bullet holes and children’s drawings

Everybody won’t be all right but some will live on

 

 

 

 

 

I come to you from the future.

Hello, I am you, but old and going to

bed with a full stomach where no one makes

me do anything I don’t want too. 

 

You are everywhere on this planet,

in U.S.A and Russia, China and Sweden, Japan

and Iran, Bolivia and Finland, in Kenya and in England.

You are never alone. Many other children suffer with you

Keep this in mind, and sing.  Many will

try to kill your song. They will make it so you only sing in secret

but do not stop. Even if it must be done in secret, your song

will pluck you human.

 

 

 There are wounds that you will never draw in pictures, and even attempting

to will never cross your mind. Some things are worse then bombs

because a bomb can only explode once and the repetition of disease

that your eyes see, you will not be able to ignore, or explain.

There are people who will tell you that you have to forgive, and put

the past behind, but there are horrors, that no matter

how you try you will not forget or forgive.

Those who say you have to mean well, but they never were a poor

child or they are still hiding from their own sorrow.

Be patient with them. Some of you will be past

the age of consciousness and still be unable to read or write

 or fend for your self. That shame and useless will stay

with you, but if you let it, it will push you hard to learn and do right. 

When your legs are strong enough, little children, run

away from the abuse and neglect and war to a piece of land

where you can grow and work as you will, with your hands

If your legs never grow strong, sing where you are. 

Perhaps it will strengthen those who make the journey on. 

I am waiting for you to join me in watching a sunset, and tearing up

in joy from it. I long for the day, when you will tell me you have learned

to love and be loved, and I meditate for the day when you smile

at your children because you know they have it good. 

Gracefully

Death confuses me,

so does birth. Don’t have

an answer and  no one does.

Forget kids or eye opening experiences. 

They’re not answers. 

Fuck rot and spoilage and growth

manifestos. That’s never an answer. 

Forget the gods, this won’t answer.

 

Death and life make it hard

to touch a friend or smell

a tulip, or laugh at Red Skeleton or read

a Budbill poem.  Hard to nap on

a towel or sing in my pillow. 

Its all rather nice, the death,

the birth, the in between.  

The time I spend listening

 to young people and rocker politicians. 

I even enjoy the pain, I do. 

I like the smiles at funeral lunches and the “sucks”

from bratty teenagers soldiers,

the noodles that fall on mold

floors’ of closing ma and pa stores and burnt

chicken neck suppers left untended

because of floods and high winds,

forest fires and nuclear explosions.

 

Someday I’ll have to admit, 

I can’t make sense. Something should but 

I’m confused.  Dumb, slow, and possibly

already too rotted to remain relevant.   

They’ll have to kill me

with a heavy hammer before I let life tip

away from my mortal, inconsistent body. 

They’ll have to tell me to die and still I won’t do it gracefully.

DEAR CITIZENS OF U.S.A

Dear citizens, if you are looking for poetry, scan down and find it where it is, for this time I come to talk of politics, of truth, I come to ask where do you stand, or if you are still sitting. 

The old labels of politics are no longer meaningful.  I do not align with any party and my beliefs are the same as most of yours. I believe in freedom and justice, in human dignity and respect.  From my conversations with fellow citizens, I have come to the conclusion that most, if not all want what is best.  We may disagree on the process. There may be some skewing or withholding of facts that heighten our disagreement. But we do agree on wanting freedom and justice.

I come from a big family, and all of my brothers have a different take on politics.  But when we come together and discuss politics, we find ourselves sharing a common desire to uphold our constitution, and our democracy.  So I make the assumption that you do too and that you care citizen about your nation as much as I do.  That despite your faith, level of income, or intelligence you want what is best. 

 

Now I will ask you to carefully research the candidates that are running for president and vote for the person you believe will best uphold our constitution. Do not be swayed by gender or race but look carefully at what the person has done, and double-check any claimed made by them or about them. Take your time and treat it as a job. It is your job.  The senate record is public information and on the web.  You are just as much to blame as the leader you vote for or allow to stay in office citizen. The future is your hands, whether they are clean or not.  

Indigo Is The Gods’ 2nd Favorite Color

I’ve made myself into this head.

Let me explain.  I haven’t a cure

for a old age but the lonely heart

is my special tea. I draw the heroes

of my mind and with careful words

bring them alive again.

 

I’ve been a horrible friend to you world.

Instead of getting out of my bed

I’ve stayed in and prayed.

Just when my faith was the strongest

I woke to Jesus and Buddha laughing

 at my desire to heal with food and Band-Aids. 

Such laughter it rolled my body and spit

me out to space where I saw the blue

gem and the swirl of white and the blood of human waste

 

I am you. You are me. The simplicity of faith was hidden

under a despair tree. My cat died, I lost

my grandmother and the gods seemed too busy

to exist. But then Timothy came to my door and sat

on my floor and stared until  the petals of his hands fell

on my legs and my hair wrapped his lungs in musical chimes

and in my bard crimes he found his place lotusing at my side

 

 

First you understand life is important.

You and me and your fat named glue, are lovely

creatures that exist in energy and these manifested

symbols are grey play to fool you. 

 

The snake woman tries to find the gods in a book

but the gods are looking at her, weighing a word or two

in between they take sips of brew. The Gods like to sit by

me and rub my back while I sing sad groanfull

tunes, occasionally one of the gods looks up and smiles out the moon.

 

 

The dead are dead.  The world is free to die again.

What more do you desire.  If you, would just lie

as a flower, wilt and seed away you’d never

pick up a weapon of fear. 

 

The gods think I’m a funny girl, moaning on the pain

of war and hunger, as though the gods are immortal to blame,

the gods say, “Dance a little dance,

shake your nervous system

ass until your petals warp away”

 

(and) All this time the answer you were lookin for was inside.

What luck to have a cure for boredom and insanity.

 

The snake woman with her swaying blue jean skirt hurts

my heart.  Why does she swing like that?

Who told her to pretend to be something she is not?

 

But what does a enlightened woman do, when there’s never been

one before. What does she do but sway as blue grass

in the first morning cool.

 I am just a good giddy godly fool preacher. This big world

wants to serious and in pain me. Each time I wipe

the egg out of my hair someone is there to crack it back.

The baby chicks will never know a breakfast of millet

or a mid-afternoon grasshopper snack.

 

The sun is on my back, hot –internally I am as free as the gods

but the force of metal and roads, games and hatred are chains

on my magic guru body.  Slender ankles never turned a head

but the gods turn on and on. If I could say this to anyone

I’d tell my husband. It would burn him out of his secret lair

where he saves the world through math and elbows

 

If we could get some time away, spend our lives on Lake Superior

I know he’d find his answer and I would say nothing

on the games’ disaster.

 

Every generation needs a hero and so I sing about his large

penis and blue eyes. His perfect man hips, square, and solid

welding into my rounded sips of eternity.  Shut eyes and feel

every lovers’ touch: I’m thankful for a man with logic lips that find

themselves whole inside my body.

 

Such a silly thing,  joy in a coffee house cup,

the gods turn into me and remind me of the beauty

of their world. The grind of coffee.

The chatter of women. A “mommy” by a little boy.

The cashiers gabbing about soup and hours.

A lady that comes in with groceries. And the set down

of cups and the clinks of the cups on the saucers

and the song on radio -folky gospel.

People actually create art and  live as private masterpieces

to touch divinity with their dirty hands. This is brand new.  

They’ve made a choice to inspire you. What luck. What hope,

what children will grow.   Perhaps the future is brighter

now than ever but perhaps the first fish eaters

felt the same intoxication of evolution dragging their humanity onward

 

Spice, you are a reason enough to smile. 

My words are nothing compared to the sounds of these woman

who smear around such duty, and affection of what historical

mothers repeated. And the snake woman who eats a book of prayer

with short hair, the symbols will never find her a beauty

but in the gods she is the mother of fecundity.

Mother would blush if she knew the kinds of thoughts

children have.   She should’ve let Timothy in, and she’d know

her god, all the better. And stopped her worry about smile

touched childeren.

 

I found the reason was never a reason and love has always been

enough of a pint to stop a world in its crumble.

When the sun supernovas we’ll have learned

to void and to create.   Magic it will be, but to the future

it will be what comes naturally.

 

There is hope and we’ll all be fine.  It has nothing

do with this or that climb. 

 

Organic shamanic you are me. I am what you eat.  I’d rather

a fruit, so pick the season carefully. In the august heat

we’ll find a perfect beet to put our organic cream on.

Look at this tomato, it is revolution, juicy and perfectly peace.

Acidity does that to most.  I’ll not go to war Father, Mr. Higher Power,

I’m to busy to dance on the broken pavement,  and smell

earth flowers that grow between it.

 

Loneliness will solve your (and the Gods) problems of destiny.

Keep your head up Poet

Like many other poets, I sometimes submit a poem for publication and I am told something like “we like your voice and keep writing but your work is not right for us” and some times they say, yes we’ll publish your …

 

I don’t  know why I want to get published.  Maybe for my Mom.  and family.  So I can say that I am published so they will be proud of me.  I don’t know why I am still trying to impress my family.  I want to say, see look, if you work hard it matters and you can make your dreams come true.

 

 but frankly I don’t know if I can and I don’t know if you can.  

I know this.  I’m getting better.

 I’m trying harder and perhaps nothing will come of my life-art, but again maybe something far better has come from it already.  Perhaps my poems touch people and allow them for a little while to share their loneliness with me, allow me to carry the weight just a little bit for them so they can stretch.  I wrote a poem recently and it made a friend cry.  Thats something, isn’t it?  Maybe thats stupid.  Maybe thats not atomic.  but maybe it is.  Maybe having someone touch you through a poem is important.  I know poems and stories have had a impact on my life, have given me courage and friendship.  have showed me a way to heal and to move forward, perhaps thats what I am doing. Its what I am trying do but sometimes I question if my efforts are meaningful.  I bet you do too.  What art I’ve seen has been meaningful to me, but this comes from someone who loves Crime and Punishment, Shakespeare, and yes, Dennis Lee and Chekov. and tom robbins, Brian Turner, and Sylvia and Leonard C and list of others that moved the hell out of me and sent it far off. ( Robert Jordan moves me too.) I read like others pray.  so I try to write in way that makes others’ lives more meaningful, and of course, I get off on writing.  

 

but does it have point or meaning or is worthwhile to anyone but me?  I don’t know, I just don’t know.  

 

 I can’t give up but I still sometimes question art goals, and wonder, are they selfish? or are they helpful?

 

Am I leaving the world a little better?  are you, are you trying?  

 

 

 

weirdo waste

I have the week to pick the strings of my mass produced starcaster finder that is badly out of tune. Yuck.    Feel pity for the downstairs neighbors. They have to listen to me groan sing. Its gross but I must do it.  If I don’t do it there is no fun in my day and a day without fun is stupid, waste of a day.  Lets collects rocks, yeah.   I like to have a good time.  Nothing weird.  Some like to have weird times and that’s good for those who like weird times but for me I prefer fun times.  At the beach. Riding bikes.  Not torture.   I know there are different strokes for different folks but I really don’t understand people who get off on torture.  It seems out there.  It really does and I don’t think the bible okays it.  

 

Wateraborting  is not family fun. I mean, really can you have a good time with your kids while torturing? tell me a time you wateraborted an innocent again daddy, please.  Your kids are never going to say that.   Torture  does not sound fun.  But that’s you.  You like weird times.  You’re lucky you’ve made it thus far with your odd personal tendencies.  most would sick their dog on you. I don’t have a dog, so don’t worry (cat lover here). I just think you may want to revaluate your belief system, past choices, self identity, etc. sanity.. Perhaps you already have and somehow see your self better than others.  You probably are.  most are stupid, you’re right.  But you are not.  You know what you do is wrong, don’t you. That’s okay. You can tell me.  remember, I don’t have a dog.  Sure, you have it hard. Sure, yes, and you do love it so. yes, you are in power, it comes with the job.    I’m fun and you’re weird.  That’s all there is to it.   Have you thought about just ending it, you know,  just stopping your weird ways to do the right thing?   Some people really change, you could be one of the 100, why, I bet, you could lose your weirdness but that’s not going to happen, is it. You like yourself too much.   It’s a shame.  What a waste.  Fucking weirdo waste. 

Painting: There is reason, at least

I have a question for you

If you are getting President Bush’s $300 check, or however much your getting,

what did you spend it on or do you plan to spend it on?

 

mine, I plan to pay off debt

 

what about you?  paying debt off too?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How is a check of that amount going to change anything for me? I’m going to put mine on my

debt, which my debt is much greater then little amount given as a market stimulant.

But who cares. I want the money. 

We’re so poor we are worse off than having zero dollars, we have negative dollars, with fees. Weird.

Charity cannot get on the couch.

 

 

Charity cannot get on the couch. Her “hello” to the empty cereal box is pointless. She nor the box, can find a way to crawl.

The door of the cottage leads out to a strand that

men and women wander with plastic bags and backpacks, and towels and dogs. Their eyes roll crossed, their wobbly necks hop their heads sporadically. Creamy spit cakes the sides of their sagging pink folds that fester even their cheeks into nightmares. 

A mountain threatens the horizon. A line of large houses insult the beach. 

The birds sing. It is spring. 

 

She lies on brown carpet and kneads her stomach, dragging her fat tongue against her teeth. She bites her tongue to the point of pain and then stops.  She repeats this in delirium for what seems to her, several million years, and yet when she looks at the clock on the wall, she stumbles over time. It is only an hour, or has it been thirteen or thirty-seven. Incoherent and exhausted, her body strums the floor in a bluesy rhythm, a 12 beat jag of shuffles and slides. Her black hair is twisted in dreads and sweat, it spiders around her thin shoulders and tangles with the ratted carpet.

 

There is a robin, red breasted twitting life outside the window, on the budded cherry tree.     

 

Charity would get up and do something about the dog in the backyard, but she’s turned apathetic. The dog was probably old and wandered into her backyard in the night. She didn’t know who owned the dog or if it was lost.   The dog must have been smart, for it picked a natural place to lie, in the grass under the shade of a white pine.  Its bloated body stank. 

  

 A dozen or so yellow finches swoop about, chase each other, and fluff their feathers. The first flies of the year buzz. Tender velvets slowly open and green sprigs pop out.  Rains, and suns.  Moths on the porch. 

 

 

A large hand knocks on door.  It could be Charity’s brother, maybe her sister. The old blind man who lives three cottages down called someone to complain about the stink. Charity tries to stand and look at the dog. She can’t and only sees what looks like a black tail. Perhaps the dog is not dead. Maybe it is sleeping and the stench comes from her. Perhaps it is because she pooped herself. And the dog is just resting in the shade. The knock continues. The door comes off the hinges and is laid against the window, blocking the cherry tree. The noise of strange voices muffles the sounds of the birds.  Several people come in and say “holly shi” a lot, and jigsaw around her.  She cannot stay awake.  She falls back into mist and open water.  She has a fishing pole in her hands, her brother John is there with their sister Tammy. John is laughing with a bottle of beer, and Tammy is giggling and asking Charity questions about who’s the greatest ever.  Charity says, “John’s alright, but he’s a canned pickle” which makes the young John hoot and laugh, and “what about Tammy?”  says John. “Tammy’s just a baby fish” says Charity. Tammy and John’s laughter becomes loud, and exaggerated. The hoots and hots turn into screams, and curses, gurgles and moans leave their laughing mouths. Their violent eyes become black triangles of swishing smashing swirls of glass and metal that jug down Charity’s throat.  She runs from them and trips over a tire on the side of the cottage.

 

The sun is out and playing on a little tulip, on its pink-white petals, on its three sepals and yellow stamens. The green stem is erect for the most part, but slightly curves over an old tire that lies next to it. 

Several large hands strap Charity to a board and carry her and put her into a vehicle with flashing stars.  They scan her body with mechanical devices that beep. They take away her clothes and put a sheet on her. She is cold and her teeth chatter. Her arms are tied down, and there are tubes coming into her.  She does not know where she is and does not hear the birds. The curtains are shut and she cannot see the sky.  No light creeps through the white blinds.  It must be night.  It was morning and there was the dead dog. She cannot stand up and has to go to the bathroom. She screams and finally gives in and goes on herself.  It is warm and it stings. She chirps until she can no longer. 

Cold hands come in and clean her. She wakes but she cannot see their faces.  She hears “oh gross,” and “why do I do this.”  She is cold and whistles out for a blanket. They give her cup with a nipple attached to it.  “This will give you strength,” says a hand. It taste sweet at first but then it taste like chalk. She pushes it way with her tongue but the hand is stronger and pushes the chalk back into her mouth and she must drink or drown.

The mist comes again and the blue water glistens as Charity licks the shore.  A fat man with a hook for a hand motions for her to sit on his lap. He tells her to call him father.  She does not want to and sits on sand.  Hook man comes over her, his shadow over takes the sun and she stares up at him. He has a bucket and net and wants her to catch little sliver coins.  She takes the bucket and net and tries do to what the hook man tells her to but she steps on something sharp and runs back onto the shore. The hook man shakes at her and asks her if she is afraid.  She says, “I stepped on beer bottle,” and he pushes her back towards the water. Charity stumbles and falls in the water, and chokes. She can’t breathe. She tries to stand but is too weak. The waves break over her head. The hook man pulls her by the hair and drags her on the sand.  Strange grey seagulls gather around her and yell “noodle.”  She hides her face in her hands. The hook man says, “Fudge it, you don’t even cook like me” and walks away. She is alone on the beach with the noodling birds.

 

She is again rough housed by the hands. They bend her legs and arms, shove things in her mouth, and ears. They wipe her with rough towels.  The curtains are opened and they feed her smashed up rice mixed with the liquid chalk. A face leans into her and shines a light in her eyes. She does not blink. She looks at it, surprised and mystified. She is moved to another room where there is an old blue woman.  The blue woman sings “this pittle pight of pine I’m gonna let it rine” over and over.  The blue woman looks at Charity and says, “Pull child, so lonely with notebody.” Charity does want the blue woman to look at her anymore and she chimes for her stop.  A red woman comes in wearing blue pajamas and forces her to drink the chalk again.  Time goes by and Charity looks out the window, staring, wondering where the birds are now, that she cannot feed them the rainbow cereal.  She does not see a single bird.  There is no way to tell how long she has been kept prisoner, she is in a giant cage where evil hands do horrible acts to birds and girls.  She hears the hollow gags of others and waits her turn. The blue woman sings the same song for ten thousand years, it seems, and then is silent.  Charity is happy at first, but there is weird taste in the room and when she calls to the woman, she does not respond.  A red woman in blue pajamas closes the curtains and then notices the blue woman.  The red woman in blue pajamas snorts a little and wheels the blue woman away.  Later when the curtains are closed for a third time, and no light peaks through the corners, a purple woman is wheeled in and put in the blue woman’s place. The purple woman growls and gags on a worm for a long time unto a red woman with blue pajamas, smiles at Charity and wheels the purple gnashing woman out.

 

 

There is a box with moving pictures in the room that is always on.  Charity can hear faint sounds coming from it.  She doesn’t recognize the songs, people or things in the box.  It is annoying and she looks to the closed window instead.

 

A blond woman comes in and asks Charity questions about her brother. Charity asks where the pickle is and pretends to cast a line. The blond woman shakes her head. Then the blond woman asks her about sister, and Charity makes her hand into a fish, “swimingly.” The blond woman asks Charity about her parents but Charity doesn’t know what parents are. Charity asks about the birds and the dead dog but the blond woman does not understand her.  Charity keeps trying to talk to her but the blond woman keeps stopping her, and telling her to use words, and not sounds. Charity is confused and chirped out.

She falls back into the mist and bright clear water.  She is on a swing and there is a scab woman hanging towels on a line.  The scab woman calls to Charity to help her but Charity cannot get up fast enough. The scab woman screams for her, and Charity crawls to her, and tries to help but knocks a towel off the line.  The scab woman smacks Charity and tells her to obey her mother. Charity hisses, and asks what is a mother, but the scab woman just beats her until she falls into the sand.  The scab woman steps on her back and leaves her tweeting with sand in her mouth.  Charity tries to get up and hang the towels but she cannot reach the line.  The scab woman gets in a red car and leaves.  Charity crawls into the house and picks up a box of cereal and eats some.  Through the open window she can see the birds. She drags her body to the window and flings some out for the birds. The red breasted robin pecks the cereal and chirps.  Charity smiles and says, “you well come.”  The robin nods and some yellow finches stop by for a visit and Charity gives some to them too.  They are playful yellow ribbons twirling and Charity giggles. 

 

When the mist leaves Charity sees a cigarette woman leaning over, and patting her face with a little pink sheet.  The cigarette woman has wet sand under her eyes and Charity tries to ask her if she is hungry. Charity is hungry and wants cereal.  The cigarette woman runs from the room. Charity stares at the window. The curtains are open. The cigarette woman comes back with a box.  It is not a rainbow but it is blue and red and yellow. The cigarette woman puts some of the cereal in Charity’s mouth and Charity eats it so fast she accidentally bites the cigarette woman’s finger. She is scared and tries to hide under the sheet but the cigarette woman pulls it off her. Charity winces for the coming beating. The cigarette woman gives her the box of cereal and Charity eats it one piece at a time, careful not to mess up again.  The cigarette woman puts soft pink pants and shirt on her, she puts fuzzy red things over her feet, and stiff brown things over the fuzzy stuff.  The cigarette woman picks her up and walks down a long hall with her, outside, and into the lilac summer air. Charity sees a little bluebird on the green grass, and then two robins. A few finches flutter by.  Still gripping the box of cereal Charity  flings some to the birds and chortles to see them peck again.  The cigarette woman laughs too and kisses Charity on her cheek, and tells her “your Nana here.” Charity doesn’t know what a Nana is but likes the way the cigarette woman smells, her laugh,  the cereal, and the kiss, and so Charity hugs her, and tells her “your well come.” Cigarette Nana says, “Its just us now, Charity, John died, but you probably saw him in the backyard, you poor thing, with Tammy,  dead in the tub.”  Charity did not know what died or dead meant but she took it as a good word because cigarette Nana was hugging her and kissing her, and she’d never had so much cereal, so it must be something good she did for this to turn out.  “Poor boy, only ten, and that Tammy 8,  but you’ll be alright, as long as nana can take care of you.  And to think you been through so much, and you’re only three, oh my wonder, if there is a god, I wonder, if there is, to let you get mistreated so. The police said they’d been dead for a week, you poor thing” Charity falls asleep and when she wakes cigarette Nana gives her juice and Charity drinks it so fast she burps out of her nose.

Charity never had anything so orange and right.  When she drinks it all out, she says, “More well.” Cigarette Nana gives her more. Cigarette Nana seems to understand hand jesters, and little Charity feels like a slippery chorus cause, she knows she finally done something right, although, she isn’t sure what yet, she knows she somehow turned things inside her so she can feed the birds again. 

nothing new

nothing new has been coming out of me. I wrote a little story but it needs work, and I am not sure what I am doing with it.  Mostly I’ve playing with loneliness.  I miss my friends in Marquette, and Lake superior so its all I’ve been writing about.  I am trying to refocus my energies on something a little more uplifting but the longing for friends is strong. 

 

 

I never took you for granted

I knew you were different and special

the first time we walked on the shore of Lake

Superior together.  You noticed the shades of nature 

without me pointing.  We could sit

or walk without a sentence passing between us.

now I am far from anything I’d speak of  and miss the land

as much as I miss you.  You are part of the land, as I was

apart of your side.  I’ve thought of calling but what do I have to say,

 

blah blah so lonely for you friend blah blah I am weeping. Such crap

won’t change a thing.

I  am middleclass lonely

for you, condo damned to be your arms reach. 

 

Cut me. I love you.  this is not  a song. it will never be.

 

hold me, that sounds so stupid when there so many farm fields between

us.    and of course I made these poor apple pies

that leave me masturbating to old fallen tree times. 

 

 say there is no place for me but that is a lie

I’ve known place in your conversation that cannot

be so easily pushed to youth and dope. 

life has rotted on me.  have no one

to call and tell this to, so I write a few dog words

to get my heart the hell away from me. 

I don’t understand a

damn lick of this life. 

I’m afraid to make one I do.  what do I care

I am a job and there is no art in these past stanza days

I work on lines that I wouldn’t show you,

they are so gross and prosey, i’d call them a short story. 

 

 can a person live on rice, onions and a husband

this is as sad as I ever been but it is useless potatoes

 the darkness searches out the

light and cuts it into little bite sizes pieces.

my brother is still in war and I’m still nervous to say his name. 

he has a wife and I fear her.

She may call and tell me my brother is dead. 

Light, how can we go on when the rulers of this

land are ok with raping children as torture to their parents

The  curses that spring from my heart are dangerous

even to me.  With such a word, I may break the

web of the universe and with it destroy the good that

interlocks us to the future.  Have you sang a song of late? 

oh the blues, they lost their sway. there is no

song loud or violent enough

to win hearts in secret graves.

 

 

 

I shall end this scream If I can find a path to

sand and agates with the pines on the shore.

is it really spring already? have you touched the red needles that fall?

how the hell are you? do you, you miss me a bit? your hair has

grown on without me, for I am gone and you are where I am

 supposed to be. did I ever leave. 

 when will I visit without the fear I shall hug

to hard and bite you.  fuck. I hate this world. I hate Madison Wi.

I hate Verona Italy.  And I am beginning my friend, to hate me. 

 

let the birds sing, I will not feed them. Let them be feathery dead

 like these words.

 

if I was a person I would type so loud

that I would flake the earth up to see you.

 lives would I disturb to have my

drum circle complete.  a solo drum is lost in

the traffic of the city and  one voice is useless battle.