I may run and trip and fall
Through life’s dark and narrow hall,
But I’ll get back up and smile
To run the rest of life’s short mile.
I’ll explore life’s countless stages
Life’s book with many pages
Too precious too be wasted
Too much that must be tasted.
I’ll write my own life story
Sure it might be corny
But I guess that you could say
That I like living my own way.
Honey, now skip along
Ice cream, cookies and cream
Drip a melting song,
Smear across summer dreams
Sunscreen and sunglasses on.
It runs in a sticky sweet stream;
Melt, lick, taste, gone.
Drainpipes stretch
And snap back.
Click. Walk.
With point toed
Black leather boots.
Smoke, jaded
An orange glow
And gray smoke,
Not caring,
From in between
Pale, parted lips.
Exquisitely unimpressed,
Lean back, bored
With the acceptance
Of one who listens to
Too much Cold War Kids.
How depressing.
The only warmth
In the comfort of pockets.
The only one,
Yet a whole street of them
Strolling into the night
Yellow lights
Concrete labyrinth
Drainpipes stretching
And snapping back.
Click. Walk.
Point toed
Leather boots.
He read their faces
before they got the joke
so serious
wasting time to get time
and once they got it
arthritic fingers scrambling to grab
the mandatory fun
it was too late
they were all dead
it was through their fingers
now decayed.
I am fully aware
Of my naivete
Or perhaps
Knowing of selfish intentions
I retain foolish love
And dismiss the naïveté
I am so fully aware of.
In loving the businessman
As my best friend
Whose sole desire Is my happiness
And who will stay
As enthusiastic as before
My kindest companion.
In loving the prostitute
As though she never reached
For my wallet
As she had done to so many before
So skillful in the art
Of pretending passion.
I am fully aware
Of man’s misdeeds
And selfish acts
For power and wealth and false friendships
To ease the loneliness
That they never admit to having.
But I do believe In the inherent good
And I refuse to back away
From the hope for change
Before they awaken and realize
How human they are
And just how lonely
A human can be.
So I continue to love
Disregard the fear of being close
Retain my naïveté
In interminable hope
That they will someday change.
Sometimes I sit and think and cry
About how not one day a minute goes by
Without a black raven knocking on my door
Cawing so loudly, “nevermore”
So I shut the bird up
With a plastic cup
And a piece of scratchy string.
I applaud my genius; for not even Poe could think
Of such an inventive thing
To use things from the dollar store
What silence they can bring!
Now I get time with my Lenore (who’s actually dead fo’sho)
Without annoying squawks of “nevermore”
From the bird of Edgar Allen Poe.
Safely said
The frog in the well
“Fuck all the hawks
May you all die in hell”.
He just didn’t know
That they could still hear him
He went on cursing
Until fear overcame him.
A talon came over
The foolish frog’s eyes
“I didn’t mean it!”
And the frog never lies.
But oh, it’s too late
You’re already caught now
It doesn’t matter anymore
So take your last bow.
The foolish words
That you thought had much power
Kick back at your throat
Now your flesh becomes sour.
Maybe you should learn
That some things should be kept
But this frog didn’t know
And so his mother sadly wept.
“My child, my son,
He didn’t mean any harm
He didn’t know words
Could cause much alarm!”
But oh, it’s unfortunate
The young frog is dead
So nowhere is safe
You should never lose your head
Lest someone is listening
An enemy or a friend?
But what’s happened has happened
This story must end.
Just remember, dear children,
It’s only your ear you should lend;
A hawk might come get you
And give you wounds you can’t mend.
The jaws of your callous heart
are spiked with guards of splinters
The termites weave intricate tunnels
as I rummage through the tinders.
You’re nerveless and you’re numbed
by the bark that binds your soul
you swear you’ll never be hurt
like the others you’ve known before.
A heart of flesh is warm
and always softly beating.
A heart of wood is hard
and protected and unfeeling.
I cannot melt a heart
that isn’t made of stone;
hopefully ashes can love
if wood must grow alone.
There has to be another way
to make you understand
without charring your beauty
and burning your white hand.
But how else would you know
were I not to sink the knife
until you feel the pain
of cold bitterness and strife?
I can only watch you burn
with stinging, prickling eyes
until in vulnerability you learn
the preciousness of life.
Your only friends
make up the walls
of your fortress.
Pages and pages
of Aristotle, Ovid,
and Kafka.
You give yourself
suffering
as you believe
it’ll make you great.
Open your eyes
with nails and razors
so you think
that you see more than everyone else
but if you never let your fortress go
and live without risking love
or falling into trust
with closed eyes
and open arms
you will have nothing to see
and little pain
beyond what is in your nerves.
When they tell you to close your eyes
and pretend it’s a barbecue
out in the green grass
don’t believe them.
What you believed in
and what you worked for
burns in ashes
and they tell you it’s alright
to save them the trouble
of putting the fire out
to avoid looking like they don’t care
and be realized for what they are.
So don’t believe them.
Fight for what you believe in
and let no one stop you
before everything you had
and will ever have
crumbles to ashes
as memories
mistaken for dreams.
Purple fingernails
Tied to a post
Are all that you hang on by
but somehow it’s enough
as long as you ignore the pain
and the wet that tickles you
with cold drops of blood
as if mocking you as you wait
for someone to save you.
You could wait until you die.
Run!
Can you feel the cold air biting your nose?
Now feel it in your lungs
As it pinches your spongy tissue
And giggles and swings
From your bronchioles.
It drums your alveoli
So can you feel it now?
The beating of cold wind
Making music in your chest.
Run!
Can you feel the moist grass
Thrashing your legs
Making little red grains
Come out on the cold skin
Of your legs?
It teases the bottoms of your feet
Licking the spaces
Between your toes.
So can you feel it now?
The bantering of dewy grass
Leaving nature’s jewels
To embellish your nakedness.
Run!
Can you feel the silent
That you can only feel
At this hour?
Your breathing only makes the quiet louder.
Now stop.
The oars of kings
And pirates and conquerors and merchants
Sweep the creamy night sky
Blues in the deepest of blacks
Blacks in the deepest of purples.
Reach up and take hold
Of smooth wood
As it lifts you
And lowers you.
Now let go.
Fall through the ocean
Of rolling clouds
And hear the voices
Of kings
And pirates and conquerors and merchants
Whistle past your ears
And trail their fingers
In your hair.
Now relax.
Wake up on your soft bed
With smells of cinnamon
And fresh sunlight on your pillow
And tell no one
Of your adventures.
When they ask,
Just smile and tell them
To run.
