Rhyme cycle V

Break silence with violent words absurd in their own subdued reach. To teach the youth to speak their truth to sooth their inner grief. Curse and spit and slit open the wordless wormhole we wander in weightless worry. Scurry along and be gone before long in this world that blurts out blurry and covers what’s clear in a hurry.
Recycle our thoughts until words are actions. A fraction of the cost for ideas often lost in the fray of the darkness in detraction. We often stumble to rise, never too humble to deride adversaries in their pride and steal the life under their nose and inside their eyes until surprise is no longer prized and life is a list of lies churned to ugly truths in disguise.
But “superficial” plays by official rules, numbers never lie, and legends never die like fools. So, I refrain from the crude to break the backs of camels with straws I pried from my limitless box of infinite tools. Filled with hammers and nails and spanners and banners to derail all that may hide within my carriage of details. Prevail in the dust, where you sparkle like diamonds in the rough and those who suffer on the cusp of greatness (and added mistrust). But don’t forget to express your disgust, for it’s “slander or bust” in these stories of “us”, where success is a must and anything less will immediately lead to a life worthy to spontaneously combust.

Don Quixote’s laboratory

Don Quixote entered the science lab on a broom.
“No brooms in here”, he was told immediately by a scientist, horrified at the sight of the strange Quixote.
“Where many I tie my horse, then, good sir? Perhaps to the side of the barn?”, Quixote spoke with refined elegance, eloquent in his timid question.
“Give it to me!”, the scientist shouted, snatching Quixote’s broom.
“You shall not butcher my animal, good sir”, Quixote said, marching towards the scientist.
“I can’t experiment on a broom”, the scientist said, confused.
“Thank you”, Quixote replied, feeling assured of the safety of his “animal”.
“Follow me, Mr Quixote. I believe you had requested an appointment to see the gerbils”, the scientist began a quick paced shuffle into the laboratory.
“I have heard of that pigs that are capable of scaling and standing firm on windmills”, Don Quixote said, once again making his royal presence heard.
“Yes…Pigs”, the scientist smirked before turning the corner.

The room was a physiology lab, designed by veterinarians to conduct research and medical treatment on animals.
“And finally!”, Quixote shouted. “There is my Pig! Release him at once.”, he stomped his foot and demanded.
“Absolutely not”, the scientist said, standing firm. “If you like, I can have him put on a treadmill and he can run a little”, he said, unsure of how to calm Quixote down.
“I shall witness no such thing.”, Quixote snatched the broom from the scientist’s hand and smashed the glass cage with the rounded wooden end.
The gerbil ran out through the corridor with Quixote following sprinting closely behind. Soon the scientist stopped giving chase, watching Don Quixote on his broom and the gerbil flee from the laboratory.
“Free at last, my little pig”, Quixote said outside the laboratory, petting the gerbil.
The gerbil bit Quixote on the finger and scurried off through the grass.


I am covered in the mud of my might
The layers of dirt never peeling
Simply growing thicker in the rays of these shining lights

My bones creak under the weight of my flesh
Holding me up and pushing through my skin
Like ghosts wishing to spawn and break free
from the depths of my body within

But I am hollow inside and invisible outside
Fading with each passing second I occupy
I look deeper into my reflection
No longer worried for the glass windows and mirrors I once burdened with my outlines

My pupils shine only in darkness
And this empty stomach growls inadvertently
at all the boisterous passing strangers

A cavernous cavity unfulfilled
I appear only to disappear
in a flash and a blink
Gone with only a whim of the skies to wonder
And the mountains of life that are left for me to ponder and think

Human Fabric

Drench me in suns of your warm spirit
douse me in dense fogs of daytime delight
surface with me today to look over the cold waters of dawn
laugh with me in the supple sweaters of being
away from feelings forlorn

But you detach the strings from your needles
the thread of us people
untangling slowly
so we are no longer sewn together as before or as equal

Rip the fabric of our becoming and birth
our girth dwindling
spindling apart
far away from the splashes of morning waters and evening laughter
I sit upon our love seat alone in the dark

I wonder where you will go
when you were once the strength at an arm’s length
Now you are the whisper in my sounds and breaths
What’s left of us is naked to touch
You are no longer wrapped in our colorful clothing
The fabric of our being
he same safety we craved and savored so much

Evening Lights

Roads are built by people
But they take their leave with time
The evening traffic lights stagger between red and green
And the few pedestrians I’ve seen try to walk safe through the night

When do I get to travel
this road I created for myself?
When the potholes and red lights are the only memory
And the rain and cold streets
are the lonely scenery?

When do I slam on the brakes
to enjoy the best of the views?
When do I take my chosen path
and ride to where I please and choose?

I cruise behind the wheel
to steal a pleasant sight
The sleepy curve of my eyelids
do little to shield me from the oncoming lights

I can turn right and away just as I can be wrong and astray
Driving to where I belong
The streets are often cold
and our paths are never long enough
to really lead us far and away

Lucky as I ever was
to get on these highways of life
It was a simple trip I chose
Going from place to place I contrived in my eyes

When daybreak hits
I am like one of many on this road
But at night, I’m alright and alone
When I travel free in the lightness I roam

Men of Glass

Is it a man of glass
That breaks upon touch
Easily smashed and crushed
But always a last little jagged shard
For you to try and clutch?

Glass houses are often built
Upon foundations of stone
Welcoming a familiar fall to the floor
Fortitude no longer holding up their own

But glass can be shaped and manipulated
It can be built as it can be broken
Tinted and trimmed
Windows of whims
Brimming with light
As equally as they can be dim

A broken bottle
A stained glass pane
A weapon to hurt others
To be simply admired all the same

Fragile and sharp
Strum your weakness like a harp
See through them in the dark
But don’t forget that substance
is the start

Their hands

Some hands do not wield malice. They do not yield to injustice, to barriers, to walls, and obstacles. They know of misfortune, of disdain, of scorn, and hardship. What do these fingers know of the exploits of corporations and the commercial? Of taking away from the poor and giving to the those who can simply stuff no more into their wardrobes and warehouses? They can take away these hands, as they can slash these tongues, they can seethe with anger and inflict torture and burn until our skin turns mangled and numb. Murder, they may, for what we stand for today. Tomorrow will rear its head in the form of many others who will willingly and gladly look the other way.

Speak to me about colors so bright and beautiful, but don’t forget the shades upon our skin so simple. Speak to me about equality and rights, but don’t forget we must only do right in our own service for it’s the others we must swindle. Berate and beat upon her image, but don’t forget to kiss your mother upon her sweet little dimples.

Doesn’t beauty stand up when all else is laid flat into the rubble? Aren’t big mouths a sign of danger when they signify only the beginning of all their troubles? Huddle like hobos for a little warmth and light. Fight for your food, for these hunger games cannot survive with an end in sight. Aren’t we in spaces so safe from the news stories in our bubbles so sealed and tight? Does it matter why you write if they’re always right? Or does it only matter if they can buy your rights, setting their sights upon our sunsets, riding away with whatever they can take from this life?

As I continue to wake

Awake without the hints of bitterness. Without the worries of tomorrow and problems of yesterday. I must exist for the now, for the moment, for all life has led up to in this breath of seconds, this pounding heartbeat of existence. How I to rise into the foggy morning, cold, dark and damp from the freezing drizzles of nighttime. When I step outside, the morning frost rushes to my skin to remind me of all that is frigid and frail in the face of fight. I look up and continue despite discomfort, I trudge past old grudges, I step with intent and not into the whims of discontent.

Wash away the wounds wielded from the whips of anger. From the quips of quarrel gnawing at my legs, telling me to come down and join in company of the mundane and miserable. Straighten shoulders and breathe in airs of restoration and relief. What it is to be alive, after decades we survive, stepping through chance and occurrences that so often divide. I live free from the chains chiding me to stay still, to be silent, to be compliant in their insistence to be bound and beat.

Today, I rumble like thunder, howl like cold winds, as sharp as frost across bare cheeks and bones. Awakening the senses to truth within my skins. It is today, and only today, that I am promised.

An electric tree in a collective breeze

How I stand with my head dropped. Every ounce of my will shared and cropped, popped into morsels for consumption of my physical slop of cells in a soup of rot. My torso doesn’t hold upright but my values don’t seem uptight. My morals are not worth quarrels, and the barrels of weight I carry are simply admired as add on apparel.

I am simply an emotion upon a sleeve, a star to grieve, a holocaust happening, wrapped around the bureaucracies of existence deeper than those Kafka seemed to weave. I am dilapidated wood, standing tall and fine as I should, with papers in hand merely particles of what I once would have been if I had been so good. Now, I am simply shredded into bark, dark and mended with nail and glue, a stark tale holding true, yet false as fiction smelling so stale and crude.

Look at these etchings of names and hearts upon my skin. Look at these beautiful lives we could have been. I am Oak as I am Birch, I am perched like reckless birds upon scarecrows, surging through the electric trees I search. Am I not so experienced and seasoned? A mended fate so taunted that a deceiving psychic wouldn’t wish to relate without reason.

Who am I when the lights flicker? What am I when these same lights glimmer? Shiver I shall for the electricity no longer passes through these wires, my tires no longer roll, and I am tired as I grown old. But young and fresh I am, updated I stand, my head still drooping, neck slightly stooping, regrouping my thoughts that I bargained as a man and bought wholesale so I may sleep at night as planned.