Prophets before the people.

Thanks / To Give

Be thankful every day, always.

Remembering and forgetting
never seem to be too far 
from one another.

Don't Write Back

if you are busy
but do let me know
how things are.
If I call
please know
it is because
I can't remember
the last time
I heard your voice.
If I ask
if you are free
anytime soon
it is because
I miss you
and wish to see
you. I know you
are busy
and I've already
said that
but I do. Should
I keep missing you?
Did we grow a
part without
saying anything?
Without feeling
it happen?
A weed is growing
where the roots
of a tree have
cracked the concrete
in front of my home.
I do not step on it.
I do not pull it out.

Making Sense

Language is a broken thing

it was never fixed in the first place

Rules for standardization

we should all have a good laugh

have you ever heard the voices

of a crowd at lunch time

in Los Angeles

like Babel set on fire

during an earthquake

We need order

but i'm trying to avoid it now

and now this just comes

across as a mess

not worth the time

Hear the punctuation in your head

break the words in

to whatever sounds pleasing

enough

to your inner voice

I could care

more but less

is where I stand

A period would go nicely

just about here

Present Hauntings

There are times I am ashamed
of my soft, smooth hands.
They bear little resemblance
to those of my father.

Veins protrude and snake
around his joints and knuckles
like rivers lining the earth.

I was not born in the land
of my forbearers- I was born
a continent and ocean away.

My hands have not known
the toil of cutting trees
from hot jungle, or carried

cords of wood at daybreak
back into town as doors
and eyes opened for the day.

His life is his life. My life
is my own. Ancient soil
longs to cake my nails.

Skin aches to cool itself
in tranquil waters of cenotes
found far from town.

My hands have labored
in a way they never would
had they been given to

the land from which my blood
flows, from where ancient
memories haunt me in sleep-
places I have never known.

I needed to empty myself

before I could begin filling

all of my spaces

once more.

The Heart of the Matter

Cut my skin and flesh,

crack my ribs,

spread them apart

and let my heart

beat feel

the touch of air.

I, the River

my blood

the source of all life


my blood

the heart of creation


do not fear

uncertain thoughts


do not fear

that which is not yet seen


hear the voice

speaking within


hear the voice

echo into action

to wake

I fell   a     s  l  e  e  p

at          the               edge

of   a   forgotten           

 

                    town

 remains

haunted

              by palm trees

planted in front-

   where homes

                          once stood

where water

                     laps at sand

lips kissing

eagerly

your veiled visage

fragments of my memory

water turns to ice

I am not interested in the ephemeral,

only what endures.

Planned Obsolescence

I am a small thing
in a big world
in an even bigger universe.

My flesh is not as durable
as stone, not even my teeth
or bones. My mind

is an infinite thing housed
in a finite container with
an expiration date T.B.D.

I am composed primarily
of water, though, I do not
evaporate on a hot day.

My hands are strong
but they are made of many
fragile bones and tendons-

the same thing can be said
of my feet. My skin covers
me whole, though, it is easy

to pierce or cut. My eyes
reveal a palette of sights
that delight and disgust me,

show me proof of my
insignificance. My ears
inundate me with a constantly

shifting score composed
for every known and unknown
instrument and creature.

My tongue serves as an advance
scout for my stomach
before in put is broken into

components of use and waste.
My hardware has peaked
and will only age as newer

models are released every day.
In time, if I am lucky, I will
become obsolete and tended

to by younger models of our
kind. This does not sadden me.
Nature did not intend this.

We are not built to last.
How horrible a thing
it would be if we were.

Newtech

I left my car with my mechanic
because the brakes are shot
and the check engine light
has been on for at least
the last ten-thousand or so
miles. My front tires
have balded like so many
middle-aged men in denial.

He was opening shop
when I got there at seven-thirty
in the morning. I started going
to him because of my father.
He said I could always trust
him, so I have. He's let me pick
up the car without any payment,
just the promise to do so
when I have the money.
That kindness has saved me
many times, has left me
wondering what I did to earn it.

I will still be broke when
the car is ready, and more so
when I begin to pay him back.
Soon, the phone will ring
and he will tell me how much
and what other problems
there may be. I'll just say
"No problem, Mike. Whatever
you need to do,"

Voyager

Me-

an unconscious 

astronaut

of inner space.

Missing Reels

These words are a substitute for memory

An unreliable narrator

Missing reels of film

Fill in the blanks

Time   a steady hand

guiding    actions

Breath between kisses

Sweet sweat

Waiting for moonlight

once again

At Any Cost

Sell me back what is mine at twice the price

Paying anything to have it back

To go to the place where I once belonged

This stream is no lake

Blood rushing through my arteries

Faces age everywhere but in memory.

Bodies of Water (Draft 2)

She had to laugh the day the power

went out at the house-

the next morning she found

a possum had drowned

in their swimming pool.

Before she found it

she had spent the night

placing candles 

in every room of the house.

She lit them one by one

with the same electric lighter

he would use to light the grill

during the summer. He hadn't

been coming home

at his usual hour, said he had

to work late.

She believed it

until the day the phone rang

at the house,

a woman's voice said

"I need to come clean..."

There was no point in making

a scene over it,

at least that's what she told herself.

When all the candles were lit

she walked into the front yard,

admiring the glow

of genuine warmth

radiating from the windows,

as if the house had been turned

into a massive jack-o-lantern.

When she went inside

she wondered about what night

must have been like

in past centuries,

how foreboding distant sounds

and rustlings must have been

in a world more callous than our own.

She went upstairs, changed,

and waited for him to come.

Her eyes began to tire,

her mind began to close up shop.

She was at the beach with her father

and saw the vast and terrible expanse

as they stood there on the sand.

She held his hand as tightly

as her small fingers would allow.

"This is the edge of the ocean.

The water goes on and on

for many, many miles.

There are people on the other side

who are different than us,

who speak a different language

but we all share the same water,"

he said. She understood as best

she could at that time.

How insignificant she felt

when confronted

with the scale of ourselves

against our home. On the edge

of the horizon

she could have sworn she

saw a seagull fall from the sky.

The candles had all gone out

when she woke. She turned

the TV on to see if the power

was back, it flicked to life

and she quickly turned it back off.

A fine mist covered the neighborhood

as she stepped into the yard

to grab the morning paper.

His car was nowhere to be seen.

She went into the kitchen

and put on a pot of coffee

so she could drink

while reading the news.

She grabbed a clean mug

from the rack by the sink

and looked out the window,

something was floating in the pool

near the edge. She stood there

staring at the dead creature

and its furless tail. She went inside

and had her coffee,

read her newspaper.

When she was done she went upstairs

and packed a couple of bags

of clothes and other small possessions.

She placed them in her car

and went to the backyard.

It was still floating there like a flesh

and furred cork. She crouched

and grabbed it by the tail and pulled it

from the water. She held it aloft

until most of the water had finished dripping

from its body. She walked upstairs

and placed it in the middle of the bed.

She pulled out a pen and paper

from the nightstand and jotted

something down. She placed

the note next to the new guest.

She went downstairs and through

the front door without bothering to lock it.

She put the car in gear and backed out,

looking both ways to make sure

there was no oncoming traffic.

Don't let words sell experience short
of the intensity of visceral memories.

Don't reinforce your weaknesses. 

Natural Vulgarity

In bed -

your blue dress

on the


ground.


We should

get to sleep

but

      won't.


Morning

will come

soon.

Making Mistakes With Every Step

She's bored with the way things have been 

going in her life lately. Work is a repetition 

that has dulled her mind. When she is home

she tries to be the mother she thinks her

daughter needs. She's not sure who that is 

but she is trying to figure it out. Her little 

girl is going to be a beautiful woman one 

day, she is sure of it. 

She doesn't care to stay in touch with her 

ex-husband, though they do see each other

for as much as they have to when they 

pick up or drop off their girl. She drinks 

too much but she doesn't know it yet. It

is going to be fine until the day when it 

isn't, until she wakes up with vomit in the

sheets and caked in her hair and her daughter

is about to return from a sleepover. 

She masturbates to the idea of a man who

is loving, who wants to love her, to be with

her. She doesn't think it is much to ask of

this world but she doesn't know any better.

She is fine going out to bars by herself,

getting drunk, talking to men in smoke

filled rooms, listening to their boring stories

of what bullshit happened at work and the

reason they're drinking at that moment.

They never run out of excuses for drinking,

for drinking more, for driving home, for 

trying to shut off the nagging voice that 

has no off switch. 

She is bored. She lets herself be bored by life.

It could all be better some day. She tells 

herself that every day. When will that day be?

She doesn't know yet but she hopes to know

soon, the days are passing much too quickly

now and time is in a hurry.

Free Write 11/2/13

Don't call this what it is because it isn't anything
it is nothing in fact it is merely my hands running
my mind throwing up and me just sitting here
letting it happen because sometimes you have to
just shove your fingers down your throat until you
gag until you force yourself to let go to release
the poison you pour into yourself I need to purge
this palace more often but the maintenance crew
has been on vacation for a few weeks now and
things have gotten a little out of hand but these
hands can do more than hold they can touch all
the places on your neck they can hold grab and
go for the places from which every one stems
going back to the scene of the crime to the origin
the place position on your back chalk outlines
erased with water another life forgotten the sun
is still beating us with its heat does not care does
its job as it is meant to do as it always will until
the day comes when it cannot when even it will
surrender to the darkness because everything is
consumed in time every thing slides into entropy
let's not get ahead of ourselves yet we have days
and nights to live we have skin to touch and tears
to shed both justly and by mistake we need to go
to the beach more often but I don't like to show
too much of my skin I burn easily I have always
shied away from being a physically active extrovert
I love the feel of the wind on my face the taste
of sea salt on my tongue the waves rumbling in
steady motion rising falling being water they are
bound to the motion of the moon that beautiful
mistress her face beaming down her form changes
but always returns her lover is always absent and
she absent for him as well do they miss each other
do they wonder why it must be so difficult their
ward sees them both and doesn't think of this at all
that is fine it's better to just let things to just turn
off the noise to turn off the screens to turn off
the lights to cover your ears and ignore the voices
of those around you because what do they know
of your life and the secret heart beating in the
corner booth just waiting but fine with being hidden
because not everything lives in the day time
some things grow better by moonlight by a cold
and rising tide even now my skin waits for
the cool touch of evening waiting for sunset
and hoping against nothing just for a moment
to arrive that is already here

Imaginary Real Estate

What It Is

You need a self-help reminder
about what you need to do
and this is what this is.

Take some responsibility
for your actions, there is no on
 else in the mirror to blame.

Do the work. It's hard,
it's grueling but there is no
short-cut.

Don't wallow in despair
or setbacks. Focus.
Focus harder.

Change your thoughts
and you will change
your actions.

This isn't a poem.

what doesn't matter

it doesn't matter

what they say

doesn't matter

to me

at all

and it never did

and it never will

and its late

and its late

and lets wait

for dawn

to come again

so near

so near again

to us

to this

to night

end of

night