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My thoughts don't walk straight line
they thrive on electrolytes
to purge the calm
transporting me into
asymmetrical zigzags
I prefer an elixir
to be bitter sweet
than bland
some thoughts
are like pancake batter
that hit the pan
of our brain
and always
become circular
we don’t know
where they start or end
but it’s only breakfast
other foods
you add more ingredients to
like onions or celery or carrots
a chopped
part of a conversation
or a quote
that makes you tear up
and then
you stew
there are your favorites
which you cook
again and again
maybe a familiar
chicken dish
or maybe a fish
you caught
on sale
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
some memories remain
bright and shiney
sparkling like golden coins
on cold volcanic ash
helpful maintainers of the way
rekindling faded or failing hope;
the bursting joys of youth playfully resurrected
the replay of one's first love, dancing naked
but for a moonlit tierra of daiseys
that trophy year, becoming a winner
when dreams seemed limitless
these are the sweet goading motors of forward motion
These sleazy intentions
seem to kill more than those so-called "reported" serial orgasms.
To say,
-off the record-
that you give me both...
feels very disturbingly corrupt
yet thats not why you see me blushing.
can this burning betrayal flesh be helped or better prevented? probably not
my fight or flight instinct is to be the only suicidal bunny wet with desire, pressed up against the starving fox
wanting you to give me it all.
this is to be the root of my eternal damnation.
How will I know
if I don't wake up
at dawn
that a fresh twilight
has been born
who will say
where I've gone
without seeing the coming
of a lovely morn
Is there any power
which can in advance me warn
tomorrow for me
there will be no blessed morn
and
folks I leave behind
only will face
the morning rays of sun
and
then their loss mourn
as their lovely son
has gone
So before that ever happens
let me say
I won't make this a long epistle, I
am a child who ran out of resources:
I haven't milk to drink nor money to buy,
My mom has been killed by unknown forces.
My father is poor, he works day and night
During his absence, we face many troubles.
My grandma, who has a very poor sight
Had me one morning wronged with soap bubbles
I wish I had somebody to play with
Or have someone to change my dirty dipers
Yet good things nowadays seem just a myth
When love and hearts are merely fake fibers.
workshop test
I am the poor pedestrian
marked for disposal
surreptitiously layered
beneath brier branches
and sculpted dreams
where unseated remnants
protect my head
from the constant barrage
and self nagging focus
there,
that'll teach me
Well I know its been a while
since last your heard from me
and too long since I've seen you smile
while your hair blew wild and free.
So I'll tell you how I've been
....pretty well I guess
although here it's hot as sin
and too dry I must confess.
I just got over a bad cold
on the heels of stomach virus
both of which had taken hold
after I sat near some sickly cuss.