plot

choice libations
squirm in mother’s mind
witness the cycle
of sobriety and drunkenness
raise a glass
to toast success
lounge in the surburban yard
grass cut and smelling fresh
we discover nothing
including ourselves

signals (😞warning)

I am
trying
to understand
what i will do.
the little i
brave and true
cowers to you
the signal green to red
we almost
pull the trigger
stopped short
Go Figure!
revenge is sweet
and getting sweeter
but sleep is sweetest of all.

somebody’s fool

body is changing
to form yours
blood-laced gloves
back pockets torn

MacBeth fooled once
me twice more

submissive love
chains around this heart
your knife slices
kinky through my life

not sleepy

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

Haven’t thought much lately. At least nothing too deep. It is 4:09 am. Our apartment is quiet. The apartment above us is quiet. No footsteps creaking or baby crying. The curry smells from next door are tamed. Our dinner dishes are washed and a week’s worth of work clothes are ready. Freshly pressed.

Some where, some one is moving. The force of life is being applied. Rightly? I hope so. We all hope so. Except the person with a gun in hand pays no attention to our wishes. An argument ensues. And words are bad but not good enough for the gun in hand. Words kill but bullets finish the job. No compromising, in that town. Not today. Not ever.

It is an hour before the sun rises. I am too far away from the Atlantic to look out the window and watch the sun appear. I take life for granted. The easy flow of air. I imagine the moon is the same. Thoughtless.