Dolor

The days we fight gravity are the predecessors to well earned nights.
Where the gravitation of the moon seems to rip us from beneath our skin
so we may breathe the cleanest drags of stardust possible,
those are the nights we stay alive for.
These are the days we earn entry.
Hours spent holding our lead hearts with our stomach
strengthen our minds the way Olympians train their hands for war.
Tears that seem to erupt unannounced cleanse us for a fresh start.
That is the goal, is it not?
To become mothers of ourselves as we chose how this pain will shape our rebirth.
To live on and live beyond our inner stories and self,
to create and spread physical droppings of our invisible worth
within the minds and mindful lives of others less burdened by themselves
so on the day of their first fight with gravity they feel our tether reaching out
to them, assuring the new traveler, together, we can feel our way through the dark.
We will embrace the limpid sensation of exhaustion jaw-vicing our chests,
we will subsume the fatigue cast over us like a bird adapting to storm winds,
recalcitrant, tenacious, brazen yet patient with our minds
until a palpable release sets us soaring into the night we have earned.
We are star chasers in mid-day darkness,
We are a galaxy of survivors on the horizon.

1925

Her peach fuzz lips have supple folds,
doughy like wrinkled maple
leafs, soft-faded near the end of autumn.
Her cherry blossom cheeks, smooth vanilla cream
spreads freckled by strawberry seeds;
she always dusts his after work dessert in powdered sugar,
fresh from the Maybelline jar across the counter.

His masonry scars are deep laced;
nature’s grout barely sustains
the leather-bound knuckles
that moan and then buckle when lifting the fork
pressed delicately into her shortcake.
Rust flakes from bent elbow and wrist
as his fist collapses to her waist,
settled with the crumbs of dried frosting
waiting, to be lifted and shook off;
colleague escapees of the dusty porcelain plate.

The evening sun settling against the horizon for the night
rolls over burnt coffee curls, and arrests his eyes.
Her supple peach lips glisten, expelling satisfaction’s intrinsic sigh.

Blue Coyotes

A lightly scorched
marshmallow
is the aura of the porch.
Where splintered, soaking
floarboards waterlog
our socks.
Ash and clover clouds hover
beneath the chocolate liquor sky
Edvard Mmm stretches
our faces, with laughter echoing
the night. Stories bellow
across a sugar ring stained
table, and soggy socks
dance like children’s noodle legs dangling
edged off oversized seats.
The wind tonight, is a soft yellow kiss
pressed fondly against
my blush cheek.

Fractals / Empaths

A ripe gripe smacked in tacky spit through thin lips,
a wet grape pressed tight between old mauve stained fingertips,
inflection a sharp vice,
clenched teeth behind my eye.
Tugging the cardinal tether,
the demur within the protest has spiderwebbed,
shattered feathers.
Poignant, myopic, idle, distorted.
Complaints so shallow, amplified
as if of great importance.
The sound of continued cavil,
is a hammered wedge congesting my mind.
He dissipates a mental estate, unloads,
clouding my state of mind.

Atlas

Atlas, whose lungs for centuries have
bent against a stone railroad of ribs
now wheezes as aerosol burns his eyes,
and pesticides burn those kidney-bean bent breathings.
Callused heels crush stars
to dust under the slipping weight
that clouds up
and clogs his nose;
a sneeze could cast hurricanes upon us,
as the balance of his hold is thrown.
His ancient tongue is dry like a salamanders tail.
When he stretches—smacks his lips and yawns,
his bulbous hands itch at his chapped chin and
his fingers ache like their grip is on scorched stone.

#WhyIWrite

Some mornings I wake up writing.

Through my window, the early sun is shining,
my eyes still blinded I find myself rhyming syllables
with consonants that complement and comprehend the bigger picture
of the scripture prominent in the dominant society.
I see the problems with humanity…
The insanity of extreme mindsets
from every heavenly sect set to threaten the youth into fellowship,
the threat of punishment exploding in the streets
of the east and west, it’s like the people playing God
forgot to take their midday rest.
With shit like this we’re reduced
to only the children knowing what’s morally best.
And I test my patience pouring coffee
while the radio buzzes a news stream
and soon I’m three sips and set
to forget I was ever a part of humanity anyway.
Ready to write off my citizenship to earth
so I can find a place to live where the right comes first
and a shared sense of solidarity isn’t a byproduct
of a brainwashed waste of humanity repeatedly
attacking the innocent and weak.

I mean, three headlines a week shouldn’t be dedicated to mourning and obituary.

Some mornings I wake up writing,
and still hiding under the covers
I wonder why I was wired this way.
Programmed to take the pain and suffering I see
and re-channel it into a quick catchy beat
in hopes that somebody sees through to me.
I surround myself with laughter and animals and love
but sometimes it just doesn’t cut and I wake up writing,
I wake up sighing,
and I go right back to sleep unprepared to spend another day
watching the outside world dying.


National Poetry Month started several hours ago, and runs through the next 30 days.

What’s that quote?

If I only wrote when I had time I’d never write at all…?

Something like that.