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The time between collision and capsizing

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There is something very scary

about imagining a life without flaw,

as if insecurities were a sin

you could merely pray away?

There’s something cynical in that,

something dangerous.

Something I haven’t the heart to feel,

it’s something impervious.

Because with great peril comes

an even greater awakening, an awakening

which floods the veins with frozen certainty

as the waters eating the Titanic.

It’s the time between collision

and capsizing, which we find ourselves

relieved of our blind faith, knowing

with grave admiration, the life

we’re living, is all we have.

July Reflection, 2020

Poetry

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What is poetry, but

a language of the dead.

It’s an informal dance,

a shared cigarette.

Poetry is

but a one night stand.

It’s a wine ring left,

sheets, stained

between strangers.

Ryan and Jessica, 2011

The Presidential Debate

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You’ll see what you want to see

and believe what you already believe

so, eh, yah—

what more is there to say about the

Presidential Debate?

Yellow light reflects the spider web

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Yellow light reflects the spider web

and a lonely fly who’s stuck in it

it’s natural but I’ll still question it

cause I’m human and I’m weak

see that fly trapped it is me

am I destined to repeat?

try my hardest to retreat

from all that hinders me

dinosaur are in the clouds

the raven stretches his wings now

hummingbirds don’t make a sound

while rain it trickles down

the lonely spider isn’t proud

he says either way we’ve got to eat.

If Hemingway was here today

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If Hemingway

was here today

would he Instagram

his catch?

And dare you say

that Hemingway

was rotgut—

his defense?

Out on the bay

he’d fish and say

what pleasures

have a man?

His slow decay

here but a day

come then let’s see your stance!

Put up your dukes

and lace your boots,

a fight? No sir

let’s dance!

the times I’d lost my mind.

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The only time

I was ever certain, were

the times I’d lost my mind.

But even then,

I never had a clue — I did.

Like puppetry two marionette

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I took her to this art event

She took me to her motel bed

Like puppetry two marionette

We tangled up our strings

Her eyes were wide like Eleanor

Rigby she was fiction for

The life I’d led a year before

I hadn’t slept a wink

It’s comical how looks predict

The ludicrous and obvious

By circumstance we came to this

Offering by the sea

Her hair jet black like ravens beak

The padding of her size 6 feet

Lenore her name I said quite meek

This time then nevermore

It’s lyrical how time can tell

Who’s heaven sent and living hell

An angel with a broken bell

Knows liberation’s free

Sometimes I think coincidence

Common sense and saying yes

Are infinite never in jest

Like cherry blossoms we

Sell ourselves a dollar short

Make amends and then spring forth

Pink petals fall on the seashore

There’s no telling what could be

An accident a sign from God

A work of faith handshake or nod

They’re simply an illusion on

The pleasure box we see

The message spoke ten times before

By Poe and his dear loved Lenore

Like love’s the end all message for

Both poetry and speech

So I took her to the airline that

Disagreed with both our backs

I mean this with no disrespect

It’s how some people meet

We never spoke another word

Jumped back into the universe

I came to grips was late for work

And landed on my feet

our dying days

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Was she ever happy

or was she just pretending?

Was I?

I agree to disbelieve any such questions.

Foolish notions.

I’ve given it far too much energy

to accept such nonsense

and far too little to concede.

What a crime to disregard our time

together no matter how wild

or foot-dragging it was.

I may be a fool but I’m not a foolish fool.

A pity? No.

We were glorious in our infancy

and though covered in blood and tears

marvelous in our dying days.

So many histories

So many lives

cherished

and now

this.

an open coffin.

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There will always be poverty

and powerless men, who feel nothing

towards people just trying to exist.

Believe it or not it was a club to join,

Till 1955,

all it took, was a .45 colt, a river, a fan.

But it (is) not that world anymore, is it?

I want to say no, but Jackson’s slaying of elderly men?

Born of the same bullet that lay Evers dead.

It’s enough to make you want to blind your eyes, it’s enough to know better than to blind your soul.

So as there will always be poverty and powerless men,

there must never be closed,

an open coffin.

In light of current & ongoing events.

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Most of us have a hard time
having to express the way we feel inside
I
seem quite normal to the outside world
but really who would know?
We
don’t ask questions in public
for fear of stirring up conflict
You
could have said something helpful
but you stood politically correct.

Some like to engage in alcohol
others fuck strangers in bathroom stalls
She
to the world looked like an angel
something she’d never know.
We
don’t ask questions in public
for fear of stirring up conflict
He
could have given her confidence?
But sadly he knew the truth.

Most of us have a hard time
having to express the way we feel inside
I
am just a quarter in a wishing well
so here’s to wishing you well.
We
don’t want to listen to sadness speak
instead we wait for silence’s grief
You
could have the world at your feet
if you just put that bottle down.

It’s not a problem until it is
we’ve all got history I know this
He
made loads of money and hit his kids
but that’s just history now.
We
don’t ask questions in public
for fear of stirring up conflict
I’ve
been feeling good the past two days
I guess that’s a start anyhow.