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~

Fear is flowing, going through tears

from his cap and

through his hair

from his soul and

through his fists.

Negotiate and

read his soul

you won’t find the answer

ambiguous.

A JoJo beatdown

is imminent.

“Good grief”

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.

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.

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.

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?”

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…

The God given

head start

that the Hare

had wasted

and the Tortoise

worked for.

So you know when you were a kid

and you thought it would be cool

licking a rock you found near the car?

That‘s what salt tastes like.

see what I mean.