Home » Posts tagged 'writing' (Page 75)
Not one trouper builds a circus alone.
(I could go into detail about the intricacies
of setting up and breaking down a circus
but now is not the time or place for that.)
When a clown throws a pie
he doesn’t expect the trapeze artist to clean it up,
but she helps out anyway, knowing
that he believed in her, marveled at each step
while she danced on air, inhaling her courage from below.
lucky 13
31 but I see
the perfect representation
of what it means to free
that little boy caged
like a curse
relieved
in the back of a hearse
lucky 13, reversed
over time, it’s easy to see
at 31 years old
that boy was me
the clock and sun
read 5:51
like an infant I stare
where breathing is none
combing my beard
for wisdom or some
alternate side
of 5:51, where now
it’s 5:52
An idea
fosters questions.
And questions
raise ideas.
Picked like peaches,
pickled and peppered,
in sealed mason jars,
upon dusty wood shelf
buried in a garage that smells
of gasoline, and summer.
Where as kids playing nerf
we never raised such questions
not having any idea
of the hungry beast out there
waiting, sharpening its claws
using our parents as dental floss,
grooming its teeth, and ready
for the day
it too, could devour our peaches.
The fears of men
are as trivial as
children, picking children in gym,
they never change
they just get bigger.
Time to sink back
to the far side of the moon?
Nah, this soil will do.
So it goes.
Fill me with whiskey,
I’ll spill some truth.
Fill me with time and no one,
and I have filled pages with reason.
Reason enough to explain the lies
I tried to convince myself true.
My most honest fiction, in truth
is all that I can do.
If you
can be
comfortable
with you’re ugly,
you can be
everything
they said
you weren’t.
I look at his wrist
it reads:
be. here. now.
and for a second dwell,
what a way to be.
Laughing loudly over stranger conversation, we shoot whiskey then wash them down with pickle juice.
Later I gaze at my face in the mirror
it reads:
be. here. now.
but I do not dwell.
Finally, I am here.
People always look confused when they ask what I am doing. So I look confused back, smiling, and say, I’m taking the scenic route!
People are more like their God than they think, always looking down at everyone else, wondering what it’s like to live.
I’ll pray for you, they say sometimes. Creation is a messy thing. What’s the difference between prayer and prey?
For now, I guess I’ll be their prey to tell the difference. And when my time comes, confused I will not look, knowing I’ve seen the light.
A light which does not shine but rather illuminates the lonesome weathered Rockies, or Cutlers bountiful Coast, and all those miles of wheat fields traveled upon a harvest moon.
Words Of An Average White Male 