Worried

earning
my burning rock
in the center of my
chest, like all the rest of us flawed
humans

Failings

furious pile
of laundry
mocking my
meager efforts
so what
I rocked as a mom today.
I say fuck you laundry.
I can do dishes tomorrow…

***

Read this.

Grass

that
sensation probably didn’t
indicate a crumpling
but a concentration of sleepy muscles
crippling my youth

Gross Personal Product

automatic

this
intensity

Corrupt/Shun

no soft land
bless
the corner world
postage stamp
drain
to frontier vastness

Photo By Steve Shultz

I Want It Now

foreign

contemptible

transition…acceptance,

then move towards me loving myself

forth with

Marriage Song

Uncertain.

I can’t make you.
I can’t save you.
I can’t see the boy you were.
I’ll never know the man you will become?

Because it’s not certain,

not in-sight.

Tired of being the bitch-wife, bitterly

you look at as mom.

Tired of “being” right and being told I’m “wrong”
Such a tired Wedding Song.

Accept

peel an orange
in a spiral string
strip an onion
skin by skin

extrapolate, you shall be enlightened
apply, you shall be saved
reduce, you shall be freed
revive, where shall you lead?

square of cloth
burlap brown
square of cloth
white gown

mercy you shall seek
falsely you shall creep
purchase you shall reap
perchance you will sleep

then the salt
believe the prophet
then the wine
he’ll die in time

for a blue sky discovery

I accept.

Happy Omen

She had no happy
tucked under her cloak wing of midnight.

Carried no carving stick, no instrument for song.
Patrol and wash
because she had to slosh
no happy over the side,
attract sharks to the ride with mind chum.

And all signs pointed out
Others did have happy.
Others did.
Joy not weeping,
infectious energy not sweeping,
no one brushed away, leaping and dancing
like a man before the Lord.

Carved in mud, she drives on by and ignores signs that others may,
and do,
and did have happy

as rich as soil with clay
and a forest of green.

Freedom From Haunts

You.
Yeah, you.
Strap in, your seatbelt, you
strap in
now. I scatter far from the pick up truck.
You are out of luck not far enough
from the pick up truck.
I lack the good old fuck
off attitude you munch and make your own
by the light of the jackal moon and the teasing
sun of solstice suck fest.
I bade thee goodbye,
in irony, the sky
is happier here.

Rest Area by Eric Alder