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Women on the beach, fabric up your ass, salt and sand. Are your teeth sliding together, like two different types of paper or is there a small piece of sand crushed from the weight of your uneven enamel canine camels? Humpback beautiful sky. Did you buy those jeans you liked today? What did your mother say? Laugh across the universe, til’ shrink, til’ Boston, til’ stripes, fingerpainted cactus flower and mysterious juices, ice, brussel sprouts, tomato curd around the clitoris of Mother Nature and the vines of amazement or the magazines the grasshoppers enjoy reading are no longer published – At least sold at the local corner store for grasshoppers – I saw you sleeping with them on the fourth of July and they bit at you before you noticed yourself turning red. Catchphrase of community hey, you catch my flip flop! And give me a kiss. I don’t care if the neighbors watch. Let’s go outside and pierce each others ears! That’d be fun. In the woods of my life, I have found it is much easier to embrace the joy than to torture it, or puncture it with scissors, baby bag babble batch bunch bomb. Catchphrase of continuity, hey you can’t do that! -It doesn’t make sense with the economy and all. Women in the shallow, fabric slipping down your hips, better pull it up soon, salt and sand. The pattern of sand, send me to another dimension of sunbathed cheese, comforting froggy chicken shrimp larvae can you keep it to medium level of volume so the kids can sleep in the sun and make fun of the old lady who didn’t have kids but she loves wearing neon and decorating herself with tan lines; Want to be her friend and feed seagulls the appropriate foods that won’t block their esophaguses with her. I want to see my Aunt Teresa again soon, though I’ve seen her before and been there before; Want to go to Cuba with the love of my life before the apocalypse is possible, though I suppose there is always a possibility of the apocalypse happening. Uh! I can feel the truth and the truth in the truth of knowing that she feels at home in outside inside her foolish vessel, her gorgeous vessel. The sky is pale until it is not, feed the flesh and prevent the Earth’s rot. Water the plants with the fruits of the ocean and understand the land better than it may understand you – Reciprocity, baby; Talk to wind and water of absolute reality, natural disorder, natural inertia of harmony, t-shirted nirvana, the curse of a Nirvana t-shirt, salt bath, bath salt, getting cashback of bananas for the lower of a pre-packaged water bottle with no name, for one, one double step, one triple step, one two three four fuck me jab me poke me with your firepoker, speak a rhyme in a world of non-rhymers and eat lesbian chocolate cake by the piers and let me know what it conjured in your bleached denim mind. I’m coming back to standing by my forlorn teacher. We let our mouths fall open wide and unformed unrehearsed sounds spill out; Mallets, brooms, broomsticks, stickshifts, umbrellas, billings; Bridge bridge bridge, troubled water, rocky water, wooden water. Absolute reality is and isn’t anything special. How am I going to walk around with a head full of cemented prejudices and unwavering waves of at will or to begin with? It is the temporary lust of the divine actors and gods and practitioners and chiropractors of bacon egg and cheese. Atlantic Beach: June Thirteenth; The polish on the toes of my left foot shade velvet – bright light vanilla purples. A bird pecks at the underwing area of itself. Hi, second bird. The liquid church crunch of the low tides tell me it makes no use or sense worrying about the way the currents are moving, energies I’ll exert moving in an opposite directorial positional directional frightful time consuming shrapnel days and days worth of training in inhibition. Young man in the turkey blue shirt to my left, blowhole your way over to the old man in the darker blue shirt on my right, half a mile West of the first catch of the day. I sit still as a median of their distances; In red, green, and turquoise. Fleets of shells giggle and pee themselves under my snowy whitey sandy feets, sensitive and insecure of flatness and my waist’s desire to remove its vastness, yet if the ocean were to do that there’d be no homes for seahorses. Why did I ever go to the land of horns and taxis? I’m not pruned by the waters pressing at the surface of the world and I’m not burnt from the sun. I am no more and no less. You are south of here, and also here with Me. There does exist the genetic information of the world at some point to some extent, spread as fresh ashes do spread through the sands of the submerging and emerging at shore’s breakage of mundane to what makes a man.

To all the girls like me who knew what they were at the fresh age of eight in year three.

To all the girls like me who enjoyed wearing dresses and sneakers and hoodies and makeup and shorts.

To all the girls like me who worried about being judged and hid themselves from their otherwise supportive but undereducated families.

Listen close, shut your bedroom door and read what I am about to tell you. Believe every single word even if it sounds like a fairy tale.

You’re alright. You’re okay. You’re more than normal.

When you walk into the world, you will see that there are more girls like you. You will see them sitting alone at lunch, you will see them laughing with broken smiles along to the jokes their friends make.

There’s girls like you all over the world. There’s girls like you reading this right now. Don’t be scared.

It’s okay if you have to hide. It’s okay if you can’t escape the monsters and cobwebs that hold you back.

But always remember, there’s a family out there. There are people out there, girls, boys and others like you.

They’re waiting for you. And they’ll keep waiting even when you have wrinkles on your face and you’re turning gray. Because girls like you, are normal.

Gas light. No fight. Red flag, go
If anybody notices the answers always no
Smile. No pain; cover up the bruises
I am your God. You bow down, or I tighten up the nooses
Fear is what you shall live! Not a life of your own
I’m the only being who will love you, abide don’t condone
Bonded to me by the trauma I expel
I’m the sheep wearing alpha, welcome to your Hell.

Two cycle oil & gasoline.
Poison ivy & gravel rashes.
We weren’t paid to work the farm
but once in a while
Dad got a wild hair at an auction
& returned with some shit
in the back of the pickup.
“Lookit this, boys. Go-cart.
Just needs a pull cord.” Or a
flat-tired Honda whose brakes
are shot but steers mostly straight.
A frame of angle iron with
four wheelbarrow tires & a chainsaw
motor. Pulleys and belt, a seat
from a Farmall Super C.
Minibike with a lawnmower engine.
That one motorcycle you had to push,
down the hill and Bang! Off you go.
Dubious clutches.
Manual brakes.
A hedge of lilacs to catch you.
For the youngest a fat-tired moped,
almost a cycle, three gears & automatic.
Throttle & go, laps around & around
the barnyard. “Just don’t go on the road.”
But the oldest ones, of course, did.
Blue smoke cloud snarling
on the shoulder, the ditches
to Muska’s tire shop.
Buy a cold soda pop.
Drink it there because Lud Muska
wanted the bottle back.
Sunday off from milking to chores,
a day of blue smoke hanging over us
like unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes.
The way we ran dusty turns &
turnovers, gravel & dogs barking
& eventually escaped by
less excitable forms.
Somehow got married,
stayed married to raise hard
working sons and daughters plus
some beautiful & sassy & able
to manipulate Daddy any day.
Dads, siting at the picnic table,
dozing & drinking beers, smiling
at each other.
Do you remember?
Man, do I ever. Crazy times.
Men with chuffing laughs &
the same eyes, same as the
grandkids got, part amused,
part wary. Comparing memories
instead of paychecks. Telling
stories until nothing else to remember
is left out, car wreck & funeral,
cousins up from the city.
Safer topics than that farm,
the rough collection of motorized
bits strewn into memory.
Eyes slide to one another &
a small nod of approval, yeah,
at least we never
hit our kids.

Softly, silent criesare heard below
Godly, those cries I know
Of a girl who wishes to be close to another
With dark pearl eyes during the shimmering, sensational summer
To feel a bit of comfort, to know her presence
Through the days, she reminds herself of her true adolescence
Playing with the flowers as they dance her humming tune
Praying, swaying for many hours to feel romance til the moon
As she rested her eyes, I couldn’t help but look after her
For her safety is valued, I much prefer
I prefer that she finds her love though I may not help
Even the slightest sound could identify me, even a soft yelp
As she awakes, she starts to wonder what else she can do
Baking sweet cakes, looking at strong thunder, or anything else new to
Despite these options, she curls up and decides to cry
“…tonight will arrive, he will hold me close sky high”
She’s said this to herself for years, she is no quitter
Yet she has no hatred in her heart, she is not jealous or bitter
Only love and compassion surround her, making her an angel
An angel I cannot interact with, only observe…how painful
As she’s curled up, suspicious droplets come from the sky
Paths of water swirled, and many vicious lanes from hell arrived…why?
The girl screams, shaking her head to stop this nightmare
But it doesn’t stop, the water deepening and her face a total stare
“An observer you are, this is her fate”
Fate is only promised, it is completed by others besides you
If I come to rescue her, I will lose my wings
I will lose my title, a mere human being
To hell with it, I jump towards her
Through the waters, feeling a bump…right here!
She has to be near me, her presence is clear
We will get out together, free from this hell…dear
As I fly towards the sky, I feel my feathers departing
Jazz plays, growing thorns around my body. Real, all of this…starting
The numbness of my body, my eyelids closed shut
How am I alive? Who, where, what
I am laying on the flowers from the before, covering me from the sun
“…so you are the sacred angel, you’re the one”
The voice, the girl who long awaits love
“Though you may be injured, you’re still a beautiful dove”
A kiss was given, her lips glistening with fortune
“It seems my love was hidden all this time, a small misfortune”
The flowers tickle my body as if they were healing me
“Do not feel angry or confused, instead feel glee”
As my body started to strengthen, that’s when I knew
Cupid walks right through

Why is a word that can cause an argument. Why do I get stuck in the my head? Why do I have
labels on my skin? Why are you being so dramatic? Why do talk that? Why aren’t you happy?
Why are you happy? Why do ask so many questions? Why can’t you be like the others? Why
cant you sit still? Why don’t you just shut up and get over it?

Why would you say that? Why is he doing this that to me? Why won’t he stop? Why am I
wearing clothes associated with my age yet he sees me as an adult? Why is this a tradition?
Why is it common? Why won’t she be nice to me? Why won’t she just love me as a sister and
not as a punching bag a reminder of the past the face she saw crying in the back as the show
goes on!?

Why do strangers get the love of a blood when I get the fat that’s collected when separated!?
Why do I have to yell the same shit only to be met with confusion expression and laughter? Why
do I get the feeling of being selfish when I always had my self and why do I have to be the
bigger person with smallest number out of three?

I guess the biggest why is ( why me?).l

“Take a single sip,
And you’ll be a bit better.”
I wish that it was that simple,
My temple feels ill and fettered.
Like chilled chains that weigh,
And eventually make me pay,
For my sad loneliness,
As holding this,
A cup of black abyss,
Like shriveled lips of a damned death kiss.

when i was a boy and evening rain would come,
i would venture outdoors, walk to the curbside
and open the door of my dad’s car.
once inside, i would lock the door, slide over
to the driver’s seat and sit, quiet and still.

there, in reinforced solitude, i could hear rain beating all around me, leaving little gem-drops
on the wind shield that glistened in the tawny
street light.

from behind the wheel my journey would begin:
up city streets and down gravelled country roads,
over creeks and under railways, and into years
yet to be.

past the edge of the world i would drive,
not knowing my destination ─ i only knew
that when i got there, i would know i had
arrived at the unknown place i belonged.

the rain would drum heavier, and crescendo
to a thunderous roll to welcome me home,
to follow with my eyes the erratic trails
left by raindrops gliding down the glass,
until the sky had dripped dry.

now, in my twilight fancies, i sit again
in dad’s car and await the rain.

I am learning to forgive myself, how to scour the floor
Of my dilapidating soul of remorse
& scrap the debris of regret off the pate of my mind.

Tell me:

Is the world

Now safe for us, the crumbs of creation,

Frail-hearted beings, to tread?

Has the black-hearted men bartered
Their enormity for light at the bazaar of redemption?

You whose rare smile rekindle
The moribund flame of hope
In my aghast chest,
Hang me like a gem in your vault of vows.

There’s a part of me gradually going dinosaur
A tribe in my mind slowly caressing the lips of oblivion

Don’t blame me, dear admirers,
For always acting blind to the roses

You drop every dawn at my door:
The traumas, blazing embers

Of the past are still very much alive.

I wish there was
a law against
Grief.
If there were,
I’d take Grief to court,
accuse him of awful crimes
(including THEFT)
and seek a life sentence
(like he’s given me)

I’d gladly testify
on how Grief
always stays past his season;
arrogantly accompanying me
wherever I go.

I’d like to highlight
to the jury how
Grief
harasses Happiness,
and prove to the court
how Grief
bullies broken hearts.

When speaking to the judge,
(the Great Your Honor)
I would seek a sentence
of solitary confinement,
giving prison guards
permission to
seize his power.

Lastly, I would propose
Grief has no use,
Grief should cease to exist,
and
Grief serves no purpose;

except. . . maybe,
to challenge me
to see what
I don’t want to be. . .
and that is,
Grateful.

Grief challenges me
to still be grateful.

I wish there was a law against Grief.