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blinks

to look upon faces,
sweet and harried all the same
looking back from black and white
pictures to match to names.
some in jobs and dreams
some only dreaming of jobs
behind bars, in cells,
stuck in time. lost in time.
some frozen in youth,
never to change, grow older.
buried beneath flowers and stone
peaceful til the end of time,
so is the way of life.
to be here and then not be here,
just a blink in time.
just a blink.

 

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the repertoire.

People say cruel things now,
Their words are harsh and unfiltered,
cold as steel and ice and salt;
words that exist only to burn
some other human being.
A repertoire of vindication;
crueler, harsher, colder words
that are supposed to prove ones righteousness,
that are supposed to prove ones right to be,
that are supposed to combat the first cycle of viciousness
But it doesn’t.
Instead whatever humanity is left,
if there is any, was any,
is faded just a bit more –
a red wine, coffee stain, grass stain
that gets smaller and dimmer and duller
with each wash,
until it can barely be seen in the brightest of lights.
That’s us now. Them now.
One against the other,
as if we, they, aren’t all in this together.
As if we, they, can escape this planet
in any other way except death.
We all die, sometime or the other,
regardless of whether we have lived happy lives
or sad lives or fulfilled lives.
No matter.
It’s the between that is important.
What they do with themselves now –
to see them so awful and miserable
and not the least defiant –
Not the least willing to listen to their God –
the one who said fear not!
The violence in their words leaves black marks,
like black eyes and bloody noses and dark yellow bruises;
and they mean it so,
to be cruel and harsh and cold.
The repertoire of vindication –
without a sun there is no light
and without a light there is only darkness –
and they are content with the windowless rooms
they have built over the dreams of others.

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skeletons.

we all have skeletons in our closets,
with strong bones and socket eyes
that can look straight into your soul.
we all have a door thats locked,
with cannon loaded, gun cocked
in case someone tries to open it.
yes, we do. and you know it.
yes, we do. and you know it.
there are skeletons in our closets,
wearing grandmas sweaters
and little knit socks with bows.
maybe they’ve got belts
around their necks, like the ties
dad gets on fathers day – if hes around.
those bones rattle and creak,
and we know it, yes we do.
we know it, yes we do.
skeletons that can last a lifetime
preserved with the kind of booze
served at frat parties and clubs.
tastes a lot like a yes, no sound.
skeletons like ghosts, follow you
live in every closet you ever had
try on all your favorite dresses
and wears your favorites shoes.
they dress just. like. you.
have the same hair, same eyes.
and we see it, yes we do.
we see it, yes we do.
skeletons sit in the backseat of cars
and watch you in parking lots
they can touch you,
in places you didn’t know you could be touched.
but they’re just bones. just bones.
and bones can be buried,
and bones can turn to dust,
and dust can be wiped away, clean slate.
and we know it, we know it.

 

 

 

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beginning to end.

Horse trailers make me cry and
you can fit a lot of memories in a wheelbarrow.
hello life,
hello life.
A hundred different songs
can feed a hundred thousand souls
In a club, in a car, on a bathroom floor.
Sorrows can drown in a whiskey
no rip currents needed.
hello life,
hello life.
Biscuits and gravy
not a single one can save me
planted southern roots
but they point north and west
and all over this goddamned place.
hello life,
hello life.
Settle in and settle down
but never settle for less than love
Show up, don’t show out
beautiful places and spaces
really weren’t created for that.
hello life,
where have you been?
What does it feel like,
to have your soul crawl out of your skin
What’s it this week?
Meth, crack, pot, heroin?
hello life,
sing to me.
make it the one about life
after death and what comes next
make it about snow and Jesus
and things like Heaven.
hello life,
hello death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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the lies we lead.

She says he says mean things
and the man in the nice shirt says
you have to get out or he’ll kill you –
eventually;
then he goes home in his nice car
in his nice car to his nice shirt
and his really nice wife –
and hits her because his coffee
isn’t just so
and of course,
dinner’s cold because
he should have been home
a few hours ago;
What a beautiful life it is
to live a double life
as a hypocrit..
Girl in a tight red dress
asks him where he’s been –
has he been out drinkin’ again;
Pointing fingers makin’ points;
slammin’ doors rattling paper walls..
He wasn’t, but he’s goin’ to now
cause he can smell the cologne
she’s tried to hide –
and it’s not his..
So he goes out with his best friends –
Jim and Jack and tells her
to go to hell in a handbasket.
What a beautiful life it is
to live a double life
as a hypocrit..
She was a

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dead microwaves.

Her words were cold,
like ice on a grave
but it’s hard to heat things
in a dead microwave.
She wanted to speak,
words and words
and feelings and emotions,
but it’s hard to dig them out
of the dirt once they’ve been buried.
She choked and she coughed
and she spit them out
the best she knew how.
She started a fire,
she didn’t know how to put out.
An electrical fire,
would have caused less damage –
or maybe throwing a toaster
into a lightening storm.
She was a disaster,
two steps from the edge.
The risk kept her sane,
but safety called just the same.
Stop it, stop it.
Stop feeling this way –
she screamed but the wind
drowned her out.
Maybe she’d be better off
in a hurricane with a band-aid
instead of a boat.
She could patch the last scratch
right before she went down –
they’d find her drifting
over the edge holding onto
a dead microwave.

 

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they said she was different.

she wasn’t always brave,
nope, not nearly at all.
she was afraid –
of a lot of things
some big and some small.
she wanted to be that girl
broody and moody
on a bar stool listening
to Friday night music
and she wanted to be that girl
with her hair flying
while she’s driving
to anywhere in the world.
she wanted to be
110 million different things
a singer, a writer, an mma fighter
she was a dreamer,
a wonderer, a wanter
she was a doer,
she just needed to find
her own set of drums,
so she could march
to her own beat.
so she did,
and so she did,
and they said to her –
who are you,
my how you’ve changed!
softly she whispered,
i haven’t changed,
nope, not nearly at all
i’m just a little braver,
i’m not so afraid of things
i drive to bars with my hair flying
and i sing, because i’m a singer
and I write, because I have a story.
I’m a fighter, I’m a survivor
I’m a dreamer, a wonderer
I want what I want
I do because I can
Most of all,
I am who I am
and who I’ve always been.