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These days I harbor my sun Fingers tipped with ash, Charred with capability And will. The smell of smoke Is all I’ve ever known, But friendly fire Always takes more lives Than advertised.

I couldnt begin to tell you How it feels to be seen As two birds and one stone To young David pining Over where to aim first At trophy-fleshed Goliath While all I’ve been able to do Is count the wrinkles in each knuckle Wrapt around his shining gem Studying their depth and experience Fixated on their godly placement.

I always forget how high cloud nine felt Even at 5 feet above ground On a stoop with you And your sandy red hair In my lap.

I’ve lost so much time Over these past 4 years Dreaming of being afraid of heights And drowning quick in your Sahara.

Evolution of Play To limbo as a youth Always prompted a giggle and Joking covered mouths With surprise and nerve For those that had fallen, Picking their embarrassment up from Safely carpeted floors. If someone had told me That hovering Below the bar Subpar Always just far Enough to never even Scratch its ancient, Outdated paint With outstretched fingers Purple with strain; If someone had told me That a game Would become lifestyle Forced by its Polished concrete and Precious metal tongues Sharpened in expectation And support Of loved ones If someone had told me That you had to earn your right to play That limbo had an address And that it was all my own, I'd laugh.

At 10pm I rolled my window down To feel the fresh cool of April air Free to smell the new grass And the cigarette from the lips of a brief neighbor’s Passenger. Anonymous. 48 degrees on a jean jacket Feels just the right amount of uncomfortable Like when my eyes met The low, full moon. She asked expectingly Where I was flying And if she could follow suit alongside. I told her softly Through chapped, dry lips And gritted teeth. I told her Over the screaming of my radio Through the taste of a familiar mouth And a well of denied tears That I’d be bad company.

Instant gratification Can leave a tongue dry And memories seared Into teeth too eager To savor a palate. I've been grinding my teeth Now for weeks But just realized The strategy in hiding stains Beneath a tongue left prone To lip service.

With Neck breaking baggage Raised above head, Reaching for stars Still unnamed by man, And in shield of a Familial sun, Atlas, When’s the last time You polished Your pedestal?

Buffalo, Dreary, drowning Water-logged lungs Are you floating? Do you tread the eggshells of neighbors Or the glass-made faces of exit signs And plunged into another Night cap?

"I don't pine for anyone or anything. After they're gone, for me they're gone." Then who do you pine for? Who has shaken your branches so hard That your needles scatter the beds beneath them Forcing the brave that tread through in passing To keep picking them out of their feet.

The closest to the ocean, I’ve been Since sixteen I submerge my head. The clutter, the waves Never ending, Deafening, Drifting through rips In owned calamity To the point Of the overwhelming stillness Of the deep. Swallowed by its current nostalgia, My ears, the last to fill, I sink.

"The Fight Continues After Prison"

Brambles Picked from hair Long, tangled, Mussed with dust From the underside Of a holding cell Abandoned Cleaned out of all things organic Cement bed Cement door Cement floor A rut worn by bare feet Calloused by the Coarseness of their Journey 10 feet right 10 feet left Fingers worn to bone With digging Through a bed Made grave To lie to the gaurds from The ones hired by identical hands, “I want to be here.”

With only one job failed, The mate breaks through To dirt Furious with fiendish progress, “But, I want to be here.” Dug through to roots, Follows their maps to green Salvation, Alive by feasting on spoils Of those living, Repeat offenders always find The fight continues After prison.

#poem #poetry #writing #creative writing #creative work #spoken word #cycles

With feet buried in The sands of a stagnant shore, An explosion of heart, An ignition bright enough to cause Spectacle from space Is channeled into the mouths Of familiar, vacant galaxies And strange new-born stars.

Where has my year gone? To a vaccuum of ego, To the space between Spider-tipped fingers Sapping, tapping All fairness from within. It’s gone to the Release Of soft insides.

It’s gone to the future, To the guts, liquified, Just beneath sternum Boiled to a pressure Ready to burst into Receptive arachnid mouth The very one that told me This future Is what I deserved.

Orion waves He’s seen us through a lot this year A historical hunter of hearts for trophy And acceptance among gods, He understands The sting of small jabs Acute embarrassment And poor timing. He waves, never resting All year showing his face In disregard Of his misguidance Knowing well He is not the north star Nor the sun In our sky.

I touch myself With hands that are not mine And wonder Why you wont come claim What youve left behind.

March is for Indulgence In renovation, Stripping stains From moulding On walls and supports Of ceilings sagging And tired, Wrecking siding And years of facade Fashioned for the Curbs of appeal, Gutting down to lathe And Stonehill bones To true history, Stories and lore, To the heart of Purpose and Erection.

Buried in the dirt Of basement floors Surrounded by Foundation cracked With stress of protection, Lies the mummy Of an animal native To these hills; Cause of death: Stab wounds, five count, None fatal Each deeper than its previous And of a similar spear. No matter how thick The walls, the floors, No matter how dense The plaster and cement Reinforced, Its loss of blood Has enriched this land And haunted its inhabitants For some 15 years.

#poem #poetry

Sometimes I imagine your heart.

I imagine it to be the man Tirelessly searching for Valuable recyclables on Rainy trash-day mornings.

I imagine your heart To be the streaks on the road Painted by stoplights During a storm early-on, Reaching, But unnoticed in fair weather or midday.

I imagine your heart To be a single coyote Stood alone on the salt flats of the midwest Screaming at the moon Planted at the feet, The only thing to ever grow there, Voice never reaching beyond A self-made mountain moat.

I imagine Because words of mouth Urban legend and folklore Were never meant to be held.

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