The matters of survival…came minus a note. It arrived with no fanfare…Teasing me…so, perhaps, I would not know it was there. The tactics did not grasp at straws. It was kindred to a hungry, stray dog…giving to a constant gnaw. Eating and thriving …Instincts purposeful and raw. By happenstance, my strategy began under covers. I stuck my head in a sand of cotton. Instead of waking up…I came to. All but the pain had been forgotten. And, thus I began my infinite walk towards survival. Yet, I have never been a fan of the games people play. Always had to do things my own way. Discovering…long ago, when walking alone, there is no deceiving with the faces we portray.
Mold growing on mold
What a souvenir
I light a Marlboro Red and pretend to disappear into the seams of late show talk
On the screen, puppets for complacency dance…ever so near
I could fluff the pillow to a higher state
However comfortable, I could also, puncture what it is…
I stand for
in and out
out and about of this,
A catatonic, petrified
be safe…leave no trace
Bare ass, I lay down to stay up late
Searching the cushions for loose change to purchase an empty plate
Hate has no home here!
Can We live without the Death Penalty?
Are none of us as…we appear?
From country meadow to north country butchers…who dare not sleep…to urban sheep.
I could place argyle socks over history…
I cannot disguise my cruel feet.
When I pigtail my banner…’does all good intention freckle my deceit?’
Do not answer me, the signature will hurt.
For me to petition diversity…rancor must have no common ground.
Do not advise me to…not Act Up.
To do so would hurt.
Every good intention…a twilight to conventional curse.
Need not dwell on all that has vanished to the wayside…
all the pokes and prods…
all the worries on the doorstep.
Words and willfulness that weigh on my features.
Pen and paper missteps etched in hollow bark meant to…undo.
A drumming beat…that is not quite thunder-like.
Rhythm’s noise now…an imperfect blue funk mixed with classic hues and purposeful refrain.
A tune not a one can claim.
Divergence’s influence…small tunnels from matter to the mane.
I believed in what was said
Thou I wished I accepted less of everything
This book of gospel seeping into rabbit holes
Trifle left accept gritty, grains of falsehood
Reeling from inclement pavement
Reeling from obedient hearsay
My becoming, a clay footprint, fragile, breakable when placed upon such an erroneous display
My first impression out…
A caged animal sedated nonetheless alert
casting the shackles away
to which I held the original key…to what women say