We leave this life as flit of butterfly
When we endure beyond our purpose;
Aloof words come by which materialize,
We are left stoical, still, and wordless.
We leave this life as flit of butterfly
One is made pragmatic by experience;
A grave man
Speaks grave words
Of which the living cannot hear.
I would not spend $50,000 to buy shit.
Old-time orthodox tradition;
If fish didn’t kill themselves
By swimming out of water
We wouldn’t have cellphones.
Relative relations wouldn’t spring so fast on advantage.
Men wouldn’t stand on two legs,
Or breathe the thin air.
Or Fuck or Fight,
Or even care.
What is art for?
Based on rhymes,
Behind closed doors.
And then they tell us to read:
Edgar Allan Poe,
Where “Lawyer” isn’t even a Word…
-Small town folk,
With small town ideals.
Maybe I’m joking,
Maybe I’m ForRealz.
Because I am
Cut from the same cloth.
Then they tell us to fit in this:
I was merely stuck in a book,
You merely read some words.
If things weren’t going for me
I’d probably too act on urge.
Now, how does one do the first part again?
Even the morning seems acutely somber
Broad clouded skies hold steady longer
Green leaves thick ripped from their place
Void departed relatives we save nigh space
Juxtapose this deep cutting- chilled contrast
Waiting for summer’s waning neb to fast pass
Vexed by cruel and unrelenting, stiff nature
Fool-heartedly with their lives they wager
On a single day we wish to stay the same
On forcible winds we wish to have changed
Man can live amongst this time and watch,
As he winds the seasonable swift ticking clock.
Dark clouds formed the sky as wind touched my face
My dead and gone ancestors have done this to me
Taking it in together, we stand tall hands linked
Expressionless, our emotion takes hold, carried-
Art appeared on the flesh; red lines raised
Trusting paths we’ve taken, as the towers climb
Reflecting the river waters as the seasons change
Showers reigned in testing the land, the crop, the life
High up a bulb flashes near birds so lofty fly
Inclement weather of remembrance, the rain
Drenched thru flesh, soulfully feeling inward pain
Eyes scan and absorb, what now, what more, what remains
Strength enough not to collapse, feels appropriate,
Apropos no more, prompt forecast coming belated,
Arousal of the air currents, moved, we were but shaken.
Stand in a pale room funeral home.
Dim yellow dances striped walls.
Close fake ferns and fresh-cut flowers.
Not into gleamed opaque casket.
My father sits, near his stepfather lay.
A soda can rests on stained wooden edge.
Here bright reflections of unnatural dye.
We have to pick him up, so heavy- and out.
Grab hand on cold pallbearer’s hold.
Navy Cadillac hearse backs to still box.
Pull with strained arms, struggle to balance.
Measure more densely than expected, hot day.
Hung-over and dried out, stiff- filled chemicals.
We get in the van and head to the American Legion.
Family and a buffet line inside
We sit close and speak soft
A pastor comes up to talk
He says he is with god
I go and get seconds
My grandmother does not understand.
we sit behind walls to pay for sitting behind walls.
Wheels spin, no gas on deck,
armies fight wars waged for black gold;
these things are related.
Glass punctures and creates an escape,
you sit roadside with a flat-tire and deflated ego.
An IED blows off a soldier’s leg,
an obese man eats a sandwich and drinks a diet coke,
a beautiful young model hates her reflection; finding flaws;
a CEO makes money.
And no one knew the half.
a book weighs down a hand,
words play heavy on the head.
Cottonwood seeds float on thick air,
tombstones bask in the sun.
So far away no voice could reach;
even so not of native tongues.
Days we have lost and the one that just began,
my toast is burnt,
furniture sits un-rearranged.
Affects leave me unchanged;
for certain of, same, -oh distaste.
Life goes on
a cat meows
a clock ticks
the heat moves in and settles down
Fall is here.
Only this time it’s without you.
I wish I could tell you about that.
beyond a standing open door.
Fan blows low,
violins cry; moaning- in the air.
Cat bounds, jumps,
across a dusted floor.
This motionless single-bedroom apartment, still, as mind dances the Tango.
Loved ones, phone.
rolling in the lamplight
covered in white-cloud blankets
warm in her spot.
The bed holds like a trusted hand.
shadows paint the walls and ceiling.
Torso imprints a time, right there.
past moments in my mind.