With all stones cast

With all stones cast

There’s a pot still boiling

And a kettle left black

There’s a house still standing

With thinly cracked glass

There’s a kink in the line

With a reel still intact

There’s a spell in the ether

Waiting to be cast

With all stones thrown

There’s a hole full of flesh

There’s a crack in the arrow

There’s an angry protest

Each body a story, color, and time

Each arrow head sharpened, pristine, and divine

Each voice becomes voiceless, estranged, and unkind

With all stones turned

There lies not a soul

The truth is but squalor

Results are annulled

In a garden of daisies

Rest youthful and old

A graveyard of rubble

for silver and gold?

Hyde in Jekyll’s clothing.

Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde

unleashed by use of potion

as swift as light

as evenings cloak

a wrecking ball in motion

of skin and flesh

a heart so dark

devoid of all emotion

it’s midnights grip

from which I hide

and seek to cure

this strange compulsion

like many men

before my time

who tried to rid the notion

of good and evil

within one mind

a harlequin commotion

where in the end

come banging fists

as silent screams approach him

to slay the monster

from within

the cure his own expulsion

and in plain clothes

lay to rest

Hyde in Jekyll’s clothing.

At the end of the day

At the end of the day

we’re all just

butthole tissue

flesh, bone, and spirits

away from the truth

if there is any, well

we’ll surely find out

at the end of the day.

So keep it clean cause

you’ll never really know

until you do, I guess.

Our Mind’s Eye

We mustn’t shy away from fear

but rather dive face first

into it’s claws letting it tear our flesh

from cheek to chin and gnaw

on our skulls if not only to

release ourselves from our mind

whose eye is so often filled with fear.

rawhide

I’ve tried on many different skins

and ended up in this one,

stretched at the waist

twisted and torn

ready and willingly

back for more, more, and more

staples and stitches

dimples for dimes

tenderly oiling this rawhide of mine.

it happens all the time

tell someone

you love

a simple truth

and watch

while they

twist

and disfigure

your trust

until it is

so unrecognizable

you can’t help

but help them

pick apart

every last piece

of flesh and goodwill

until there is

nothing left

but the laughter

of strangers

we shot to kill

It sucks

it’s burnt

it’s hard to swallow.

I chew the fat

then choke down

bile.

For now

mouthfuls

of blood and oil.

As I spit flesh

it stinks

of sorrow.

A few more bites

just choke

and swallow.

For what it’s worth

we shot to kill

and did.

The Sincerity of Our Chains.

Unlocked.

A brief wave of empathy.

A surge of relief.

Icy cold goosebumps.

Cover to cover.

Nearly 600 pages like chains.

And now, Freedom?

I beg to differ, you see…

The shackles leave marks,

indeed.

Deep reddish grooves on ankles, on wrists.

So tender, the flesh.

They are much more cozy than I see elsewhere.

They are much more honest, you see…

I leave them off a short while.

To make a sandwich.  To use the loo.  To make chump change.

But know I must put them back on again.

Because freedom isn’t frolicking aimless as a loon.

Freedom is trusting the sincerity of our chains.

Knowingly, locked.