Once again on my hands and knees
Once again cleaning up the mess
we've made together.
Oh, the messes.
Once again, preparing,
Once again, playing,
Once again pleading,
Once again prying;
and this time, Praying
to no avail.
Once again on my hands and knees
Once again, cleaning up the mess
we've made together.
But this is the last time I'll be cleaning this mess,
unless your blood will get out of the floorboards.
I want my garden to be
beautiful
like the string of words,
a bright necklace leaving my lips
but
unwanted assumptions sprout
sapping nutrients from my speech,
stealing from the stature of serious speaking,
stripping the sanctity of settled struggles.
You probably thought this poem was about drugs,
didn’t you?
Surreal is the feel
ing of stepping outside
to grab the morning paper
when one can glance across
the street to see
the man who keeps the paper
going.
Yes, God is my neighbor.
I’ve never thought of it as off or daft.
I simply must
restrain from cursing Him
whenever my lawn mower
won’t work.
Sometimes, we invite Him over
for dinner or the game,
but we dare not question
and we dare not assume.
Yes, we’re forced into a quiet niche by
living beside our creator.
We must leave the house on Sunday mornings.
We must make love quietly at night.
We must put all into consideration
When Jehova’s Witness shows up.
It puts a new
Hark!
A Thief!
A thief has taken my $20!
While I wasn’t watching,
Swiped right from my left hand!
I chase and chase
And race and race
But I can’t keep the pace,
And,
The thief gets away,
The moral, I’d say:
Don’t hold money on a windy day.
How long is a second?
Surely it’s one of the longest things.
If you take a moment to listen to the quiet
droning
silence
between each tick
you’ll really start to recognize
just
how
long
it
really
is.
Into the luminous flames I stare
At a tarnished letter looking back at me
As venomous smoke fills the air.
Lost is this letter I never let tear
Flooded with words I’ll never again see
Into the luminous flames I stare
Choking on thoughts of you I cannot bear
Life without you has made me grow weary
And venomous smoke fills the air.
Words left unsaid I wish I could share
But God seems to ignore every plea
Into the luminous flames I stare
Eyes never leave the labor of the flare
Recalling a tragedy no one could foresee
As venomous smoke fills the air.
Watching your house burn, saying a prayer
The terrified faces of your family
Into the
The sensation of slicing one’s brain in two
Cannot be described in traditional writing,
It takes a dose of prose
And a swig of form
Some rather disgraceful diction
Without a tasteful tone
Perhaps a “chop chop” for added effect
And synonyms for red to portray the syrupy blood.
Can’t forget
The subject’s reaction
Piercing, shrill screams
Using “S” Alliteration.
It would be quite the gruesome poem to write,
But it could also easily be summarized in two words:
It
Hurts.
Dressed in red velour,
Buried underfoot.
You will be remembered,
But,
Not properly.
You sang your soul
Never greeted by an echo.
Only after fading did you find what you were looking for.
Progressing through the mainstream wasteland, you sunk again
The same echo vanishing,
Soon to be replaced by scorn.
But now you’ve past,
In Velvet,
Underground,
Too far gone to hear the echo again.
But don’t be sad.
This is an empty, delayed echo.
The boy who brags about his bruise,
The Medal of Honor on his neck from nights before,
Slowly paces back home,
Dreading his inevitable fate,
Of his father’s belt again.