i hold my knees down
thoughts swirl after i answer
monsoon is endless
Mental Health Issues
the road dogs
she sits there looking dazed pecking at her phone with her pink sea shell fingers
“they call me tre on account i only got three toes” she said in a proud laughter
she feels her way around the rim of her fancy thrift store jeans bought four years ago for ten bucks and donated by well bred college coeds from ANY THREE LETTER U
“i’m waiting for my road dog to help me do my laundry she’s the only one i trust we used to be drinking buddies back in the day tell me if my shoe stinks.” she stretches her tan prosthetic type shoe at my face i smelled nothing
with a distance in her blind brown eyes she asks if the blinds are open because the lights bother her she cusps an old Kleenex under her nose its allergy season
“can you hand me my eye drops they’re on the dinner table next to my dad’s diabetes pills did i tell you that he lost all of his toes and he might lose his left leg? we’ll know tomorrow.”
her head tilted down as if hoping her sad thoughts will seep out through tears of frustration as her father who named her after her own birth country was now struck down and she could no longer be daddy’s road dog either
spread the WLS
the therapy tray
you have now become
my comfort fire and scent
watching prayers float
spread the WLS
f 34.1
she’s here again
my breath she
takes by force
fear her grip
my mind bending
soul hanging on
pulse pounding hard
tears all dry
moist hands shaking
thoughts race away
pupils open black
what is wrong
i silently ask
rituals mantras dissipate
falling into fog
again the silence
of spirit prevails
spread the WLS
Cricktopia
tuesday night again
warm like mother’s milk
the night dark is silky
not yet the honey suckle whispers
its too early
but the crickets after the rains riot and march along the seams of the house
into tiny cricket bug speakeasys
i wonder if they have their version of Modest Mouse or the Matrix
my worries and fears anxieties and revolving years
of listening to crickets
a supple madness incubated
under pressure of the glamorous life shared by the ballsy poets
my arms just thoughts
holding tight to the hallucination of life
after work on many day
i envy the crickets and their Cricktopia
i envy the little plastic Oscars who get to go to a real home
some place in Wichita
but as i linger in the backyard of this home
assured that the sign on the side of the hill
can no longer crush me
spread the WLS
3wordpoetpost
spread the WLS
invitation
soft pink petals
wooden table top
lay there limp
looking up silently
at spinning fans
dried tired knuckles
on sore thighs
immobile in exhaustion
thinking there quietly
about roses aging
spirit’s sweet scents
mingling with walls
a memory landscape
then passing birds
bless the skies
curtains stay open
spread the WLS
why have we forsaken we
when in living off the twilight
inside the erosion of my mind
sometimes i snap sharply from my American
airconditioned nightmare
the balance of me
realizing my internet speed
was a negative impact
on some email or another
the twilight lit up
soon enough when heavy fueled Fedex trucks
delivered my pampered cats’ designer litter
the pipeline took by cyber rooks
named after a Stan Lee caricature
tired from tapping orders and griping
of how the strain in my eyes
wont let me binge watch
zombies and madonnas later tonight
when living in the hologram of prescriptive mindfulness
a new normal cast upon my head
no longer should i be disturbed
and once the tiny caffeine shots
have done their job
all major asshole media cocks
begrudgingly agree
that the Arabs are bombing the Jews again
slapping of wrists from the lips in the oval coffin
my spirit starts to sit upon my couch
the people of my mother
the people of my neighbors
the people who bother no one
in their daily toil to survive
to see their little ones grow
my attention pulled out
looking out the front door
quasi worried about the power grid
the electrical giggles sprouting
from kindergarten kiddos
sadden my heart
why have we forsaken we
spread the WLS
Spring haiku
deep
breath
eyes
closed
in
peace
no
dream
but
rest
comes
slow
hope
blossoms
somewhere
spread the WLS
where crows go to bury their dead
a tight jawed loon that’s what i’ll be
silently i will slink
behind the dying ugly trees
they die like a Shakespearean villain
across from the dirty river
their dusty peeling trunks
looking like they wear shoes
but its only beige mushroom caps
growing from an addict’s turd
ant trail metropolis up and down
the droopy branches bound by old cassette tape ribbon
the sugar burdens on their little thorax
weighing just as much
as the burdens on my curved shoulders
obscure illusions and esoteric lies
the native boulders akin to WCF’s face
emblazoned with red stripes and nonsense
the names of petty thief street artists
stretching down from the lived in hill
where crows go to bury their dead
dime sized nettles in my unkempt hair
will tangle with the strands in silence
and with a little time
the thorns of broken thoughts ruptured memories
will burrow even deeper
like wet mud i step into it
but quiet i will be
be silent the people have spoke
a stone chorus in space
i hear them on cold nights
they are getting colder by the way
i’ll glance beyond the conniving lights
alone out of the way and in silence
words less spoken 