Unique Kind of Normal

As soon as, I married madness and rebellion…

the tilted, chaotic, walls, fell in upon themselves.

A panting dog with only a muddied puddle to quench her thirst…I gave into acceptance of water from the sullied, still waters.

Every morning, as sanity mounts upon a cluttered and chipped floor.

Inching closer to the bedroom door.

Every morning, ordinary thoughts and scattered mind debris, grasp at my feet.

Must remain stringent and pull a unique kind of normal…around me…

Head in Sand’s of Cotton

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.

Numbed Consent

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,

numbed consent

A catatonic, petrified

Gentrifying,

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

One Thing Leads to Another

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.

Words and Willfulness by the Wayside

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. 

firing at trees
I would imagine it is difficult to stare into the woods…to see only one tree.  But then again, an     un-examined life is no small feat.