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Seated in the summer sun
drenched in heat
reading a novel, alone
how sweet.
With memories of you
drenched in heat,
feet stretched out
along the beach.
Where in the summer sun
you’d sit and read
a novel too, my mother
sweet.
While you’d watch us kids
the swimming sea,
and how you read
effortlessly,
I never wondered then
like I do now,
how a quiet lesson
could teach me how.
I turn each page
my mind at rest,
my mother’s sun
warm on my chest.
The grass was thick and warm
unlike the asphalt
which was fire to her to feet
so she lay in the grass
sharp but pliable blades
caressing her skin exposed
while the sun began
to shower her thoughts poured
like rain simmering steam rose
from the ashes and asphalt.
At the end of the race
make em say:
to hell with these eyes they’ve seen too much
this tongue is all rotten with tasteless buds
what ears are these they’ve heard enough
and liver? What gall you, it’s all washed up!
His sole’s so worn, all callus and rough
even nail beds torn up from climbing so much
lips like a canyon, dried, cracked and his blood
it’s cheaper than whiskey, diluted with love!
To hell with his soul, heaven’s full and what?
His brain, are you mad? It’s pondered enough.
What use is this flesh, it’s ancient as stone
he’s breathed his last breath, he’s skull and crossbones!
Nobody
sleeps. We
just break our feet
and walk again.
And again.
And again.
Then awake as if
from a dream
in a rented room
which smells of
antiseptic soap.
And like a child
waiting to be fed
we struggle
struggle to breathe
struggle to see
struggle to hear
we struggle to be
like we wish we had been
all those years
we couldn’t sleep.
Even dulling my senses
doesn’t do the trick
when the truth
is knocking at the door
in fact it’s already inside
warming it’s feet by the fire
smiling in my direction
while I bring it tea
because it asked
and knows
I’m completely defeated.
The steps you take are big
where mine are small,
the steps I take are soft
while yours make imprints.
For now it seems that I am lazy
as you wipe sweat off your brow,
try to understand my empathy
for oak trees rooted to the ground,
and take heed in the soil, though I may
not make a sound, a drop of rain
breathing life, the only way I know how.
It’s
too
early
to
be
tired
and
I’m
tired
again.
Not
the
I’ve
been
on
my
feet
all
day
tired.
No.
It’s
that
special
kind
of
tired
we
don’t
dare
speak.
It’s
the
reason
we
stand
all
day
on
our
feet.
Yes.
It’s
that
special
kind
of
truth
we
work
so
hard
to
forget.
Until
we
remember,
no
longer
able
to
sleep.
Words Of An Average White Male 