All Quiet On the Western Front

Royal blue
these seas of red
can you ever stop-
start again?

wishing well
i look inside
hard to see bottom
sound disappears

raise that flag
mourning son
shine again
concede the win

My song is gone
Little lost voice
miss...all wrong
tacky tongue, moist

The departed eyes have seen some crys but the daily "do's" are lovely lies.

look east and,
at least...

Die There Then

Father don't fail and mother, why must you call....when the front has passed and the Summer swings to Fall....should we be there yet or wait a while still...illusion and allusion to the ferrous will chills? Stop me silly someday....but for now just point the way down the block....down the dock....down the braided boardwalk....we'll peer off with peers and command our smiles smite the shimmering isle that hasn't had friendly fun in a while....it lies dishonestly and mocks the moon......but we move on in our own ways....high time we start....high time we count and call.....our son.

Loosen, Release

Ever tightening.
Winding.
Twisting.
There is this stranglehold...
The wind tightens it
Your hands manipulate it.

Pick up the scissors.
Cut the hold.
You'll be freer.
Feel looser.
Let go, there is fun, there is work
Responsibilities last forever.
There is no lever,
That shuts them off at the switch in the cool of day.
This chokehold that you release is
Pressure eased.

Happiness.
Freedom.
Once you realize you're not confined.
Strive instead to become
Defined.

Knock Knock...

The Future of America

Abduction Envy

...take me away to a shore of flat stale champagne water rushing to embrace clear sparkling silver sand dunes climaxing in a flurry of audible murmurs and gossiping giggles that wake the old men in their straw huts from their own vivid dreams of impossibly blue water and yellow sand...

...and the party people fly like they swim desperately for family picnic pics on a random level of some unannounced hanging gardens of wild untamed rainforests full of hunters hunting for their prey's bodies and prey praying for their hunters' souls...

...to a wide expanse of windy indigo blue plains that stretch so far to meet the challenge of a citrus orange sky with abundant clouds the shape of puffy lips descending to fumigate all fiscal thoughts of those who look up in contemplation...

...where the practical pigs administer their own eggs and the handy horses their own milk so the farmboy can lay on that silky indigo grass and nonchalantly chew on a stalk of tasteless wheat while tucking his sweetheart's hair behind her tickled ears...

...to a mountain forest maternity ward of fertile ferns that somewhere coo nighttime lullabies to babies in their nests and elsewhere shed their golden yellow leaves onto the velvet violet earth below as offering to bury pasts both remembered and forgotten accordingly...

...and where whole bustling metropolises cease and desist in order to visit the sick old lady on her creaky deathbed and each recite a chapter of her lifelong achievements such as raising dogs who can roll over and tending a garden of treehouses sprawled with off-white misspelled exclamations...

...to where a tired dying crimson red supergiant appreciates every single precious moment it has left before it takes down millions of lives along with it and sets each day to rest for some three or so jade green followers that illuminate those ignorant and remind those who forget by choice...

...during a golden age of not nothing, nor everything, but just something, anything...

confused intake manifold

take! take! and shut the damn door....you're letting all the hot air out.....and it's cold outside....it's cold and cobalt bold from heavy breathing....heavy lifting....heavy hearts and heads.....quit. just stop and stand and twist that band around one more time...let it get tight around your wrist and let the names add up right down your list...but don't tell me what you have to get, just get it...and bring it back...share it and I'll pass the plates....we'll sit and talk....discuss our fates....do you see the scratches and the scribble scroll scribes? they sit in anticipation......of someone, something else.....emancipation....proclomation? trick-turn whore....is a sloppy snore bore......what we want is something more.....do you understand that your hand on my heart is my hand......or is your head too deep in the sand?.......ahh the chains of command....and the blind man begging while the woman wails away....this is what I wish they'd say....tomorrow, yesterday, today.......dismay.