dawn it starts bitter thoughts regurgitating that’s how it begins spinning gusts of pain appear that hold me down to drown fighting back the need to kill off those words that bind the lies that shelter self rage bitterness destruction hatred sadness anger doubt trepidation until the moon in the inky sky releases the essence of suffering to dreams pulling me deeper into putrid wading pools struggling to stand on my two feet i raise fists in victory
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
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
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
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
words less spoken 