From p.1 on Mon., 9/28

Ah yes,
a year closer
to retirement.

A candle burning bright,
as the wax drips down,
celebrating,
confetti like rain,
un-controlable,
but beautiful.


-----


The streets were talking.
The streets sang songs,

they played lullabies
and I

walked dreamily
through canyons of
starlit buildings.


-----


Funk Music,
Beach Goth,

The cosmic vibrations
of a million suns
rattle through the room.

Space dance,
leather pants.


-----


Anger boiling and bubbling,
ebb and flow of tears and frustration.

8 years passed
childhood relationship
crumble under stress of distance & responsibility.

Emotional abuse
leaves scars much harder
to find that buises.

from p. 4 on Mon., 9/28

Her mind an album,

a collection of

memories. All except

one.

One

track was completely

re-recorded.

-----

Symphonies play in my head.

Violins and tamborines like

waves break on, through the

night air.

Agog!

The kings of

olden times. Trying to

seal the patchwork. Man 

always tries to fix what

is not faulted.

-----

Aviator sunglasses

simmered on the field.

Scarves and leather 

jackets piled along

with body panels in

the cacophony of

Paris, Missouri.

-----

Dark grainy sand

the horizon wanders

restless sunset

gazes upon the sea

the sound of 

blue waves

nothing else

at the same time

toxic but beautiful.

from p.4 on Mon., Sept. 21st

A bright waxing-crescent moon
illuminates cooled pavement,
inspires laughter and sponaneity.

Carelessly, they run and dance
through chilling sprinklers,
wavering grass.


-----


The sun taking up my whole view.
Butterflies gather in my stomach.
A rocky bus ride as the wind blows.

Waiting for my turn,
we line up light sheep
for the finish-line.


-----


Driving, listening, the world is going
by.

The breze from the dusty box sweeps my face,
my hairs find little tiny knots,
light rays burn my perfect petaled skin.

Aren't we all flowers?

The car stops.


-----


Brush strokes.

Cover the old.
Create the new.

Brush Strokes.

Reminiscent memories,
specifically of you.

Brush strokes.

form p.1 on Mon., Sept. 21st

Black sharpied Xs linger, marking flesh.

The smell of youth
obvious in a place like this

confused glances fly by

clear glass not tainted by caramel colored booze.

One lost in a a chessboard of people.

-----

A miniature man

dances excitedly in 

circles around a corduroy

chair.

A great ripe pear rests 

in the arms of the 

chair thinking about family

problems.

The room is white with 

black curtains.

-----

I didn't know

as I blurted words.

You were there.

I felt like the leaves 

not yet ready to fall.

But soon forgiven,

for leaving too soon,

still mad at my fallen self.

-----

When spiraling hills decayed,

leaving behind a concrete

metropolis, often compared to a utopia.

But even there,

dilapidated steel and rock

infringes on the beauty

of what a city is meant

to be, odd shaped

building with fogged 

yellow glass, rest below

chrome and silver

pillars to the sky.

Thge impression of man

learning to walk upright,

as he leaves his cave.

from p.4 on Mon., Sept. 14th

you were in a cold seat,
I was 104 degrees at the ready. Kept in cages
I told you what I was afraid of.

Kept me safe
but unclear.

I told you I regretted and admired
that I made you so special,
I was lost in my fever, I was
unafraid.

But I wasn't made special, I had a fever.

-----

My little ponie ran away and
bumble bees strike fear in
the 5 year-old and the 17 year-old.
Incredibly infiltrate our hearts and yes while
Packers, Broncos, and Cowboys
fans scream with pride.
Broken hearts are healed with
candy and tears washed away
with laughter.

Glass bulbs illuminated
the patio, covered in
rusting steel furniture.
Music danced between
those waiting in line for
the milk can, that dairy
hipster heaven we all
love so much.

from p.1 on Mon., Sept. 14th

Teen hearts race

dancing through the

night

Only to stop when the lights turn on. 

Do they realize this is how it feels to be alive?

-----

Red walls match red-rimmed eyes.

Time moves slowly, as a flood of people descends.

Knees sore, head aches, but the salesman pitch must be made.

The shift ticks by, only 6 hours left.

Soccer moms and old men blend together

all carelessly spending money.

-----

The smell of smoke

emerging from the

campfire surrounds my

face as coyotes howl into 

the distance. I realize

my marshmallow is black

from the fire kissing the

once white surface.

-----

Celery stick fingers

wrap around the cup.

The man's emaciated

face slurps slurpee

through a straw, caving

in his face.

from p.4 on Mon., 8/31

• She's taken many gifts from
  her ancestors.
  Freckles sprout across her bony cheeks,
  a dimple to match.
  Blond hair and rusty eyes,
  she is a truck in an abandoned
  lot,
  rough running engine, sultry.
  A voice from a jungle.

• Poetry dances
  among the stars
  in a flowy
  sundress toppled
  with a wildflower
  floral crown made
  of tiny daisies
  she picked herself.

• The footprints, tears, coffee
  stains, coating the porcelain
  white paper, tells a story
  opening our minds and
  souls through each imperfection
  that makes poetry its
  self.

from p.1 on Mon., 8/31

• I should stop
  watching romance movies.
  I should stop
  taking solace in the ache
  of how they love each other.
  I should stop
  texting the boy
  I'm afraid to quit loving.
  But I can't
  I can't.

• An aggressive whip of water is sent through the air.
  Left behind by this protective rubber minion.
  Nozzles. flying and smashing
  but it is not left to
  run on its own. Because
  it's tether is also its
  lifeline. And a faucet goes
  both ways.

• The wind whips my
  face as I stroll in
  my big box of white,
  the music lightly sings
  to the emptiness of
  the road.
  My stomach rises and
  falls to the beat of
  the road.

• My hands & feet are
  strained, gripping onto the
  warm, red, abrasive sandstone.
  I'm trembling nervous
  I'll fall, yet knowing
  the ropes will catch
  me. I hear the rustle of
  the leaves, faint shouting,
  & the clinking of carabiners
  & the cheer of getting to the top.