Clothes lines down my throat,
nothing will change,
not the image,
not the message,
I’ll just be left out to hang.
Become bone dry
from the breeze;
freeze
from the night time.

Hate Speech

Buried by the collective
hate speech,
burdening the sidewalks
and silence lines of separation,
rewriting the history before
and the steps we take for its
extinction.
Seeing kind men and women
spout off when in familiar company,
fearing that which they don’t understand;
seeing gargoyles in good people,
witches in the wise.

When we plant seeds that see nothing
but judgement,
Our garden is full of cancerous
conversation sourcing through
the grapevine,
streaming media through the veins,
making us what we shouldn’t be.
But, listen to yourself,
Just for a moment,
and catch your lips
before you can develop the thoughts
in which your speech becomes soiled
and your notions become spoiled.
How you spit out your speech of hate
and I just hate to hear you speak.

Remember this day, neural daffodil,
green pass of the grasses,
make sick out of ill.
Oh, time masses,
passing
and gaining thrill,
from berried trees picked to spill.
Candied pieces break from the frame,
floating from nonexistent space,
passing all the insides of me
without a physical mentality.
Lofty leisure, love the laurel;
pick the pocket, daffodil neural.

The blood on his hands
barely washed away with well water,
hinting at the same sins
but only by scent.
Bed didn’t fill up quite like
it used to. Not quite
as pearly white.
Careless twirling of the spoon
in a cup of tea,
tasting of the same water
welded to his conscience.

Ending the silent treatment,
punch drunk teeth,
knocked out,
finding a cab ride home
without the desired reciprocation.
Fifteen bucks to
mellow in the back seat,
feeling more like the trunk,
with confinement,
eyes floating like a fish tank,
bubble fuzz slowly
disappears as I exit,
dissolving into dark hallway.

Fasting featherweights
feasting on openings,
When the heaviness
of the gloves
prove painful
for their cheekbone.
A slumping twirl
around the ring,
hunched over like grandparents
that never took “sit up straight”
to heart. Who wants to nap
first, or drag out this tarped
tussle until one can’t move a muscle.
Two underfed gentlemen
swirling for strikes
when most want to feed them bites.

Bring the brush to flames,
the boasting to toasting,
botanist is rotten out,
planted her commentary,
all in foul fairing.

She screamed,
Isabelle,
all together in playhouse
sing-a-longs;
turning off the room lights
to let plastic argue,
come to life,
and waste it.
Isabelle,
she witnesses
the turning of the clock,
tiny figurines with full arm rotations
delivering slight smacks on
the buttocks, swift motions
to the face after ten hour shifts.
Isabelle,
so still, using a dream palace
as a brick and mortar nuclear fallout,
when boys and girls don’t play nice.

I was never religious
but prayer came easy for me.
It may have been the quick sense
that everything would be balanced,
manageable, after flagging down the stress,
and letting God brush it away, the under rug hideaway.

The high road has highways, tolling lows, and dark stays;
irreversible restings, raging specimens;
boiling heat waves, and cooling emotional trends;
static moments in frequent, steering troubles to cement;
but I find peace somewhere in the drive.

When the earth quakes,
brother, be good.
When the next becomes the first,
be quick, brother.
And when all reason rids itself,
rest, brother. Rest.

Passing ceramics
in a perfect semi-circle,
making quick work of
a days preparation.
The sensation, fullness,
all pieces of the family aligned.
The holly daze forgets
the changes ready to spring.