FormForAll: not what you expected? don't miss the magic

photo by theartmess

John Mayer says, 'Lower your expectations'
after glaucoma surgery, who has expectations?

see---chasing others expectations, we lose ourselves,
a slave to expectations, post a sign bill, lost & found

the song may not sound the same, expectations
close our ears only to expectations, leaves disappointed

'Expecting to lose, a win exceeds expectations,'
my wife dislikes playing cards against my lack of expectations

at the end of each night, the sun rises to our expectations
how often we lose sight of those same expectations

fail to live up to expectations and they'll fire you, perhaps
it would be best if someone told you, your expectations

if this poem didn't meet your expectations, i had none, so
it met mine. (bet you thought i would say expectations,

right?) exactly.

Over at dVerse Poets today, Sam has us writing ghazals or specifically ghazal sonnets...this is a more modernized version of a ghazal in millermetre (i never do these things quite right. smiles)...if you want to know how to do it right, stop in and see Sam...he will open the door at 3 pm EST.

and for g-man, a story in 55 words...

time & placeholders 

is it late or early,

this blooming flower,
so delicate & silky
fluttering in a winter
breeze?

purple/pink, bright
yellow interior
bruising & tearing
as its battered

east, west
north & south

blame the season
blame the wind
blame the flower

the already brittle grass
watches silent, only
talking when someone
steps on it

Pearls before Swine (or the SocioPolitical lives of Pigs)

picture by Damir Z

OinknNggGngghgRmmmOinOinKnggnnghngh

ugh,
    what is this mmm eating?

Oiii,
    what do weeee have here,
                   an uppityeeee pig?

Heeee gets that from ur side theeee family,
                   SooueeeeSooueeSooueee

Just eat it boyeeeee

OinknNggGngghgRmmmOinOinKnggnnghngh

O-Heee,
      don't poop in the trough again inkOink

Whaaaat dOee you care? get yours,
      long as Ueee get yours

OinknNggGngghgRmmmOinOinKnggnnghngh

Think Ieee will go take a roll to cool oFFee

OinkOeeeOinkOinkOui

Heeere comes the Man and he looksss Hungryeeee

Maeeke yourself look Skinee

OinkOuiOInk

OuiOuiOui

             (all the way home,
                      all the way home)

written for Poetry Jam, from the perspective of a pig.

OpenLinkNight: Just because you have the ingredients, doesn't make it a recipe

photo by Amanda Slater

i drain a can of pineapple
into a cup, mix the juice with Sprite
then throw the chunk
in a bowl

my wife mixes in sugar,
cheese, cracker crumbs & butter
putting it on to bake

"do you think it's a dessert?
it's listed as a side dish."

"i dunno," it's sustenance,
and i resist labels

and tastes, mmm....
good, to say the least,
warm in a bowl,

all the textures
dance round your tongue
like revelers at a May pole

out the window,
snow gathers in clumps,
refugees of the Sun

in the corner tree,
a bird, brown & muted,
as the season, works a seed

with a tilt of my makeshift cocktail
of leavings, i acknowledge him,
yet another day

of survival.

It is OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - time to get your poeming on, verse us something even mildly poetic and come join the fun....the doors will open at 3 PM EST. While you are waiting, stop in and see the announcement of the first dVerse Anthology.

as i once was

photo by Christopher

'Killer!'
           my son screams,
                                    'Murderer!'

and the truth is I am,
hot tears track his face, shaking,
red faced, he's hysterical

'Go to your room,'
(I need space)
              sitting to look at my hands,
these deadly hands---
                   it's not so much

the disrespect or vehemence
         he spews
that's disturbing,
we'll work through them

it's what i've lost
pushing me into the couch,
my heart into the grinder
            til flesh sparks

that looking at the five or six
Legos, i had seen
             something to clean up,
not a snail,
            a living thing
                  his hands had wrought

i feel so old / cold
& need to find
where i've misplaced my child-
hood imagination---before
it's gone,
          for good---perhaps

on the curb, bags packed
as i once was.

Poetics: buying insurance from geckos & lions

photo by Chad Miller

'happier than an antelope
with night vision goggles,'

ha.

i love that commercial
(and for insurance no less)

the way
they goad the lion,

'hey carl, (snicker, snicker)
maybe you should become
a vegan'

listen to them
laugh,

feeling so safe,
as if
that isn't
exactly where the lion
wants them

watching TV,
gaining weight, fat-
tening up for the meal

'it's your deal.'

down 3-1
i slap down 2 sets
of five cards, fan
mine & look

over the top,
her eyes already parceling out
the choice cuts, like that chart
of a side of beef

yes, she is
right

where i want
her.

raWr.

Over at dVerse Poets today, we are writing on mass media ~ radio, tv, internet, movies etc. I chose a GEICO commercial as my inspiration. Doors will open at 3 pm EST later today. Should be some fun. Do stop in.

MeetingTheBar: Flo's on the stool, being circled by mICE

photo by Mark Fowler

Flo is less Progress-
ive insurance agent or waitress at Mel's diner
than how a poem goes, grows
when you drop allit (mAtch!) or a rhyme in it,
like a mouse casing the house, not just around exteriors
but weaving his way inSide---hiding
behind the couch leg as the cat
strolls by, nails clicking Morse code

'when i find you...
     when i find you...'

licking its lips. the mouse may
be little, but won't settle for chee-
sy easy rhymes, he's got teeth to nibble
nerve endings & hip cannons he double-
fist fires into neurons, PoW, pOw, pOW,

"monsieur pussycat,
      monsieur pussycat,
                     let's dance,"

laughs from the toes up, at traps,
like redundant, overused metaphors or past tense,
he's passed this, preSent, active all thru
the night, tapping tiny paws on your
subconscious, pAchAngA! paying no
attention to form or scheme,
a free raD!cAL

gone before morning, leaving
vague hints you'll find upon waking,
perhaps halfway through your cereal
in the breakfast nook as lowering your spoon
back into the milk, droPPinGs float to the top

curse the mouse!
            the poet!
                 the poem!

that won't leave
you alone, making its nest
in your cranial bone.

Over at dVerse Poets, Anna has us contemplating flow and when things flow and when they don't. Just fooling around with it...having a bit of fun. She'll open the doors at 3 PM EST.

Raise a lighter

Pink is on TV, telling stories
behind her songs, between singing
them & has a moment of caution,
acknowledging she may ruin the images
in our heads by doing this, the feeling
we get in hearing the song & where
it takes us, unraveling our illusions;

the first kiss, dance, break-up,
middle finger to the pastor
that preached against long hair, death
of  a loved one, be-littling or raising hell

bow ballsy & brash she is,
thrashing all these perfect moments,
interpretations we hold dear
making us see the artist
as well as the art
& human---

losing her husband, the anger & angst,
meeting him again in Vegas, a hotel bed,
past drug use & Sober, how your mother
& lover push your buttons---blurring
the lines between the stage & crowd

because we've been there
or believe ourselves too good
a liar, passing off
we haven't

if we're honest

which makes the best verse anyway,
& is why we sing in the shower,
in the car or in line at the grocery store
though usually alone, not on stage
where people can see how jacked up
we are & not all that

much
different
from them


written for Poetry Jam

OpenLinkNight: i won't give up, on us

off the market, Lynchburg, VA

i had a place
where the eyelid meets the face,
another skin tag, most likely---
my own flesh
turned against me

a few weeks back
it started growing,
darkening

i let it
for a bit

watching
waiting
wondering

as people walked by
eyes following, it
pinched with each blink,

a twinge
a wince

tonight,
with tweezer & clipper
i cut it off

no more free meals
of my subconscious
soft, green
pea sized  marble

round, round, round
it goes down
gone

replaced by fresh water
in the toilet

washing the implements,
putting them away
i turn out the light

on one more reason
for people to look at me

other than the heart
i offer.

It is OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - a celebration of poetry and a coming together of people in support of one another and the art...have at it...write something and come join us when we open the doors at 3 pm EST.

The song of winter

Four vultures perch at various levels on branches of the tree in my neighbors yard by the edge of the road. There is irony we call it them a committee. Another name for them is a venue. They are stark shadows on the grey white winter sky---spotters, while a fifth picks at an opossum, semi flattened on the asphalt.

The cookies n' cream mountains in the background see everything. Closer to the sun, they keep their snow, buffeted by the wind. Deer run between them, crossing the yards in our hood. I leave scraps, whatever is left from our meals in the yard. It does not stay long.

The vultures rotate place, great black winged angels preying. Already they have taken its face, as if to say its nothing personal or clear their conscience. They make due with what they find, indiscriminate. I'll admit, I am fascinated & few cars pass, disturbing them.

SKiischhhKshhhccccccck, my son knifes through the grit and ice on his snowboard down the back hill, up over a skateboard ramp he's packed snow around & at the apex, leaps, twists, lands, holds it for a second then tumbles head, feet, snow. He stands, pops loose and begins to climb, racing the climbing heat of the day-fast stealing his playground.

I sit lotus in a dish sled, skiscchlide, find the same ramp & and bang down awkward---crack, snapping the aged brittle plastic, spill & roll into the bite of ice in my beard. It feels good.

SkiischhhKshhhcccccck, ugh, thumpAbumThrashhhh, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH, SkiischhhKshhhcccccck, ugh, thumpAbumThrashhhh, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH,
the vultures watch us, watch the road, watch their brother snap at breakfast ---anticipating lunch if we crash bad enough, maybe.

Sorry to disappoint, we strip layers at the door, our cheeks rosy, ready for hot chocolate & i, black coffee---content in our dis-content with ever playing opossum.

Poetics: Fall of the House of Man

street art

"em ot klat uoy t'now yhw"
she asks, pleads

to whoever will listen
but mostly him, her husband
on his side, back
turned
in bed

he hears,
"kaew os uoy era yhw"

or

"yob ylwem uoy, yrc"

it is what he was taught,
what we teach
our future
men

& this week
another one went down,
kicked back as the bomb
tick
tick
tick

BOOM
(went off)

it's interesting how criminals always
return to the scene & he sits
where they met each morning, pushing
himself into the crack where sidewalk
meets brick, writing/drawing in his journal

heart, torn twixt, tattooed with his name
by the same hands that refused to let go
til she screamed & cops came

"kcab gnimoc ton s'ehs"
he doesn't want to hear it, but listens
losing words to guttural sounds

nGhrRRROWL
hot tears, CraCKs, wet cruNCH
as fists wail the wall again and again
until limp & bleeding

"make them stop talking to MEEEEEE!"
finally forces its way out the internal stoppered bottle
swirled into anger - sixteen, amid his first
break up - a boy/man who won't talk
he's been trained,

'be a man, break something, smash back,
make them hurt'

a backWords raising
between strong & weak,
what is it we expect

& they take him away in the back seat,
but spare the blue lights on the way to the psych
ward, in silence that's become

so easy
to translate

Over at dVerse Poets, Fred has us writing in another language...well, i kinda did that...my language is backwards and really this is about the inability to understand---which might as well be a foreign language...maybe Fred will give me some grace...so write in another language...all or part of your poem...and bring it at 3 pm EST.

FormForAll: maybe we need more footprints on posteriors

photo by David Joyce

the wood bench at the park
waits through seasons of homeless
men & sour skin women,
dead leaves & snow
(a cold, stark

reality) knowing in time
it will warm & children
will leap from it's lap, uNbound, grow
wings---fly featherless
while mothers scold their crime

'Someone will sit there
and doesn't want your footprint to show
up on their butt,' less
concerned with caterpillars imagination
than fear

of proper-ness
or making a mess
no one ever really thinking (forgotten
in the alLaBoutMe show)
how the bench feels in all this.  

Over at dVerse Poets, Gay has brought a wonderful guest along to teach us new forms of poetry. This one is called a Karousel due to the rotating rhyme of the middle three lines of each stanza. Tune in at 3 pm EST to learn it and the Weave.

you know the toilet paper is cheap when you get paper cuts

street art, Richmond, VA

Will Robinson! Will Robinson!
it's time again,
DANGER! DANGER!

& truth be told you can find it anywhere,
even going to the bathroom

                     (if you know what you are
                                                  doing.)

his sister sits in a padded chair,
among the mothers waiting to pluck
children from the bowels of classrooms
when the bell rings (when the bell rings!)

it's been a year since they fired me,
(you can't counsel when the client is unwilling
or the guardian no longer wants accountability)

'how's your brother doing?'

'oh hi, he's great. at home with mom, home
schooling now, still out in the woods
every chance he get's.'

'that's great to hear.'

'yeah your time with him did wonders.'

'i appreciate that. they still down
in Alta Vista?'

'yeah.'

i let her go, her step son running
the shiny tiles---glad there is still space between us,
the last thing we did before, was report her brother
to the authorities. on the way to the store,
he casually looked at me, deadpanning

'wouldn't it be fun to have a sniper rifle
on top of the Walmart.'

yes,
  yes,
     YES, Will Robinson, it's time to run,
DANGER, DANGER, DANGER
walks among
us, unchecked---& they fired me
for telling someone.

written for Poetry Jam

happened about 18 months ago and while at the time i did not lose my job i lost the client for reporting his threats and behavior. the mom was afraid they would take her son away if i kept reporting on him. denial and avoidance---one of the greatest dangers.

OpenLinkNight: the berry in blueberry

briackwork, City cemetery, Lynchburg, VA

It's social skill day at Walmart,
a busload of mental challenge adults,
their counselor & i am looking
for children's Ibuprofen - blueberry
flavor, all they have is grape & berry though

a man, black leather trench coat
over a grey hoodie, hood loose hung
between his shoulders, purple toboggan,
yarn mohawk down the middle
is admiring a soup can castle. when

he smiles, his face creases, almost
folding in on itself, salt n' pepper beard
but it's his round, soft eyes that catch
me --- maybe they are

mine, twenty, thirty years from now
& i've fallen into a knot of time's skein
his wife laughs deep, "he's not as crazy
as he looks."

"that's good," i laugh back
& it is
that she is
still putting up with him,

there's hope for me yet

grabbing a can of beans,
she & he,
& i,

walk off
in different directions,

light from above
collecting in pools
on the polished concrete floor.

It's OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - grab a marker & scribble on the wall, or just post something poetic and come join us. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

If this seems familiar to any, I posted a short version in the comments elsewhere a few weeks back and revisited it.

for the greater good

African grave marker, City Cemetery, Lynchburg, VA

tonight,
it's blind man's bluff,
my wife
blindfolded, fumbling
in the dark
while we dance
 here & there, off her
            finger tips

when suddenly, she lunges, right
              into a wall,
taking out a lamp
              in the process
  
forget the snickers,
we laugh

deep & long---
        30 seconds
& we're all caught,
cause we can't
                stop

she plays dirty like that

slipping me $20 later,
the last of her Christmas,
for gas, still
two days from payday
        in this, life's
                  game.

 Life is a song - sing it. Life is a game - play it. 

Life is a challenge - meet it. Life is a dream - realize it. 

Life is a sacrifice - offer it. Life is love - enjoy it.

                                                                         ~Sai Baba  

blind man's bluff if another game we play in the evenings, kinda like tag except the 'it' is blindfolded.

before sleep takes us

old mill stone

WHACK! my son
takes one in the shoulder
rounding the corner
into our room

a ricochet
off the wall finds my other
where he is crouched
behind a chair

SMACK! my wife
in the small of the back
POW! its a gut shot
for me

their footsteps retreat
beating time quick

(it will take more than that
to keep my down) hide,
HiDE hiDE, they saw the look
in my eye & they
run

the radio croons a song,
night comes in through the window,
the dodge ball is in my hand,
but wont stay that way for long

& tonight we will sleep
like the dead, for having lived
a bit more furious, in peace
thicker than a winter's quilt.

Wrote this after a mad game of dodge ball around the house last night.

Poetics: of all the authors, all the bindings

my morning sky

a man at the bookstore
smells like my grandfather --- i don't
see his face --- it's the after-
shave, fresh with a bite & not
one of those metro-fruity modern ones
but the kind that still burns my face

from the time i slipped
into the bathroom, as a child to splash
some on. as he disappears

around the corner, i am alone again
& growing up, among book titles,
each selling a story in fANCY fonts
and color with catchphrases,

10's, 100's 1000's of millions
                            of words

lined in lockstep, back to bACK---
           they got
                  NOTHING

on the scent, but provide
                  something firm

to lean on, my shoulders sliding
down
        into the aroma

of cold white porcelain, old green tile,
a screw top steel razor,
         fog on the mirror,
& little bits of hair
         refusing to find the drain,

close my eyes,
         a curl on my lips.

Over at dVerse Poets today, Stu has us 'growing up' and while i could have told many a tale, this was a recent trip back I took in my memories at the bookstore. Happy Saturday, pub opens at 3 pm EST.

it feels good to feel, good

night, tree

my kitten is senseless,
misses his sister, (dead
2 weeks) goes

out nights, gets into fights,
comes home beat up,
sKratched, missing tufts
of fur (what for?)

my finger finds the tender
spot before his ear
& he presses in --- nose
cut, bloodCrusted,
teaRtracked eyes

'we're
not much different,' i say,
letting him back out

Over @ dVerse Poets today, Victoria has us writing imagist poems with a point for Meeting the Bar. I really can't explain it, so you will have to stop in at 3 pm EST.

written in 55 words as well, for g-man.

the sound of dominos

downtown, Lynchburg, VA

we stopped buying milk today

         & somewhere a farmer will slaughter his cow
         to put meat on the table (that's one less
         tit for the government to suck)

it's just, become too expensive

         & perhaps we'll find an alternative
         source of calcium or risk brittle bones
         the same way the farmer slaughters the cow
         not with brutality but a hand on it's side
         and a tear in the eye as he pulls back the hammer

sacrificing tomorrow for today

         that's what got us here in the first place,
         isn't it? and what is next? Fred Flintstone's
         already been laid off, replaced by a wrestler,
         on the box of Fruity Pebbles,

         how many cereal factory workers
         will be right behind him
         when you have to work an hour
         just to buy milk for breakfast,
         another for the gas to go get it
         & this is just the beginning
      
         what is left, when

i have no more cows to slaughter.

written for poetry jam and i probably go a little further afield than where peggy thought it would go with the things we are leaving behind in the new year, but...

OpenLinkNight: what it is & a game of checkers

neon sign, Roanoke, VA

i had this epiphany, sitting
on the couch:

     never let words
     get in the way
     of what you are trying
     to say

& wrote it down, in my notebook.
right next to another:

     i am
     nothing
     without proof
     of life

& even a thought in the margin
on a title, 'My middle name is Timothy
not Thomas' ~ a little personal truth
emphasizing the spiritual slant
of 'i am'

but feared it might overpower the zen
in it, and doubt scares many when you start
asking for proof --- it sucks

not many think
about what they're leaving behind, until late
in life --- i let a kid in class flip through my book
of rhymes & out of all of them,
he picked it out

'you wrote this?'

'yeah, don't know what to do with it yet.'

'what's it mean?'

'i dunno yet, you tell me.'

& he couldn't yet, but wrote it down
to process later, like i did when i got it
thinking it needed more, some fancy words,
slant rhymes or meter to make it meatier
or palpitate its heart, but in the end it's
just words, an add on, a pretty bow,
a fancy cup for a man dying of thirst
when all he asked for is water

making it more about me
than him anyway ~ and we
have enough of that.

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poet, opens at 3 pm....so you have time, go write a poem, put pen to paper and birth words...it doesn't matter what they are...well we know what they are...poetry. See you then.

burn the map, so no one can follow

by quinn.anna

i got lost, the first time,
going to your house
     (perhaps this was a sign
       of what's to come)

all those twisted roads
through the hills
looking for Collins & Catherine

i found neither on my own,
had to phone & wouldn't you know,
finding you, i
got lost again

haven't been seen since,
not that i've been looking,
your whisper on my ear
as we drift off sleep
leading me further away
                               away
                                   away

reality TV

i've used this before, but seemed appropriate

i cup water to my face. warm & wet, it collects in my beard, works at the bits of breakfast, last night's dinner-everything that just vacated my stomach, which still clings to me. having a beard and vomiting don't mix & always at these moments, i think of shaving it. then decide just not to vomit again. as if.

more water, i catch some in my mouth, swish, spit. run my tongue around my mouth. more water, swish, spit. wet my hair back. look in the mirror, decide that is not a good idea. inhale. exhale. reteaching the rhythm of breathing to my roiling stomach. small glittering jewels of wet reflective worlds fly from my beard with each exhalation.

i don't get sick often, but when i do, i do it with style. the last night of our honeymoon, we spent in the hospital. then once on the trip home. every couple years. clockwork.

the water from the faucet curls round my finger to continuing heading gravity's call to the teeth of the drain. i don't know how long i have been watching it. reach up and turn the knob. pop the top on the plastic case and slide the thermometer in mouth. it's cold under my tongue.

on the other side of the door, i hear my boys playing, the television on, their friends. they have been playing football outside. i watched them out the window until i could take it no longer and sought relief.

beep

101.6, not bad, could be worse.

'hey honey, science confirms it, i am hot'

toweling my face, i open the door, ready to brave the fifteen steps to the couch.

'why don't you go downstairs and take a nap.'

so i do, secure in the knowledge, or delirious enough to believe.

a field of flowers becomes butterflies circling the sun, all the colors an artists brush can render to the tune of Mozart turned Godsmack...Godsmack? Godsmack?

'hello,' awake again, i mumble, phone to my temple.

'hi Sonbuck, saw on Facebook where you were not feeling well. how are you?'

'my will is in the top drawer of my bedside table.'

she laughs, 'well make sure you drink plenty of fluids and get rest.'

'i am. i will.'

silence, sigh.

i take a pen from among my books and pen this on a blank page in the back of one of them, because it's the intimate details that intrigue us, and knowing them, make us feel better about our own lives. i'll even put it in on of those pseudo haiku for you.

stringy meat flecks,
indistinguishable multi-color vegetable matter
clog the drain.

ah, don't you feel better already?

i do.

Actually, I feel much better today after nearly 48 hours of the stomach flu...nasty stuff...thanks to all who gave condolences yesterday. smiles. And today, I actually celebrate ~ get my 24 month chip ~ for being Facebook free. This is for the 1653 friends that I am sure have been wondering about me these last 2 years. Smiles. I am alive and well.

Poetics: how peaceful the silence, when everyone shuts up

bathroom floor i stared at as i wrote this

one big electro-magnetic pulse
would clear this right up

no more email,
     no more spam, promising three extra inches
     if you just take this pill or pump
           no status updates
                no tweets

(just think
of all the marriages that might save
in an instant)

no angry birds, bejeweled
no, more time

ground the airplanes, park the cars,
silence the horns (we'd lose weight)
cell phones would be even more useless,
down the missiles --- i guess guns
would still work --- perhaps we could
have a rust infestation as well & end war---
at least til we remembered sticks & rocks,
so much for wishful thinking, but imagine

everyone with dirty hands, re-learning
how to garden & finding pre-processing
does change the flavor & peace is no fairy tale
we sell children to shield them
from reality

dang you Mayans for getting it wrong,
in the end

i want to be a mailman
   carrying letters, hand written & with thought
knowing it might not reach the intended
for a month, knowing that by horse back
or ostrich or my own two feet it was carried
to one that waited on it, and waited on it
checking 3, 5, 10 times a day

that screams hallelujah when they see me
coming down the trail to break the silence
and with stored up words,  hungrily ask

'how are you?'

& really care, not just fill time---what peace,
the quiet, when everyone shuts up,
until they really have something to say.

Over at dVerse Poets, Mary has us pondering peace in all its aspects....forgive me, I was vomitting between stanzas as I wrote this, so if it seems a bit crazy, well...i had a slight fever...ha. hopefully much better today. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

backYard polaroIds

chalk wall, Charlottesville, VA

fresh! pristine winter
snow shovel in hand, i
dig reality beneath

screams & yells
kids run fleeing from their
father's tickling fingers

a dying tree
bare, gnarled limbs raised high
patiently awaits spring

a birded branch,
silently listens to the song
perched upon it

wet kitten smell
two wings & scattered feathers
everyone a critic

Over at dVerse Poets today, Sam has us writing Collum Lunes...3 words, 5 words, 3 words...kinda like a haiku without the syllables, each three line verse a complete picture...fairly easy...but fun. Have at it, the pub opens at 3 pm EST.

And 5 - 11 word verses makes 55, for  g-man.

D. all the above

big roadside guitar

i choose to get up early, before everyone else,
              greeting the sun as it comes
              over the mountains,
              black coffee & some mornings
              letting that be breakfast & others,
              sausage biscuits

i choose Pearl Jam, Black, Cohen or Abrams,
              Jay Z to find the rhythm & back roads,
              and not just to save minutes, a dry razor
              with no cream, pimento cheese
              or pickles, over jelly
              with my peanut butter

i choose flow over frustration, when i can remember
              control is an illusion, sober
              over drunk
              so i won't miss a moment, candle taper
              over artificial light for the golden kiss
              that caresses your skin, shadows it creates
               in the recesses & hot wax

deny choice all you want or believe you have none
              & fate's just forgotten you, blame the sun,
              moon, or celestial beings, blame your dog,
              blame your neighbor, or significant other,
              blame the rain---
              Milli Vanilli tried it, got caught lip syncing.
              it ain't your song, if you ain't singing it,

              no

i choose you, like you chose me
               & keep choosing daily---

               kinda humbling, isn't it?

               it is, to me.

written for poetry jam

OpenLinkNight: g(un control)

texted picture

it's not the gun that kills, i get it,
but lets not be senseless

it begins with a text message:

Hey
                              Hey

How you?
                              Good, how u?
Great

Guess what
                               What's up?
Got and AR
                                AR?
assault riffle

here's a pic

what do you think?

                                why?
i like to shoot things

& break into his ex-grilfriend's house,
hide in her room til she came home,
upset she broke up with him, to feed
his obsession, caught by her mom
& the only reason he has no record
was volunteering with the cops
they knew him,

22, married now, a new kid & two jobs
to pay the bills, but has $1700 to drop

aren't they supposed to ask about med-
ication & previous mental condition
but then again, WE HAVE THE RIGHT
TO BEAR ARMS & sales to make
while congress is distracted, bickering
over taxes for smaller percentages

will bring it up to show
you and your boys
                                 no.
                                 we are leaving

putting miles between us, feels a bit
safer with each mile marker---wants to show
my 8 and 10 year old---how far
is far enough?

Over @ dVerse Poets, it is OpenLinkNight - time to get your poetry on - write it, read it, doors open at 3 PM.

True text conversation from over the holidays.