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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.

you’re ugly?

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If you

can be

comfortable

with you’re ugly,

you can be

everything

they said

you weren’t.

old friend

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I look at you

like an old friend

someone I haven’t talked to in a while

and with enough time together

you find it odd

how good it feels

to speak again, and again

in the morning and at night

I’m the lull of mid afternoon

taking pieces of my certainty that aren’t yours to have

leading me to remember, why

we stopped speaking

in the first place.

Though you know I’ll listen when you call.

I couldn’t be that cruel.

heroine and Burroughs

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Watch your soul.

I’d say tongue but I don’t harbor
the arrogance I once spewed.

Give me a break, like I dealt it
in cards, knowing you’d take the Ace.

I am only human, I have no other excuse.

I was scared of losing, most of all I was terrified that I could choose.

Does it feel good to see through me
like spotted glass, knowing your
windows are clean?

And why do I bother to even ask? It’s not you who hold the answer, I can see, it’s I who has stood
idle, waiting to turn the key.

So if you’re looking through the peephole, please don’t make a sound.

I can see your shadow quiver, mine quivers there too.

But I can’t turn that key with a lock full of gum.

Another way out then, ah, hum — there’s a pauper selling candy, eating pizza on 68th next to Sole — so I’m pretty sure we’ll meet again, like heroine and Burroughs.

your dying

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Did you burn yourself out

like a flame wick under wax?

Or were you just here for the holiday?

Is that why you smelled vanilla?

I don’t have a match that’s long enough

to strike you from this far,

with another year upon us.

I just kind of smelled your dying.

Her beauty

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Her beauty was ultimately marred
by my incessant need for her beauty.

I wished to tell her she need not try so hard,
though knew this to be, ultimately futile.

I even coaxed her with a juicy red apple once,
just to slow her down.

But she explained fairly how she didn’t like apples,
or huntsman, but preferred mirrors

because they spoke to her in words
that were not forced but honest.

She looked at me and asked, is it so hard for a frog to see her beauty could never have the power to transform anything more than its own fading?

And that no kiss could stop time,
that fairy tales are real, but only the Grimm ones.

Let me show you, she said, and taking my lips in hers, sweet like berries

I watched her turn to dust through the stained glass light of morning.

ether/or

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some
are on a quest
to disappear.

no matter
how high you climb
or help them,

they will one day rise
past the clouds
and dissipate

into the ether —
as a mother weeps
cradling her newborn.

Clarity

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Perhaps

The only true clarity

Is that

Among madness

a caged dove

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Not all the people
you need, can stay
in your life for keeps
they too have places to be
thay can’t always, always be
it gets easier to juggle
some days, others
it’s impossible, until
you’re able to see
that need was never meant to be
your burden, so it’s yours to release
if and when you can
like a caged dove
whose only wish it is to fly
into that holy land.

resting bitch face

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the older I get —
the more smiles I see
the more frowns I disregard —
the more I grow
to appreciate
resting bitch face
and the people
I’ve known who’ve sported
it not being their choice
but simply their face —
and all the times I never should have said a thing.