If a box could hold me.

I’d be a little easier. In every fashion of the word.

Smashed and contained. Conformed and sustained. If a shield is needed?

Then you never really knew me. You’ll miss all the full mouth kisses, soft and real,

 just like all of my fucking moods and wishes.

If you watched as closely?

As a moment can allow then the reality of our actions is defining. There is simply no breaking. It can not be done.

But you could have seen that if the facts were predawn. You would never have had any doubt. 

I am here to love. Myself and children above all. Making a tethered fervor of my devotion. 

If happiness were only an emotion?

You could slow yourself down and miss the whole point of the spectrum. Lost in a haze of drunken egos and cynics eyes with slight inflections.

If hard work was a currency?

We’d swim in the wealth like porpoise do in the sea. Smooth and sleek uncomplicated in its transparency. 

If we thought with no judgement?

The rhyme wouldn’t annoy you. It would not dissuade from the truth that you can still hear me. Even above you.

If a box could hold me?

I’d have never known you.

Riddles and queries 

If the mind is a maze

I live in it’s court yard.

Sitting quietly next to the wishing fountain whose water has gone missing.

Pennies reflect copper sparkles. Littered Cigarette butts. 

Clinging dead moss. 

There is a pleasant buzz. Bees searching for the flourishing flower garden. Hidden but fragrant. 

Wild strawberries line the circular walk way. Crawling, quite effectively.

The force of nature even here.


Sadly, starkly forging forward.

The wind seems to flow steadily through the never ending corridors. 

The chill falls heavy on the skin.

And the still nature of the numb echos.

So many experiences.

Too many feelings. 

Crammed like the sand into the shape of a fountain. 

That has long been dry.

Big hands, little hands

The soft sound of loneliness quietly sets a cool hand of calm on my soul. The miss. The sanity. My world fills, full view. The right time. The opportunity is here. 

The breathe.

Longing settles, the smell of a hard true kiss. The truth. The ambiguity of harshness in a cold hold back. Just the motions. The allowed, like a child begrudgingly capable of playing with toys that are already theirs. 

The misinformation.

Time has no limits in acts of retaliation. We are here. Without warrant or clarity. Exactly where we are supposed to be. We where there but no lingering can bring us back. Clawing into a future much like a bitch in heat. Bloody and necessary.

The howl.

The fact still remains. The silence is screaming at each one of us. ‘Fucccccckkkk yyyyooouuuu’ it hisses. As if any one of us can decipher the language of circumstance. She said, ‘that’s unfair.’ And the silence answered. 

The care. 

Is slowly waning in the gibbous of reality.  A chilled hand slapping you in the mouth for selfish excuses. A lack of character really. Change can only be present if a desire resides and I’ve learned to ‘save’ ones self, others are lost to their own devices.

The squandered.

Love and energy chronically course to the steady beat of a drum in the core of understanding. Super powers and complete debilitations wear a suit slathered in a bold and flashy  E.

The truth.

 She can feel you and every damn thing in the rooms she resides. Hear this. Smell that? It’s the sense of self.

Brains and Planes

Spending time singing a song that has long been misunderstood may definitely be writ worthy.

Been curious if a book will result.

ALWAYS Factual and cold. Perfect and quiet. Pitch, tone and lyrics knocking some form of ball into the stratosphere of compulsion.

speakers keep speaking in nasal, static tones reminding us all; we are boarding. We are traveling with no clear destination.

Don’t get left behind. Never mind, that we never really go anywhere. Let alone…

That Moves. Or Motivates.

Missionary is the only lady like position left for the brave cunts of the land. Backs pressed and protected.

Strapping hiking boots over the pink and scabs while enduring the tapping of small cocks and tinier minds.

The cuts that never get a chance to heal; can’t stop that forward progression littl’ lady. Are you sure you can carry that?

Until now.

They’ve finally learned the ‘act’ of internal dialogue. Bite your tongue and tell me how someone can share, truly share themselves while you disappear. Over and over.

Years pass, hair grows, life becomes less complicated and more sad. i could see the correlation.

But maybe you missed it. it flew aimlessly over the large head your beautiful brain resides in.

just like the point. the periods. the sacrafice. the force of change. the lack of options for an entire life.

i guess i could have reacted differently but then agian, go fuck yourself. it is a craft you’ve mastered. should be an easy game to play.

when i was a small child i would sing songs in a unrecognizable language. always in the bath.

my mother told me that i must have been older than my body. before i could talk, i sang.

was i singing to you?
did you understand?

 the landing gear may have reduced the friction that the drag couldn’t be affected by, the lift for the ones who can actaully see it.

And i love that the most.

Pits of poison

In the old days we fished water from a well. Drinking like fools with unquenchable thirsts.  Until the first community died, no one ever even thought about the ground water being contaminated. Until their children perished with sunken eyes and gapping mouths, not a single mindful soul acted with thought or cognitive concept.  Confusion led to folklore and dogma like lambs to the slaughter.

 An open wound of empathy can leave you like a robot swiveling and inhuman. The hilarity that exposes the duality’s movements swing like a pendulum displaying the loss of kindness in our society. Hacked to bits, left in a heap of insecurities. In acts of pretentiousness, superiority, cruelty and division. Cells of osmosis finding the place of function. 

It’s niche. The group of individuals who cling out of survival and unchanging commonalities. The mutation is cancer, the opposition of growth.

In the center, of every human being there is a rage. 

Consuming and faultering the innocent Childrens’ minds we had long ago.  Experience, twisting and morphing the hope, in every baby’s eyes.

Some individuals can easily harness it like the power of the sun. Weave and bind the strings like a deity of energy. Radiating a heat that is surely pivotal or death proof depending on the need exhausted by its circular course of travel. 

Oh, and the rocks. This cycle, all lunar, is abandoned to find a interpersonal fit made of chemical compounds and magnets. Allowing a force field of nature and its draw to the heat, effortless in a sinking of timing, purpose and soft seclusion.

 Hardened spheres hanging in the lue, like a sopping towel, who should have been shown the warmth of the sun to expedite the drying process. Yet, this feeling or contingency lingers like the moisture, growing another form who refuses to stop its longevity. 

When you give birth, the rage deepens.

Others might reflect it, be consumed or thrown into the depths of its very existence.  
My daughter loves to spin in circles in summer dresses. Slowly, teaching herself to form and coil these teathers that bind us. My sons have taught me there are two polarities to pay close attentions to when a man decides his course. 

Oh, the orbit. So individual, relevant and sincerely magical in its unique approach to the act of impulse. 

In the floral out skirts, resides a truth. Flying aimlessly, lifting quietly in a smooth flutter. Brushing against an ear perched and disassociated, staring silently out an unlit window.

No one blamed the earth for the poison thrown down into the guts of the casualties. 

She showed her rage without filter.

Yet the collective missed the affect of they’re own denied responsibility. Dumping destruction into the foundation of life has an equal or greater reaction, every damned action.

The rock that stayed steady in it’s need to grow. Far enough away from the ball of fire to see it’s purpose. Able to sustain it’s responsibilities and it’s natural drive, just



For life.

For love, not in the blazing star, but in it’s self and it’s creations.

The rage is a light, a beacon, an event horizon. The spark in the longest vibrating wavelength. 

The love that resides here is the paste of all fear. Created to heal the reality of sorrow. Showing the contamination released in the dirt as a survival technic and it continues to seep into the well we once guzzled in the torrid heat. 

The temple that once held the idea of relief, in a drink, is torn down feverishly for the dead. Stone by stone. 

The water is now bottled in the same plastic that bridged the aqueducts demise. And everyone but the earth seems quenched.

Mouth open staring at the sky for a clean drop,

Of Rein.

Depth sounding

A rule to their own length, longing for a response of urge. Or a plausible purge? 

I sincerely have no ideas, tackling my own track. 

Chugging away at an ideal of peace in self without another’s want to slather on the aftermath. 

The want is a measure of the ego.

Primarily walking on all fours, legs spread, holding strong to the quake of the inevitable pounding we may have to explore.

 The belief of ‘fulfillment’ being a concept in physicality loosing all grasps on any form of reality.  

Like a method of measurement your actions define you.

My entire existance may have been placed in the mistakes of the past maternals.  Paternal in who?

 The concave of my longing held so close to the soul, set on a much needed back burner to my children’s needs for growth.

Let’s define ourselves by our relationships.  In the intimacy of a true sense of freedom. 

Loving only when present with a vitality that may just be ever fuckin presence.

The only love I’ve ever truly known is for my children.  My family.  My friends.

What and who is the common factor in this single thread?

Quite possibly, me. In all my falliblity and while guarded, body of samurai, baring the beat of anatomically correct apendage.

The nature of intellegence leaves most contemplating sanity as if any one person possesses such clarity.

 I suppose particular elements either attract or repel. 

Internal combustion styled, good intentions being a direct pathway to your own personal hell.

One truth has remained constant, every mourning I wake, thinking of all the loves my one life has made.  

I miss you all, feeling more far than away.  Wishing the best in every possible way.

Butcher paper

The toll booth of experience.

It will cost you a dollar twenty-five of your soul to travel down a road of fists, domain and testosterone.

But the misrepresentation of masculine has left me much like a beaten dog.

This fork leaves every meal either meek or savage.

Wrap our penance in the brown paper of feminine hygiene.

Be sure the twine consists of a bleached cotton cord to be inserted for someone else’s pleasure and idea of cleanliness.

How uncomfortable have you been in your life due to your genitals? 

You may have been raped emotionally by a hard twat. These atrocities happen.

Were you wrongly accused of possessing strenghth due to your cock?

I care in people for their weaknesses.

Or feeling less of a man for having emotions? Showing care? 

How dare you verbalize, so insensitive.

Why the fuck haven’t we figured this out yet? 

Society has continually disappointed me. I once mistook them for humanity. 

Why can’t we just be people?

Not a man who’s gay because he’s soft spoken and kind.

Not a woman who’s entire life has failed due to the fact her mind paces too hard to make a good house wife. 

Maybe she thirsts for more due to knowledge not the taste of pussy. 

Maybe you’ve been threatened of her kind cause she’ll never need you outside of your roughness, your cock and your physical utility.

And just maybe, she could love you for your brutality, true kindness and awareness of her sad, intellectual abused mind. 

She may be the modern woman.

She might just be the mother of men.

Trying so hard to reach then touch her future kin. 

As the yellow bar of life continues to fall directly in the roadway.

You can’t pass without paying women; 

Neither can the men.

Be good

nose bleed

Sleep crusted my eyes as I bent to step into a hot shower this morning. The how to of life struck me in the face like a prism based ray of light. I watched as drips of dark blood fell onto my hand, twisting the faucet to scalding. The source unknown and abstract. The truth of recognition felt like a blow to the temple. Unassuming and unexpected.  Steam wiped ovals revealed a decent nose bleed. Jarring and all too obvious.

This sudden leakage, even as a child, always left me confused and feeling oddly indestructible.  As an ‘adult’, the understanding of capillaries drew my small, smiled face into a steady stream of water, diluting the dark into a transparent pink, pooling at my toes before swirling into the drain like a deposit into a Shriners charity bucket.

In sheer irritation, I watched myself give entirely. Every drop, without a choice. Every time I could. Intentionally. Without expectation.

Looking into a convex mirror can leave serotonin levels lost in a haze of introverted reflection.

Chronic self deluded projections.  I wish I could hate more and love less.  As if the choice has ever been in the core. These hands we have no deal in.

The feel of it all is so exhausting.

Like exercising the grip of a stress ball that’s entirely too large for your tiny hand or maybe your hand is large but your limited perspective leaves you kneading more of a grasp, careful as to not drop or squander the chance of relief.

Yet the idea of the constant,  out pour seems self deprecating to the point of ignorance.

Would you actually see it if it were in your feild of vision? Or would you miss the nuance of the individual due to the longing of connectivity?  Who and what is decent, in a world of half truths?  A nose bleed?  Tears? The warmth of an infant urinating as you hold them to you?

Laugh…it’s the only thing left to do when the questions are so damned outlandish.  There have never been any answers.

Just sudden nose bleeds.

breathless contortions

4 years.

it took me.

into a wave of daily common activities riddled with frantic, manic anxiety. the lights, the sounds, the breathless act of living to truly understand the depth of my own sorrow.

how ignorant am I?

and how ignorant of you to read this.

how is it possible?

we walked on

heightened ideals,

lofty stances while suffering the post of traumatic hilarious stress of our baby booming commerce ridden fore runners.

The questions have sincerely outweighed any hope of a solution for one thousand four hundred and sixty days.  immobile reality.

the darkest nightmare living. in the name of the future.  in the name of loyalty. in the name of tradition. in the name that I could never take. in the name of no one. not a living soul. 

mines slightly handicapped,

 you see.  maybe battered, flash fried and served to perfection? A little less chewy than KFC

who knows.  I sure as hell don’t.

this maybe the entire point of learning.  to conceive that we can never know anything.  we can merely choose.

maybe that’s the only reality. in a choice.

fuckin sophie.  I could cry for years.  I’ve never  cried enough.  head held erect to the idea that the weaknesses have always been the strengths I sought.   in myself and every other person I’ve even tried to know. 

How damned boring. Just like me and you. the hours spent on mindless self hatred.

 Television, ignorant jobs, crappy relationships and friendships due to convenience and location. 

So now. It’s time to choose.

 A life of boring mediocre realities or the climb torwards the personal plights of greatness. 

We may fail but at least we try. 

There is a battle. It’s real and in every one of us. Do we contribute or destroy?

the wind never stops blowing. Sometimes you just can’t feel it.

 The most basic duality in all of human literature, art and life lessons.

Black and white fall out of focus when dusk drifts into view. 

But who knew.

It would only take,

4 years.

What a timely graduation. 

bunny foo foo

Oh the narcissist’s plight of believing truly in their superiority. Quietly dissecting possible threats with private eyes and beautifully phrased projections.

lost to a obvious truth,

there is no ‘right’ answer.  No man is the smartest in any room.

Much like ‘funny does Trump mean’ especially in politics or popular opinion.

The Great Oz has left the building in a farce of curtains and smoke filled happenings at the courtesy of Mr. Baum.

As a child, I dreamt of taking an adventure on a ship so grandly sturdy, to a land of mist and green dangling, delicate foliage. A  land fertile and terrine with limestone, slate, crystals and shimmering dark sand.  I can still feel the texture of all this proverbial destination running through my thin, unwrinkled synapses (otherwise known as brain fingers).

Yet society’s second act, shows a white gauze dress patching the festering wounds of yesterday with promises of tomorrows,  never really drumming my mental bell jar. Head stuck in an oven over said transparent ooze filled dress?

You gotta be fucking kidding me.

Do your really think you want equality in love?  Is this concept even a remote possibility while compromising space and habit in the name of strength?  Another thought to be analyzed.

Wait for it.  It’s gonna be amazing when you hear the punch line.

Jab, block, broken elbow.  Swift kick to the knee.  To bring ’em down to one before the final blow.  Awe, man. They don’t make ’em like they used to.

Now and later huMANity is still easily prescribed to the judgment of, we’re crazy and they’re stupid, for not getting any soft, sweetness out of a hard candy.

I mean who buys a gob stopper when they really just wanted a gummy bear?  Dammit Dahl, how’d you get so smart?

Well, hmmmm, learned it from watching you mom and dad.

Experiencing  a home built outta the epitaxy of self ruin; the epitomy of every little girls crafted, fucked fantasy.  But where’s the symmetry in the course of tradition?

Where does the brains’ heart find a solace?

In friends? In saying words, which are immediately used to find some conjured weakness?

What a waste of hot air.

Much like popular opinion. The swayer’s will spout like the fountain head will spew.

The only honest opinion I need now, finally, is my own.

Then again, maybe I should believe myself that I’m just some Hall and Oates  parody so I can find my ‘true’ value in a zero sum quotation.

based off of a perceived truth rather than personal introspection.

I think not.

But ‘Whats love got to do with it?’ Tina?  When there are so many Ike’s out there…

Opinions matter.   May not always be physical but the real hit is mental. A push, a blow.  A personal low.

Do you think you understand? Who the hell I am?

Nope. Just like I’ll never really know  you.

Let’s just agree on one small infantile detail, it’s all about the





I told you to wait for it.