Hey
Look at me.
I’m talking
to you…
may I ask
a question?
When you read a poem,
when you look at me,
have you ever
considered
what you are doing?
You are eating.
Each word you
look at
enters your mind.
And each word
has a life of its own
but like
a raw piece of
fish
a bad piece of
meat
there is a chance of a
parasite
wriggling inside
a word
hooks in your mind
now
consuming you…
A Poet’s Trojan Horse.
And look how much
you have eaten
already~
I hope you
continue to read
poems
I would love
the company~
Vending Machine (Warning: deals with abuse and prostitution, erotic)
You saw
me
around the
corner
and smiled
rushing
to me
dropping
your dowry
along the
way.
Your hands
trembled
as you
inserted it
into
my cold
unfeeling
body.
The prize
you desired
stopped
midway
and as you
beat me
with your
fists
you saw
me
for who I am
finally
when I finally
broke.
What I Found When Weary
There are jewels to be found
in the stomach of a dragon
a fire breathing chest
your sword is the key
open it and you’ll see
there are jewels to be found
that reflect divine light
that reminder of new life
in the cave of Sheol
through the Valley of Death
there are jewels to be found
when your weak and weary
grab nothing else from that cave
Mammon’s gold or Beel’s silver
only through killing him
are there jewels to be found.
Dog
Dutiful
And that‘s the Danger
of a soldier of the Dirt
Determined and
Dead-set to follow
any Doctrine
Despite the master.
Overjoyed
with the Owner’s presence
Overflowing like a
cup in an Ocean
a reward for Obedience
of the Outcast
taken with Open arms.
Golden
a Golden heart
whose Gates open
to the Glorious
to the Gaudy
whether Gallant or Gross-
Their hearts do not care
For that’s a Dog.
Welcome
There is this concept in Christianity called the canon. Not the weapon you see in medieval or pirate movies. But the list of books that are believed to be from God.
There is this misconception that canon is something that books are made into. That a group of saintly men can touch any book and turn it into Scripture. But really all they did was-
recognize it for what it was.
That‘s what being published means to me.
It doesn’t make me a writer.
It doesn’t make me a different person.
It‘s just when a group of wise men see me and my work for what they are.
They recognize me for who I am and decide others should recognize it too.
If this is the case, it’s simply opening the door of my life to a curious few and saying-
“Welcome. What took you so long?”
The Dandelions
He watched them blow in the wind.
He sat on a polished green bench watching his two kids blow dandelions across the park. It wasn’t a large park but he choose the bench closest to his kids and the strange dandelion patch they found. Though he wasn’t fond of the weed, a child’s smile had turned it into a flower- as long as they were happy, he was. So he watched his children turn weeds into flowers at the park.
He loved his children so much some could say he hated them. Most of the time he’s spending time at his desk. Hands covered in ink and sometimes his forehead. An empty inkwell, scribbled post-it-notes, a full waste bin, a room some would describe as a symbol of overtime. He was the comic artist for the local newspaper just like his father was. And, like his father, worked so hard following the premise that as long as his kids were provided for, they’ll be okay.
The first child was a lanky girl who was very good a grabbing things. Even when her late mother held her she always manage to grab something. The keys, earrings, books (especially books) and food. If she wanted it then she took it. Which surprisingly was never a problem at the store.
The second child was a small boy who kept to himself… until he got to trusting you. Then the boy would pour out all of his thoughts and energy in enough words and movements to stage a play. His mom would sit there and take the whole river that his heart had to give. And the husband could never understand that strength.
When she left them for Heaven, he almost fell into his work till his boss was wise enough to force him a break. He came home that day a man broken till a lanky girl grabbed him tightly and a small boy flooded the house with his grief. And they all sat. And they cried.
And so the man sits happily as his children play. He hasn’t been this happy in years. He looks and sees the dandelions flowing through the sky like lanterns. To him this was a festival for his love long gone. So when his children called him over he couldn’t disagree.
He gets up from the bench and is staggered a bit from sitting down too long. As he walks he feels life slowing down as if it’s preserving a moment in glass. When he gets there, one child is talking non stop while the other has a bunch of dandelions in her hands.
He goes to hug them.
Then a soft wind blows
and like dandelions the two children bodies break apart into pieces and fly across the sky like lanterns.
He looks at the patch of dandelions in utter silence. And he sees something white jutting out of the dirts. Slowly he digs up the “something“ till he sees it. A young child’s arm bone. And soon a leg. And soon a rib cage. And soon a skeleton. Then several. All with little roots and dandelions spurting out.
He looked up.
Unfeeling.
At his children flying across the sky.
He watched them blow in the wind.
And another wind blew…
and he flew too…