protect my peace.

No wings sprouted.

“Ok is a fairy tale. The one where the bears rip off Goldilocks head.”

I flipped the page, though the up draft made it hard to hold my place.

“At least she helped feed a family and bled out on the mossy forest floor.”

The spiral just rolled it's empty eye sockets. Turned up the breeze to tornado.

Then she flew,

but at least …

ceiling fan or curtains fanning

the dark ceiling.

Not sure.

Don't stir the residue

of too much espresso and sugar.

No no no no.

Sugar free but extra spice.

Don't even like pumpkin flavor

unless it's seeds

on the point of a carving knife.

Will he be happy and glowing

or wear an evil grin?

You'd be mad too

if someone carved your flesh

to desecrate the front step

and call it a holiday.

No one carves a cranberry on Christmas.

What gives?

It's not fair.

It's not right

that memories arrive

while staring at the calendar.

August is for school bells

And suddenly

I'm sitting at grandmas kitchen table.

The ringing of the church next door.

Time for lunch.

Time for the wooden swing in the back.

Time for the last time through the door.

One empty chair

makes the whole floor plan off balance.

I want to drive down their street.

Look at the yellow siding in the glow

of streetlights.

Only it's 1:30 now.

Pitch dark

and better I dont go.

If I don't go there is still possibility

they are there again.

Waiting in the kitchen for sunrise

and the homecoming

where houses don't die

and people don't get old and I…

can stop fucking crying

about how slow the time goes by.

the days aren't on fire,

flames aren't hot enough.

Embers won't lick your throat hard enough.

Salvia, sweat, snot all slick

as just let loose.

Tie it all up in a red handkerchief.

Magical fabric that cured

the heat of child hood.

Or at least suffocated the sting

of a scream in the night.

in poetic lines.

Thwaack!

Woke up the soil centipedes,

dagger eyes dissecting

Rrrrip of peeling skin.

Just when the last bit of rot

was swallowed

rattlers snuck in.

Oh, don't be afeared,

not the sweet lullaby

of a snake.

Worse.

Much worse.

Moroccas chhh chhhing

at the head of a parade.

Men with smiling chainsaws.

Women with flame throwers.

RRRRRRRMMMM rmmmm blade.

WHOOOoosh of flame.

The tree didn't mind.

The wind tangled

in the crackling branches

carried the ash of it's spirit

far and free.

but only met them months ago?

Laughed so hard you couldn't breathe?

Sank into the ache of fractures

pinned together with a sigh.

Reassurance unfolding

in languid river flow of lyrics.

Did I mention the spirits?

Ghosts of far too many coincidences.

Consequences of staying up until the rise

of dreams turns waiting

into answers.

Vowed to drown the stereotype.

Too tired to connect the dots.

Too oblivious to see

beyond the static of a screen.

March with a muzzle tied by oblivious haze

of indifference.

Gotta give you credit, for putting up

with the empty bottles.

It's my fault really.

I thought I could play the part.

Now the throttle is the joke..

No more time to pretend

I belong.

Bonfire feeds us sparks,

darker it gets the more we glow.

Heavens pushing down,

pulling on wind flower stems,

strands unraveling

tangles of knotted hair.

Goosebumps erupt warm flame tingles

on the nape of a neck use to the strangle.

Hurt is how we exchange stories,

regret the touch needed to soften, sigh,

sink into relief of a starry sky.

Wish on the big dipper,

scoop a memory

of wings unfurled.

battle showed it's hand.

Threat of a child on the precipice of before

the knowing.

Breathing in deeply.

Sinking into a recliner,

rough scratchy tweed

signed a fabric burn

from shin to ankle.

Chair that lived to cradle

flashbacks, fevers,

forgiving ill fitting boots.

Imprint derision over floorboards

loosened with slips of nightmare.

Cracked lips, slope of the hill

where we never talked.

when renewal feels like burial.

Body still and stoic,

gravestone bones erected

to remember

a little one, far too quiet.

Friendship a mud puddle mirage.

Intimacy a murky diversion,

in hands that didn't ask.

No longer a procession to honor

one lost.

No more holding a deep breath

to survive the coffin.