She Stays Sweet

Soft cream leather-
rutted and  grayed
suppressed to bumps
and thumps
as time plodded
along
rhythmically
as each day
her shape
plopped down
to relish in
the cozy
company of
family-
an exhausted
slumber-
to savor the
coolness
of a long
day's work-
a closet
of lonely
moments
and whispers
of tears.
But
she stays sweet
the overstuffed
chair
molds continually
around her
through the ages
the gleam against
her deep cow eyes
constant,
soft wrinkles
glazed her
beautifully-
salt colored
her hair
flawlessly-
charming independence
and a kind splash of sass
never flowed
out of her
veins
Making me
glad there is
such a thing
as angel
wings
giving the chair-
the world-
her
more time.
She stays sweet

Ears

My ears are clogged-
lodged with words-
bursting with chords-
harassing the drum

Filling my world
with piercing
and infectious
sound
stirring-up
a fantasy

Afraid that
one more stroke
from The hand
to slip, gently
another strand
behind
this ear

Your ears
could hear
it too the
fantasy
erupting in the
canals

Resting in the
feeling of
contentment,
residing in
my ears

Wondering.
Do you hear
what I hear
now?
Slipping the strand securely
behind.

Another
rush of melodies
from afar-
heard and familiar
knowing it came not just from
my ears
but
from yours
too

Moribund

Only a smoky hue of orange
shows through the smog
making the world seem
as if it had all been
bronzed over
natural color had fleeted

Turning my skin a
transparent cream color
as I laid there, lonely,
moribund
against these steel acrid
flakes of grass

Lifeless I was, unmoving
I remained all but
yellowed piano keys rumble in
my being
rising through the mesh

That once held me together
a chord of unseen notes
band together in the orange
mist
collecting into a sillhouette

My twin, not bodily
only dispersing like the rest
adding to the chorus
what I lived for, my commison

Ten Ways to Look at a Cigarette Butt

Rubbed into the depths, 

a forest of broken bark,

resting and still burning

a cigarette

The butt of the cigarette

the only place

to escape

fibers of the

heavy hushed secrets

A woman pulls

in the fumes

once more

before

drowning it in

a hallow ash

tray

Like looking inside

a vein once

flooded in crimson

now echoing the

laughter of life

A cigarette is

a neighbor of

hardened gum

pounded and pushed,

flattened in the

traffic of hurried

feet

Feeling as

though it is

stuck here

turning the depths 

of itself green

longing to be a 

button

Stretch out

the thickening

walls which

guard the soul

curve them

without disturbance 

until the ends of

them kiss

hold fast to 

the flame

A battle cry

in the

heavens

victory is webbing

and fragile

The cigarette butt

remains silent

to the ears

of its sibling

proving its

promise

sorrows remain

protected

Buried beneath

hidden almost

yet completely

noticed

in the dirt, 

a rotting garden

A Backwards Dream From the Flipside of Your Pillow

For a moment

the silent

yet moving, pastel characters

caught my attention

Sun-kissed dry

hands moved

no more than mere millimeters

as they naturally would

Not even as

the hads

of the clock wound around

in the opposite direction

Stapled to the wall

the only decoration

besides black-stained furniture

even an un-made sleigh bed

Bringing my feet

backwards, my

back facing where, only a few

moments before, my face

Had been headed.

Out through

the lofty door frame, turning

the corner, midnight approaching,

No steadier pave

than this

one, I walked through a

stranger's empty, quiet house

Continuing now, the coolness

of dew collecting on outside

pavement met the souls

Of my pink feet

as they

caught the edges of an

ocean condensed into this

Sink hole the moderns

called a pool

Feeling as the frigid splashes

enveloped first my legs

On up to my

torso and finally

the rest sunk down in the dark,

salty waters, an army of kelp

Coiled around me

as the brown

hair cleared and showed

a face with hazel eyes

Completely open, a body

drifting by silently

as the kelp released me

 like I was not wanted

anymore. Surging

me to the bottom

what once held these waters

as concrete phased my body,

In no way

as I easily

seeped through the microscopic cracks

like sand through a sifter

Back into warmth

fleece and cloth

wrapped tightly around me

still unmoving yet lying

The feet stop

familiar space

and sight and smells are

all original sensations

Automatically as my

head rolls

to the left, feeling the coolness

of the flipside of my pillow

We The Free

Each pitch was perfect

echoing throughout

the deserted auditorium

The light above burning

to their fullest potential

only the spotlight was off

resting on the worn floor

just in front of a

lonely, lanky soloist

Whose eyes barely

twitched; empty and scared

as if imagining an applause

That would never ring

against the drums in

 the ears that matched

the flawless notes

escaping in a caravan

of soft melodies

Dusty red velvet curtains

came barreling inward

kissing as each side met

Behind the soloist

remaining still

While the spotlight

darkened and drove

through any solid

foundation, a hole

Soon a twitch

in the fourth finger

lead to another

Then the entire hand

closing in on itself

to grip, to clench

blue veins protrude

against the skin of the arm

a face sculpted for anger

From behind the curtain

a sliver of pure water

snaked its way around

Over the miniscule

particles of dirt and dust

towards the bottomless

hole where the

unreached spotlight

had shown moments before

Falling easily over

the rounded edge

as an unbroken stream

Making a glassy trickle

like water from a faucet

the only sound

heard in many years

besides the voice of

the soloist

Ringing like an untuned

symphony, far, far away

yet so foreign it blistered

The drum which only

recognized angelic pitches

causing the fists to

 clench, tighter

making the sweat drop

into the ever-widening water

The mouth forced open

eyes collapsed to a shut

chords in the throat

Caught, no sound

came out,it had

mutated pitches

dancing in its wake

that cannot be heard,

not worthy of praise

And yet these silent years

reflected in a wet mirror

behind the stage are hazy

As the short hand

reached the seven

in the evening every

night, the soloist took

the stage alone

flawless, no applause

Water now rushing

well past the ankles

swayed the soloist

Still writhing in a

pain from endless

vacant applauses dripping

to the water and mixinig

in each memory that was held

in a moment flooding from

The  cracking mirror,

shards shooting off

and swept into the current

To the hole which

had no end

until the pressure

became unbarable

the mirror burst

into a great wave

Knocking the

soloist from his

lonely stance of perfection

Free falling in the hole

washed by the water

which held his pain

the waves sounding much

like the applause desired

lifting the weight

We the Free



Glass in My Eyes

The reflections that play
against the glass in my
eyes show you a journey

What my sight has
shown me are things
not just views

But rather a story;
perhaps my story, the
reason I came to be

The reason I am the
way I am, formed
continuously by the

Visions I have seen
every waking moment
of my on-going life

So rather judge my
visions of these passing
stories across the

Glass in my eyes
to fully know the
story of me