What They have Given

In the spastic chase of the Titans
the new gods forgot to build
a pleasant man, and kept us
in the cocoons of their imperfections,
leaving us smoldering with their envies and vengeances,
unfortunately bound to emotion and toil
and able to excel to their thrones to question their reins,

how dare we mock what has made us, no matter how imperfect!
We have been given heroes and so then hope
in our Hercules and the others, and they fight
our monsters, mirror images into what the gods have given us,
but what they apologize for in allowing them to be defeated.

Our Sisyphean struggle is our torment, but also our gift,
and those high Olympians knew that life was full of breath
and worth breathing, because our experience is worth having
and our lives, disheveled, worth living.

Doors for a Writer

My fingers pile-drive on the library desk
Before I play the keyboard like an organ
Thinking up witty rhymes and retorts,
Pretending to be a verbal virtuoso.

I have too many ideas to play so smoothly,
I have too many unfinished epics in me.
I have cantatas, fifths, and sonatas
But in my own imagination I remain
A dejected persona non grata.

Where is my rock star,
My Dionysus, and care?
Why have I thrown that classic Soft Parade
Into the Crystal Ship’s tattered snare?

Jimmy Morrison,
Mr. Mojo Risin’,
Help me break on through
To the other side,
And I will tutor you in shaman spells,
Bach’s Third, and genocide.

The Burdon of a Smile

“I wouldn’t want you to go. I should think that you would want me to stay.” His brow buckled and looked like it might melt down his face.

“I don’t want you here if you don’t want to be here. I can’t do this right now.” She turned away from him at the door and walked slowly back into the kitchen. She stopped at the sink and swung her head up to look at the dogwood they had planted in the back yard when they first bought the house. It had gotten tall and the white flowers where raining from the branches in the breeze.

She thought about going after him when she heard the door open and close, but decided against it and to stay at the sink with the dogwood in view. Hearing the car start and back out she pictured the routine: he would go, drive for hours until he felt far enough away, and they he might come back in a week or so. It had happened before, in the beginning when they had had hard fights. But not lately. Not since she had gotten sick and she needed him there—just to be there and smile at her when couldn’t for herself. He was so strong then. He face was a lion and he represented everything she had wanted to smile about despite the gentle crush of it all.

Her family, her hopes, her wasted life. Everything had hit her all at once and she had spent what seemed like a lifetime in bed. In reality it was only two months. But he never left, he never gave up on her, and he made her believe that there was something bright there. He kept her from the abyss, tethered to his towering courage in her. But where that was tethered for him, she had no idea.

But he had just gone. He had just walked out of their little house and left. She wondered where the strength in him had gone. What was there now that she had found a smile to make him leave? She had started again, thanks to him. She was singing again around the house and was beginning to make her way out more. Her friends looked forward to her coming over. She was reinvigorated now; she had found a new purpose and he had helped to rebuild her. But why had he gone?

She moved from the sink to the small oak dining table in the small half of the oversized living room. Sitting down she couldn’t believe that he had gone because she was better. That was too simple and didn’t make sense for him. Was there another woman? No, not for him. There couldn’t be. She could see him with another woman as much as she could picture herself with another man as long as she knew that he loved her. And that they were married. But what had hurt him? What had set him off and then sent him off? Was it really because she was well? She couldn’t accept that not absolutely depending on him for happiness had been healthy, for either of them, but should that make him want to leave? And if so, why not when she was sick? Why now when she was just getting better, and almost normal?

She didn’t know why being free of the burden of her would have hurt the strong, lion-faced man that she honestly did love. So she sat, and put her head on top of her folded arms, and she cried thinking she had ruined her marriage with her recovery and that he might not come back this time, and that she wouldn’t need him and could smile without him here at all.

A Found Poem from the Suicide Note of V. W.

I can't read.
I begin to hear voices.
I feel certain that I am going mad again
And I shan't recover this time.
I want to say that — everybody knows it;
I can't fight any longer
And I can't concentrate.
Everything has gone from me.

You have given me the greatest possible happiness.
If anybody could have saved me it would have been you;
I know that I am spoiling your life.

So I am doing what seems the best thing to do.

This is a Confession

This is a
Confession
Of sorts.

Mainly an ode
To my paranoia
And lack of trust.

I don't keep many friends
Because I don't think
That many people care;

But this is fine
And right, I can't
Say that I care for them.

But I do have friends.
There is a handful
Of people for my smiles.

A couple of my friends
Live very far away,
And we don't talk much.

But they are some of my
Closest friends, honestly.
But I also have friends around me.

Lately, though, I mistrust them.
And I wonder what happens behind
Closed doors with blushed faces.

I sadly come to the conclusion
That wondering is vain,
And I must decide:

Either I ask about suspicions
Or confront my suspicions
As a sign of my own bad friendship.

Neither is easy,
But I honestly hope
That I am crazy

Because I don't want,
At least not now,
To feel alone.

Perhaps it would be best
Not to prod at this
And find a way not to care.

But I have done that for too long
And I thought I might have settled
And found a sort of normalcy.

I suppose my away-friends
Are my best friends,
Because they are beautiful in the distance,

And far-away is easier
On the soul. And troubles
Are blind to the eyes there.

Crying Girl

Brad won’t know what he’s done.

And while the breeze blows back
The long shards of her blonde hair,
Her tears will mix with cheap mascara
And stream across her temples again,
Showering that plain-pretty face again
As she walks along crowded side-streets
Leaving her anonymous and inspiring
For for the strangers, just a Crying Girl,
Nameless and timeless, painted and printed
A thousand times before there was a Brad,
And a thousand more after his death.

And that, I suppose, is her vengeance.

This is Not a Confession

This is not
A confession,
But

Every few months,
As if on cue,
I fall into this abyss

Of sudden loneliness.
I forget what it must
Feel like to be myself.

I am weighed down,
I am shelled and separated,
Drowning through days

That would rather forget me.
I bob languidly through hours,
Sleep and eat recklessly,

And when I’ve found my dregs,
I think of you.
You, standing there,

Smiling, laughing,
And lighting dreams
With your hazy eyes.

And reminding me
That this whole mess
Isn’t important or real,

And you make me Believe
That anything is possible
In this distance.

I Bid You Goodbye

I bid you goodbye,
The biddable bitch,
For I leave today
On my noble search
For a real renegade!

I bid you goodbye,
The homely troglodyte,
For I leave today again
On my vain play
Toward a prettier friend!

Yes, I’ll write letters,
And yes, I’ll blow kisses,
But I’ll conveniently forget to continue
When I’ve found a better Mrs.!

The Effort

Where the rivets build their metal seams
And make monsters from steel and sweat,
Dreams are swept where paychecks are met
With all the cascading corpses they’ll create.

Whispers of patriotism clang along
Around the hollow pings of machines,
And posters stare doubts into confidence
For the dirty-tired working the floor.

Pots and pans, long since war contraband,
Are missing from glistening kitchens
And are as notable gone as the women there,
Filling the lines for men who have gone to die.

Spring Art

As fresh as a daisy
And as dandy as a dogwood,
The spring Easter sky
Moved like a maypole.

Swirling with pastel teases
And blankets of cut grass breezes,
The picnic stills were painted brightly,
And the memories made there
Were remembered so fondly.

The Poet's Death Ramble

"The page screams with triumphs,
Flirting with passion again
Over failed dialogs, but
Moving with the sprung rhythm
Of inspiration anyway."

"I have written a universe
And roll into the centuries,
If I am timeless, so be it,
For myself I have invented
Personal connection in eternity."

"Until the page is turned
The blankness stays hidden
And the words still bleed out,
I am the wound and the healer,
Listening to the breeze on the battlefield."

Why Your Smile Stopped

I wondered why your smiled stopped
Over awkward-dinner tiny talk.
But as I straightened the sideways silverware
And noticed you brush hair back behind your ear,
I found I had lost myself in wanting to impress you.

I thought if you would forgive my adoptive plundering
While I sipped my water and crunched the ice chips.
I only become more of you to be close to you,
Now I realize your interests were not mine to be stealing.

So as you finished your blackberry pie,
And I finished what you had left, but only a couple bites,
I sighed and tried my best not to talk like you;
I adore you but I am not like you.
And I’ll blame that for why you don't smile at me now.

The Crane

The crane today was awe inspiring
With its red triangle frames,
Completely awe-inspiring!

And I saw it move and sway in the sky,
And I was awed.

And as it swung over, lumbering,
My brick building underneath,
I looked up at this red,
Awe-inspiring metal tower,

And was struck with aweful
Fear that it would get too near
And crumble our brick building!
And that under that red triangle frame
Of the awe-inspiringly tall crane
Would rest the rust rubble
Of our brick building,
Nothing underneath.

On Being Asked to Take a Joke by C. C.

I do more than take a joke, son.

I take a joke and run, like it was money.
I take a joke and run like I stole something
from your momma and she just found out.
I take a joke and run like I got a point to prove.
I take a joke and run like I was trying
to impress a girl or a coach.

I do more than take a joke, son!
I run them, I make them,
I laugh them and I brake them!

Dover Counterpoint

I have risen from the sands
And let the grading bits
Fall back down to earth
Away from my garments
And new, tall position.

I will not let the leaving tide
Steal away the hope I had,
And in rising I regain that faith
That there is something worth standing for,
And in wiping away the falling grains
I prepare for what there is to be clean for;

That joy, that relief, the light, and the love
All shall reign when I find them,
But I must stand to look
Now that the easy rolling tide
Has fallen away from me.

Why I haven't been writing...

I'm taking a creative writing class now
And all my effotrs are going that direction.
When I come back, expect better work,
And a new sparkle of ambition.

I love you.

Pint Iron Exercise

I tried to find a rhyme for pint,
But couldn't seem to get it right.
So next I guessed a word for iron,
But my muse put out that fire.

If I Could Afford to be Vain

It is surely a shame to think
How sad some people are,
Some are prone to shake or stink,
Leaving the world so marred.

Some people have no tact
And sloppily speak out of turn.
They dress a-mess, I must confess,
And need lessons how to act.

Ugly people are not pretty
And have little to offer.
Even if their insides shine,
Their faces are quite the bother.

Fat people are just fat
And have folds of dimpled skin.
Most spaces are far too small
To fit a fervent fatty in.

So think of the curse, if you dare,
And how horrible it would be,
To have to take out on a date
A person who was all three!

My Back is Sore

What two hours caused this pain
And racked my back with soreness?
Why can I not sit up straight
To displayed my regal erectness?

Was it the walking up the hill,
Or hurried steps back down it?
Should I blame the way I sleep,
Or find a more active culprit?

When I twist at my trunk,
Should my back pull near my neck?
And when I bend to lift something,
Should I have such trouble getting it?

I think I'll sleep for now,
And worry on conditions later.
Why fret over mysterious pains
When speculation is not a savior?

The Winter Song

Lallygagging around the windows
Christmas season sees the lights glow
And we’re all captured by
That lovely train whistling sound.

Snow does not fall around here,
But there’s still hope for layered frost.
I’d love to see my family
But New Years plans are often dropped.

Kisses, cuddles, then alone
And wishing strongly you were home,
Sitting sobbing surrounded by
The people who have made you cry.

Nothing’s better than the breeze
By the river, near the trees.
Easy rhymes and slow debauching,
We laugh at stumbles without judging.

And then it’s time to read again,
Close your eyes, but don’t pretend
That we matter: because we don’t.
It’s just that winter kind of quiet hope.

When You Speak

When you speak you're beautiful:
I want to hear so much more about you,
But only if you are the one telling me.

The way your thin lips bounce off of your words
Leaves me only wanting to hear, to watch more,
And I want to be closer to you with every story.

Your eyes smight me with their coy rush
And your smirk often plays a phoenix,
Reinvented in its capturing novelty with each flash.

Smooth Criminal

The quicksilver magic of the gunman's hand
Impressed even the lady tellers being drawn on.
His parted hair and navy suit implied professionalism,
But it was his grip in those leather gloves,
And how light and smooth he was on his feet,
That let everyone know his skill and experience.

They were worried,
They could die!
He looked like he could kill
Everyone in the room
Without even flinching
One of those big, green eyes.

Had he not been so handsome,
They would have noticed the alarm on,
But being in danger is sexy
When men look like him.

Coughing

I cough
And the crackling pop explosions
Move from my chest into my throat.
My shins are cold and my nose hints
At running down my face, over my lips.
I clear my throat, but the inside sill itches
And coughing again only tastes like rust.

I cough again
And the muscles inside my stomach lurch inward
Helping my static filled lungs push out their dust.
I take a deep breath to cool the throat kindling
And deep nose breaths send down cooling gusts,
Reminding me of how cold the entire room is.

Georgia Beach

Cattails curve in Georgia beach breezes
While I leave foot prints in the sand.

I will find a perfect spot to set down our things
If the salty sea-smell doesn't set me first.

I blow into plastic fumes to inflate bright rafts
And in the water, steer clear of the sharp rocks.

Sandwiches crunch with grainy sand bites
And seagulls snack on my discarded crust.

I will bob in the foamy wave tops
Coming up every time they dunk me.

There is certainly wind enough for the kite,
But wouldn't you rather just sleep in this sun,
Or return back to the breaks and bathe,
Looking out to where the sky swallows the sea
And creates that blue fusion line of eternity?

And I was Dancing, And I was Happy

And I was dancing,
And I has happy,
Twirling and jumping,
Spinning and shaking
With those beats and those
Steady, hard rhythms.

I sweat and smiled,
I laughed while I sang
The words that I knew,
I would go outside
To cool myself down,
Then back to the fun.

Buy you unraveled,
Confused little girl,
And I thought that it
Was mostly sad but
Aimed at attention,
So then it became
Quite hilarious.

And I was dancing,
And I has happy.

Every Single Time

Every single time
I see you with any
Sort of bottle in your
Hand, or shot glass,
Or margarita, I know
That later you will
Wobble through the
Crowd with concerned
Friends behind you,
Ruining their night,
And making a damn
Pathetic spectacle
Or your immaturity
And gross irresponsibility.
I would not care so much
about your flightiness
If it didn't effect every
Social function I find
Both of us attending:

Throw up.
Grow up.
Act like an adult.

With your head of air,
Why are you here?
And who invited you
Or your friends?

Humming Orange Light

The big bowl light hums
A low, constant vibrato
As it pours pathetic orange
Light down on my work,
Both mocking my vision
And that slice of solitude
That I had hoped to carve

It hums. It hums. It hums.
While I try to read
It Hums, It Hums, It Hums,
While I try to write
ITHUMSITHUMSITHUMS
All the while ruining my sight.

I can't get away
During any piece
Of the noisy day.
And now must close
To the quiet darkness
For that silent
And unproductive
Sleep away from
My orange alarm.

There.

I peal off those long hairs
From my dress coat's shoulders
And am reminded of when
It seemed your head had a home
There.

I brush off those small black
Pieces of eraser from the paper
And am reminded of when
It seemed your smile had a home
There.

Now you've left, homeless,
Away from my arms
And gone from my pen,
But you still find the time
To occasionally hide
There.

Christmas Lights

Long, sagging strands of Christmas lights,
Tangled in their hunter green helix cords,
Stay stapled and hung on house seams
Weeks into the new year's novelty.

They sway in the cold winter breezes
And sag down when it has rained,
But they will not be turned on again
For the fear of losing neighborly tact.

Lazy, lumbering husbands will climb ladders
To eventually tug them down again.
They'll coil and hide them in molding cardboard boxes,
Forgetting them in the corners of attics or garages.

Fire is a Flower

Fire is a flower
That is too hot to sniff.
Your nose would burn off
And you wouldn't smell it.

Your fingers would char
And you'd lose your eyebrows.
You skin would melt and blister
While it withered and turned brown.

And while it blooms in reds and blues,
And sometimes even yellow too,
Fire is a flower that I'd never smell,
But I'd sure as Hell ask you to!

Calling for Esteban

Esteban!
Where is my hair?
I was sure that
I had left it here!

Esteban!
Where is my powder?
I should shine white
After my shower!

Esteban!
Where is my robe?
I was supposed to shine
There at the show!

Esteban!
Where is my help?
I thought you had joked
About hanging yourself!

Thick Dust

Thick dust smocks
lingering antiques
That rot in attics
and litter living wills,

Layered with the
weight of decades
Lain in storage,

unused and nude
Of purpose, saved
for value and prestige.

Aging

The weight of the sun
Will curve our backs
While the wear of the wind
Will wrinkle our skin.

Day to noon then night
Ride the waves of age,
And into the blistering decay
Of elderly disaster we fade.

But while the broken curves
Of our drooping mouths
Race toward the ground,
Our joules lift in perverted smiles
As we make muffled happy sounds.

Deciding

She wants a wedding ring
And a husband.

But I can’t afford a diamond
And I don’t want a wife.

I suppose I love her
And could live with her,

But I still have a life to live
And too much money to earn.

I don't need a mortgage
Or a bank on my back,

And I don't want kids
To make me any older.

But It would make her happy
And that smile's pretty good.

I Will Change for You

I would drink,
Some Listerine,
If it’d make,
You be with me.

I would smash,
A thousands cars,
If that put,
Me in your heart.

I would rob,
An air force base,
If you’d let,
Me kiss your face.

And I would say,
How movies end,
If you’d make,
Me your friend.

Watching the Soft Parade

As I watch the Soft Parade
Slowly pass by, I dream of shaman
Getting lost in fantasies
For the good of the people's
Deciphering and symbolizing,
But never learning on looping
Trips through universalities.

And as the marching bands
Phalanxed through, playing
Their silent symphonies,
I thought of bittersweet summers
Spent alone and that slick hope
That the solstice is sure to bring
Of finding a new friend that
Could never trouble nor bother me.

A wrapped-candy rain drenches the children
In the monotone and relentless deaf,
And I learn that love is the unraveling of dualities,
Like the quiet in the clamor that we came for,
Having to watch the Soft Parade go slowly on,
Without a single sound, but all the bells and whistles.

On the 27th

“No,” called the miser,
“I will not have the Spanish
Mast crumble my dock!”

But no stewards heard him
On the stalwart old thing
From his office on shore,
And I’m not sure if he knew
That the ship was speeding
Toward the dock already,
And would crash into the planks,
Making a mess of the lot of things.

“I don’t care,” cried the miser,
“If it is centuries old or more! I will
Keep control of this port come
Rain, hell, hair, or nightmare steam!”

Bricks

Bricks tumble steadily down,
With such destructive force,

When children climb such lofty towers
And from their hands drop them forth!

But why climb and destroy at all
If you have a friend who's tall?

"Shortcuts, Darling!" They will say,
When they toss bricks from their friends,

"Have made things so much more attainable!"
"And what new ease in reaching out ends!"

Lilies

The lilies won’t bloom
Come spring, in our garden,
In their usual yellow,
Because I uprooted them,
To see the brown dirt,
And watch it crumble off
The roots, and see the divot,
Because the hole was good
To see, it was good hurting
Your flowerbed after you left,
Because you watched it so close,
And mothered it well, you had
A natural gift, a green thumb,
But you left them after all,
To rot away with me, but the spring
Won’t see them die, or grow either,
And maybe there’s justice in that,
Or some sense with you being gone.

At the Park

She sat up, bounding,
After some small thing,
I came calling, but she
Ran too well.

Perspiring,
I ran after, deciding,
She was fast, quickly rounding,
And realized how sweet
A dog I had, then laughing.

But poor small thing, bleeding,
And my sweetheart, eating,
And me giggling, elating,
But how sad
For the small thing, beyond saving.

A Rainy Day

In my navy, white-stripped, pajamas
I got up and closed the shutters,
Ignoring the deep purple rain clouds outside,
And then sat back in my hunter velvet chair

To pretend, as the gray-white dust swept over
The cool oak planks of the floor
(and I without socks or slippers!)
Like my tuxedo tomcat lumbering toward his food bowl
Refusing to ever lie on my lap,

That I wasn't an undressed emotional invalid
Avoiding leaving my cavernous house,
And not because of the nightmare palette sky,
And that I wasn't an infant needing you like a mother.

Pictures

These sepia storms of people
And grayscale maelstroms
Plaster little windows
Where portraits should be,

Or, preferably, poor renditions
To these pretentious poses
And vague impressions
Of what strangers present
And I am allowed to look at.

Dance Whispers

Spin into me
When I move
Your hips up
Against mine.

I'll lead you
Up until then,
But when you
Spin, I will let
Go of you and
The floor will
Be all yours,

Take it and shine
And be beautiful
So that everyone
May see how we
Dance so well. We
Will impress them
And be asked back

As long as
You rest when
You need to be
Against me
Again to dance
Again and finish
The rest of this
Sexy little number.

The Shaman

There’s something about
The shaman’s murder lust
That ruins him as Dionysus.

His wine is fine from the vine,
And his soul magic coils so serpentine,
But his killing leaves the fruit on the brine

And ruins that rubble he will cast with.
Making his body sweat and his breath quick,
He will choke the life from the atoning.

A dead confessor for another rain,
And another storm while others pray,
And all the while the shaman dances,

Drinking and softly speaking sweet arousal
While the blood chalice is passed around,
All of them gorging on the warm malice that they have found.

Ring Around the Daffodils

Please, ring around the daffodils
Til Heaven's scaffold collapses.
Let the sky walkers plummet down
Toward our lovely gardens,
Whispering of our onions and roses,
And we, yielding, gossiping on about
Galaxies, angels, and super novae;
Spilling our breath on the broken bits
Of golden gate and street way,
And laughing because the sky walkers envy us
And our platinum cookbooks
That retain readability in the daffodils
And the rest of the ling'ring mess.

She Frowned

She frowned
and let her eye lids
close over the top half
of her tortoiseshell
then black pupils.

Her lips pursed
and her head hung
low like she was
looking at my knees.

Then her eyes
went distant
and watered
while her fists
clinched tight.

I walked away
without turning
my back and
not apologizing.

New Suit

He moved slowly closer to the fire,
putting his bare hands over the flames,
and rubbed them together, grinding,
to try to get blood flowing back
there.

He looked at the other men,
sitting around the barrel and looking
mean with old beards and lost eyes
and the heavy smell of stale piss,
and looked down at his new gray suit
and long, black overcoat, and shiny
black shoes reflecting the orange flames.
He could barely see the argyle black and
gray socks his wife bought him last
Christmas.

It's all right that I'm here, right? He asked,
looking around at the piranhas and hyenas
and vampire bats.

You don't mind that I stopped for a
moment? I was just cold, you see...
He tried to explain, already back-
-pedaling back into the cold night.

Sit with Me

Sit with me,
Just for now.
Let the wind
Run the sky
And watch the
Gray clouds
Stand still
While it gets
Cooler and dark.

Sit with me,
Just for now.
Notice the chill
And where the
Sun might be
Behind the fog.
Then you can
Go on again
Just walking by.

I Don't Believe in Angels

I don't believe in angels
Because that would mean
That there is something
That god loves more
Than December mornings
Born from long, cold nights
Curled on a couch,
Covered in a blanket,
Watching her sleep,
And feeling so lucky.

And no god of mine
Would even think of loving
Anything more than that.

Bears

A bear eats salmon and shows that
Death for life’s sake is necessary.
But our own is hard to fathom;

We like to think that we know nature,
And that we can escape it, contrary
In our manners
With our ‘Sirs,’
And in our gentleness
With our ‘Madams,’

But we are bears,
Bloody and careless,
Simply waiting around to eat.

And we hunt down our meat,
Not waiting for it to jump
Out of the stream.

Taking a Nap

I fell asleep with a nervous stomach
And didn't dream at all.

I woke up hot, sweating,
My stomach still a knot,

And with a crook in my neck
That ached when I moved my head
To try to look to the right.

My breath tasted dead
And I was hungry for meat.

I should have stayed awake.

An Imcomplete Dream

You are running out of time!, She said,
And I laughed because She was right
And I was going to be late, but to what?
I was hardly able to tell in the haze
And I had always supposed since then
That She was a dream I had waken up from
Without ever being late or discouraged
But I know the truth and the consequences
Associated with denial. I was late to Her
And will never be able to forget that.
Oh! To have it an incomplete dream!

Arms of Now

I have no home
or place to call

my own

and those
sweet embracing

arms of Now


seem farther away



and to not want




me any nearer.

We Are Young

We are young
And looking for
A button to undo
In this post-modern
Petticoat of a farce.

We are shameless
Hussies without
Our genuine chastity
In this quagmire of
Relentless sarcasm.

We are young
And shameless
And I am just
Another silly
Jaded optimist.

The Yellow Pedals

The yellow pedals
With black splotches
Shriveled and folded down,
Browning and peeling back,
While the lighter flame
Pushed slowly toward
The pistol pollen pad
Closer to the middle
When we melted
That little flower.

The Garbage Truck

I left disappointed
From my room
And sauntered down
To the parking lot
With scraping steps
Against the pavement.

A lumb'ring roar
Lifted my eyes
And I saw
A garbage truck,
White and rusted,
Begin to do
Its early work
At 4:07
In the morning.

It had been
Seven minutes
Late that day.

The Campus Carnage

On campus, a bus hit a van
But the bus was big
And the van sporty:
There should have been
A good deal of carnage.
But there was no great wreckage,
And the only real damage
Was a dent on the back bumper
Of the van and a crowded street
With people laughing about
How nothing had happened.

New Black Jeep

A new black jeep
Smashed into a tree,
And the front end folded in
Toward the engine,
And the tree
Was only scraped,
Just a flesh wound,
But the driver
Might have died.

The Fireworks

The entire party gathered, stunned,
Hunkering together
In the white snow,
Gazing toward the colorful explosions
In the midnight black sky
(Stealing attention from the ghastly full moon
And drunken escapades of the socially sloppy)
None of them knowing if there should be fireworks,
But none of them caring why there were fireworks.

Blinds

I didn’t know how to pull the blinds down,
Because no one had taught me how.
And then, after I was shown,
I was so eager to pull them down
Or bunch them back up,
And show what I knew,
That I would volunteer to do either
If the need was ever there.

A Young Man at a Party

He stood brooding
over the laws
and his constriction within them,
holding himself between stiff arms,
like a hug,
letting the handle
of light yellow liquor
dangle from the first few fingers
on his left hand.
His right leg leaned to the left,
toward his uncentered hips,
and the left leg was leaned on,
but rigid in the skinny gray jeans
and tall, black canvas shoes,
the right one tapping quickly
in rhythm with his words.

His faded blue denim jacket
folded and wrinkled over his arms
as they slivered in their cradling,
and his soft looking green t-shirt
was too tight on his thin frame
to move very much,
but it hung a little long
and covered his large belt buckle
that I knew was silver metal from before,
and that it was on a vintage white belt.

His black hair looked best dry and messed,
but he had parted it, with mousse,
and was wearing black, winged glasses, too.

Autocorrect; this one is for you

my stubble itches

i scratch loudly
and wonder
why all my
mistakes
are fixed
before i notice
by the machine

its just curious

what if i want
them there
or just like to
correct them
myself

i scratch loudly
wanting to shave
and correct my
mistakes
and correct my
humanity
all at once stolen

and then i shaved

clever cliché

i am a clever cliché:
the moon at night,
and the color gray.

i am a clever cliché:
the moon at night,
and the color gray.

i am a clever cliché:
rhyming,
and transparent in every way.
but honestly,
this is just to mention,
that i am tired of this thing
that won't set me down,
and i don’t feel up
to discussing it creatively.

i am a clever cliché:
the moon at night,
and the color gray.

i am a clever cliché:
the moon at night,
and the color gray.

Fake Orange Feathers

Fake orange feathers
stick glued to
brown paper and
flutter at the
unglued tips by
the breeze of
my breath,

smelling to see if
the glue had dried
and able to tell
because it smells
dangerous when it
is wet.

The brown
construction
paper was dry
but still the dark,
once wet, spots
under where the fake
orange feathers stick
and stay because
the glue is dry.

It smells safe and
will stick now so
I can glue
down the fake
yellow feathers
to my brown
construction
paper turkey
too.

My Photos

I’d love to
Snap a photo,
But my camera
Is a pen.

In stead of
Using film, I
Use words to
See things, and
To capture them.

My memories
Are paper and
Will burn like
Cheap film, but

I quite prefer
The way that
I remember

A Problem

If it wasn’t a problem,
Then why would they call it
Wasted. Stoned. Bombed?

I Would

I would
Dance
For you
But
It is
No longer
Worth
My time.
Your smile
Does nothing
For me.

Blender

I made a promise
That I knew,
Honestly,
I’d never keep.
And it doesn’t matter
Because little girls
Will still ruin things
And pretend that their
Stereotypes of emotions
Are the first to ever
Have been felt.

Everyone is a person you sanctimonious sons of bitches. Everyone has a past, you are not so damn special to feel vulnerable or closed; that’s human life. Stop thinking you’re an artist because you can write words down, you asshole, you vis of talent, you damn hack.

But I will still try
Because I have nothing
But a hope to hang
Myself with. Oh, noose!
Hang softer, or just let me die.
The little girls are
Ruining it for everyone:
These pretend princesses
Who love nothing more
Than to snicker and connive
And roll in the mud
Of everything they ‘hate’
But ‘loving’ everything,
Not knowing what words
Actually mean, God damn it.
All in the veil of the arts, too!

Die and burn in Hell. When I am finally done wandering, I’ll meet you there. Pricks.

Toni Morrison, Fact, and Truth

Toni Morrison—who consistently proves with every new piece of her writing that I read why she is one of my favorite writers—talks of fact and truth in The Site of Memory. One complex sentence forms a stunning philosophy about the difference between fact and truth that I find particularly interesting. She writes: "Because facts can exist without intelligence, but truth cannot."

What I take this to demonstrate is the value that human consciousness gives to truth. Truth becomes more than just the factual accounts of what happens and moves into something more. The facts of any situation are merely bits of information lingering in the memory of time. But truth is an organizing of the facts with a value judgment attached. It is an appraisal of the information and a presentation of the lines with a stamp of approval; truth carries with it a specific human certificate of authenticity in regard to the fact that it has been processed and accepted by the human mind as actual. Many things that are not facts we take to be true: that love is good, justice is attainable, and that man is basically good. These are not pieces of information but are decisions. Facts are inherent, truth is decided and it is the human intelligence that Morrison mentions that makes this decision.

Roy the Bear

Once there was a bear
in a wood I found
That would have ate me
If I didn't shoot him
Square in the muzzle
with my rainbow buckshot:
Red, brown, black and
That bear died there
So I named him,
Not the hues I made;
Earthly, deathly, hollow,
but I called his cooling corpse
Roy G. Biv the bear.

American Male

I defined myself
In conflict.
I,
The American Male,
Being modern,
Have absolute
Nothing to conquer.
Yippee
Ki
Yay!
And I'll cry
In the dusty streets
After I run the
Grotesque dog away.

The Fountain

when i
walked by
the
fountain
it
turned off
and
i felt
like God.

Pretty Blue

Pretty Blue:
On the sky's back
The clouds ride
To the night's rack
Where the horizon
Orange torture ensues.
Hello lovely purples
Goodbye Pretty Blues.

Swamp

My nerves are all
mud bubbles, swamp
and gators. I'm in
the cattail long grass,
looking toward you,
and longing for the
predictable barrenness of
that stoic desert
where snakes have
no real place to hide.

I should be away
From your mysteries.

I should be in the desert.

Love Your Lace

Stop taking back your lace
Your sunshine faded lie,
Why did you leave me
Sulking in the whens in
My car in the cold?
I used to be hot
But your then and there
Ruined that, Like mine
Did to yours and
Icicles and antifreeze.
I have no reason to
Complain, move on, and
You bleed again to
Love me. Love me. Love me;
When you should close
Your eyes and forget?
Please, no.
I need your lace
Like girls and ponytails
In my hair,
Pathetic and apathetic
In this void without you.
Sweat and sleep while
I count sweet sheep
In this cold, laceless void
Without you.

Color Has Come

Prisms have risen
From all of the
Window glass

And all of the
Light pouring in
Becomes rainbows

And I miss
The purity of the
Clean, hot light.

Color has come
To devour the
Simplicity.

Still Ocean Smiles

Plastered porcelain smiles,
Broken and smashed against the floor,
Could never hold the ocean
Or hope to sway the shore.

Still, the salt water smiles
Against the grit of piling sand,
And all the porcelain pieces
Still fit in your hand

The Cold

The cold cauterizes
The dainty cigarette drags
dropped upon the disaster
Of a wasted evening:

To work, to read,
To speak, to know,
To dine in peace,
Alas! I smoke.

My whimsy withers
Back into bleeding scabs
As I gather my coal black coat
And meander back inside

To think, to sleep,
To nod, to blink,
To drift aloft,
Alas! I pause.

Because Men Die

Because man is not constructed of stone
He bleeds and cries, sorry and shamed.
The myths of strength, stoic power, and pride
Are all obliterated in soft defeat
By the crushing hand of unforgiving
Death; who brings his mortal perdition swift.
Living, as mortal as old Socrates,
I am prone to finite crumble and rot,
Though I may wish my organs platinum,
I am but a mailable piece of
God's gold, set to perish, disease, and die.
(My light dims so that Your Glory may shine.
I gladly give my forever away,
So that in Your good favor I may stay!)

The Blue Rocks

The blue rocks
at the bottom of
the bubbling tap water
of the fish tank

Are the same color
as the liquid pool
for the grass-green goo
in the silver lava lamp
and the top of the Sony
recordable compact disk,
outlined in silver,
in front of the keyboard.

But the silver on the CD
and the silver on the lava lamp
are not the same.

And there is no green on the CD.

Unsure Little Girls

Unsure little girls paint
Their sniveling faces,
Hoping to snag a
Few more of
Those little
Boys who
Will use
Them,
Spit them
Out, wasted
And broken;
Lost. Then on
To the next unsure
Little girl, already soft.

Because God is in My Sonnets

It
Is not
So much
That I
Believe,

But more
That I
Un-
-derstand

And love
To learn
Despite
Myself,

So please
Do not
Be so
Confused

As
To think
I think
Like you.

Lost

Having lost Paradise, I do lament
Letting the flow cast from these mournful eyes
Then. And wishing these dark burning lakes dry,
I curse these flaming embers suff'ring me.
But my sad liquefactions ash low heat
On my smoldering face, off'ring not ease
But rather build more massive that great heat,
Riding my memories away from Life.
The only cooling, dainty as it is:
The thought of God Almighty and His pow'r
To hold me in His Grace once more; perfect,
And away from this fallen char of sin.
I wait, and so I burn, for Him to see
That there is something worth saving in me.

On Discovering Robert Hayden

I find it hard for myself to describe why I was particularly moved by the words of Robert Hayden. My capture began in the headnote about him and the stanza included there at the end. There is something, a mysterious something that I cannot describe, about the voice and tone in his poems that makes me feel as though I am There. His writing puts me in exactly the place he wants me and it refuses to let me move until the poem is over and the message received.

Those Winter Sundays holds the notion so beautifully that a father does things unthanked, not because he would want the glory for the thing having been done, but simply because the thing needed to be done. That is the very definition of being a responsible man.

Middle Passage is a journey, an epic in meaning and range if not length. The absolute terror of slave ships, and the entire slave trade, is lamented beautifully. The shear inhumanity of the times is portrayed, but from different voices and even an ironic perspective when the traders speak. The poem pushes you into different eyes and you, as the reader, are driftwood in the sea of observation and horror where Hayden is Poseidon.

This window I have been given I am grateful for, and I will seek out more of his work to hear more of his voice.

My Gift

Do I have that which God doth need in me,
And can I sow a smile upon the sky?
Is this one life wholly enough to give
With prayer and piety as a vessel?
Lovely is grace, homaging him for me,
As His forgiveness moves to perfect me.
But is my love a satisfying meal
For His great hunger, need, and good cause?
I make my Faith a flower then, for Him,
And bundle all my ready tools in rose.
The hope that it may please must keep my mind
While I prune my thorns and bide my short time.
With all my Boon, given by He above,
My loyalty: offered to earn his love.

Pizza Pie Will Make Me Fat

Where can I find a piece of pizza pie
That won’t flop when I try to hold it up,
So that my mouth might give a little bite,
And leave me filled as though I’ve had enough?
Does that soft meal consider itself real,
Or does my tongue thirst for a fantasy?
Does this cheese covered treat entail a meal,
Or is a pizza pie not fit to eat?
Should I digest this morsel of good food,
Knowing as it may seem that I do,
That it should treat my stomach so uncouth,
And leave me doubled over as a fool?
But I will eat, let the obese now show,
For I will eat and eat and so will grow!

My Aphasia

You are my aphasia.
I live and die on you.
You are my depression,
My ecstasy,
You are the black in me,
You are the best in me.

I need your skin, I feel your truth,
I live to be a part of you.

You are my treachery,
You are the words in me.

You are the stereotypes of my thoughts,
I live and die on you,
You are my aphasia.

A Standard Issue

Emotion, shall we agree, is a standard issue
Made of the most feathery, breakable tissue,
(And man, dusty from eternity, knows the misuse)
But still kneads out an identity: an absurd masseuse.

But as it floats and shatters humbly away,
(And man, being moldable, bends to its sway)
Made, are we, to feel and so then turn gray;
Emotion is the blood pouring from life's wide splay.

Mr. Rainer

Mr. Rainer ran very slowly, after he had been hit by a car, to the hospital. He would have gone faster, the emergency of the situation all but ensured that, but his new, grotesque limp was an insurmountable impediment. The car had clipped his calves fro behind while Mr. Rainer was pausing in the street in the crosswalk to pick up one of his quarters.

He always carried four quarters in his left pant pocket. There was something about the jingling of the change while he walked that had always made Mr. Rainer smile. He would also, occasionally, reach his hand into his left pant pocket and rattle the four quarters manually if the automation of walking provided an insufficient metallic din. So was the happy quirk of Mr. Rainer.

The day Mr. Rainer was hit by the car was wet. It was not raining, but had been, so the city street was soggy but, owing to the moisture, pleasantly uncrowded. Mr. Rainer was about town, between obligations, before he had to run to the hospital. The car was speeding and, more than likely, had ran a traffic light. Such is usually the case in similar instances. No doubt the driver did not see Mr. Rainer in time to throw on his breaks; the suddenly sleek, wet road would not allow for quick stops. So, when Mr. Rainer stopped in the crosswalk to bend down and grab one of his quarters which had fallen out of his pocket—he was rattling them quite hard but mindless to the fact—he had no knowledge of his impending disfigurement.

Mr. Rainer's back was facing the car. He heard the squeal of the black rubber on the gray, wet gravel and stood in attention. He had time to move his head back over his left should just to see the hood and grill of the car move into his legs. The grill clipped both calves but the left leg was the most affected. Mr. Rainer's lower left leg was pushed away from his body very quickly, as if he was trying to kick an approaching ball, but the upper half of his leg, from about the knee on, did not follow. Mr. Rainer heard the knee buckle and quickly became sick to his, up until that point, stolid stomach. The right leg made an unnatural jerk but nothing had obviously snapped or buckled, and Mr. Rainer had faith that it, unlike the left leg, remained unmangled. After the initial blow, Mr. Rainer's body slumped onto the hood of the car and panic slowly started to rise in Mr. Rainer.

As a small child growing up in the pleasantly nondescript suburban area of town, Mr. Rainer was taught never to make a spectacle of himself. His mother would refuse him anything he would cry over wanting, and this taught Mr. Rainer to never want anything too strongly. It also forced into him an admirable humility and served to calm his tumultuous nerves in times of emergency. A necessary result of this particular combination of rearing philosophies was that Mr. Rainer utterly refused to make a nuisance of himself. Some of his more critical peers complained that it seemed Mr. Rainer held himself above his company, but this was simply not the case; Mr. Rainer loved his fellow man and had a distinct, aloof kindness about him. Mr. Rainer just did not see the point in indulging upon the kindness of a host and forcing him or her to waste his or her hospitality and resources when it was not, in fact, needed. This is why Mr. Rainer refused a ride from his deformer to the hospital after his leg had been ruined.

The driver of the guilty car was very kind and courteous, obviously concerned past his obligation in the matter and generally well wishing for the man he had just broken. But Mr. Rainer would have none of it and, after he was able to tear himself from the damp, dark hood of the driver's car, made it all but clear, in as a calm and civil manner possible in his growing panic, that a ride would not be necessary. The hospital, as Mr. Rainer hurriedly but fully, pointed out was only several blocks away, and, on the bone and muscle of the good leg, Mr. Rainer could make it there very easily. The driver still persisted, but Mr. Rainer was beginning to grow light headed from stamping on his one good leg and gentle rattling along the moist road with the other in the small, pacing steps he was taking.

The police, who had been called from a nearby telephone booth by a witness and typically good Samaritan, were making their way to the crosswalk where Mr. Rainer's quarter lingered, heads up, waiting ever so patiently to be returned to the company of its three permanent companions. Mr. Rainer heard the sirens first, but in his pacing and continued dealings with the driver of the awful car, was able, somehow, to ignore them while he persisted in his attempts to politely, but assuredly, make his own way to the hospital which remained only several blocks away. When Mr. Rainer noticed the swirling lights beginning to reflect from the damped things and puddles around him, he decided to quickly thank the driver for everything (he was, honestly, a gentleman of the first class) and make his way rather rashly to the hospital before the police would stop him. There was no reason, thought Mr. Rainer, to waste all the resources of an ambulance, and all the to-do of a barrage of police questioning, just to get him to a hospital over an exploded lower left leg.

Mr. Rainer hobbled his way over to where his orphaned quarter still sat and quickly gobbled it into the warmth of his pocket with the other three. When the quarter hit the bottom of the pocket, and consequently the other three quarters, it made a familiar and calming ding, and Mr. Rainer, in his current near-panic, displayed the hint of a smile. It was always so pleasant to hear them rattle about in that certain way that they did. He would have smiled fully but he did not think the onlookers who had gathered would quite understand why a man in his state would be smiling. Besides, thought Mr. Rainer, it was a personal matter (the jingling of the quarters) and it is best to keep the quiet joys in life to yourself, especially when you need them the most. But, noticing the shockingly bright streams of blood eagerly gushing into his left shoe from the carnage of what was left of his lower left leg—and noticing the police cars creeping slowly to the scene from farther up the now crowded road—Mr. Rainer decided to hop to, and began to run, as best as he could with his horrifying aliment, those several blocks toward the hospital.

That Old Game

Forgive awkward glances and failed attempts to impress you.
Ignore the poorly placed jokes
And off hand remarks to the others in the room.
So beautiful and polite to smile back
To such a ramble of things, such a mess; but a happy one.
But a reserved one, not at all the same as in the natural state.
Better for the inspiration and calmness
And all of the fresh air of clarity;
Better because of the smiles and the new journey—if only imagined.
Even if the tightly woven ball of yarn it has all become
Finds no reason in the end, or does not unwind in time to knit,
The distraction is wonderful, and a new game to concentrate on
Is such a welcome novelty and what if there is something behind it?
So shy, so unlike me; I hurry to learn to learn the rules.

Validity in Doubting Doubt (or any other created thought.)

Doubt in the mind of the created is created by the mind that creates both the first mind and the doubt itself. There is no actual doubt. The reader sees 'doubt' and knows doubt but does not doubt. Only the created mind doubts. But lingering on the doubt I doubt the created mind. Does it think or feel? I doubt it. Can it even actually doubt if there is no doubt created outside of the created mind's doubt? If there is no doubt to create doubt in the created mind that doubts then there is no doubt and we doubt the created mind altogether.

Characters characterize that charter that chats to the creator and the reader of the created. They are not actual people with actual character. They are words on paper. But they are much more. The created are creators themselves. Or at least the words used to create the created are creators. The words submerge images in the reader's mind. Signifiers, symbols, and hullabaloo. The charter is the disconnect. The characters and their actions are all created but do not create. The words behind them create in the reader's mind. The created have no mind outside of the reader's mind. I doubt the mind of the creator minds that it does not matter to the reader. Or at least I doubt it should.

Barthes killed the author, and I threw roses on the grave and laughed. Birth is pretty and creates. Birth has creators and the created. The birth of the reader comes at the cost of the denial of truth in the created. The truth is the reader. The reader is the creator, but the reader did not create the created. The creator created the created. But remember, the doubt in the created mind of the created is not actual unless the mind of the reader contains the mind of the created and the reader can create doubt in the created's mind that the reader created.

Betty Bourgeois Rap

Straight out of 229 I'm coming
It's the Blount Beauty Princess
All guitars strumming

Strike up the band cause the ma'am is here
With a fresh bit a truth to fill your ear.

Now in a rap game dominated by brothers
It's nice to have a sister as more than a lover.

Don't act like you don't know how it is you be
Don't act like I can't feel your eyes humping on me.

You seemed to be memorized by amazing chest
But I'm more than a fly pair of beautiful breast

But I don't need a man hovering on side
Offering to let me up into his broke ass ride

Cause I'm a lady with right fine taste
I'll take who'll provide, no matter the race,
As long as you got some abs and a pretty face
Then might get a chance to try my grace.

Now, I wear work boots like the defest of thugs
It's Timberlands, Sketchers, or, my favorite, Lugs
But when it comes to smoke, it's only heady nugs.
I can roll them finer than oriental rugs.

Dank Heady Karma was my maiden name
Now I'm married to the danger up in the rap game.
My first name's Betty like Oh My God
Sir name of Bourgeois for the proletariat's fall.

Yes I'm a girl but I'm shocking you all
With my own bank account like a rich Barbie doll
But I got a better point so let me begin
Unlike that Barbie bitch, I don't need a Ken.

And while I might be dirty, never call me a ho
Just a strong woman and suckas gots to know.
I know what I want, so I run the run the show
They can't stand aside then suckas gots to go.

When it comes to my bills you know I can pay them
Cause I get on the mic and just straight slay them
I'm not a Saint and I can't save them
I'm a gangstress so I guess I just play them

No you can't drive, but yes you will buy
My movie ticket if we're taking my ride.
You can pick up dinner and yes we're eating nice,
I know you can afford more than water and rice.

If you want to chill then don't try to lie
I think I'm worth more than broke pick-up line
No I won't dance and don't buy me a drink
And next time ensure that your breath don't stink.

I Forget My Poetry

Know that these wand'ring words of mine are true
And that I forget my poetry, all in lieu,
When I mention through clinched passion, red in hue,
That lust is killing me, and living is fucking you.

Nights Like These

I am as rude as you see me
And self-centered, the rumors are true.
And I will not share right now.
No. Not with you.

It is not that I do not like you,
I do not know you,

But right now
Nothing about me
Is for you,
Thank you.
I’m quite through
With my rant now.

I thought you’d think it lovely.
I’m not sharing with you,
But I’d still like you to love me.

Wishing for Eternity

I pushed my own envelope yesterday
wishing for eternity
and I still didn’t learn anything:
I spat on the cement
hoping it would stick
and stay forever.

But Time won’t allow
something as mundane as saliva
to stain its sparkling,
sanctimonious surface.

To make that plane opaque
I would have to do nothing
short of murder.

For Whom Is Pictured

I’d like to know your depth
And what it is you’re feeling.
I’d like to know your thoughts
And what you think of me.

I’d like to see your eyes
And have them give you away.
I’d like to hear your sounds
And know if they were fake.

I’d like to hold your hand
And to feel it tremble.
I’d like to hold you close enough
That I could feel you crumble.

I’d like to smell your breath
And know the spark of its taste.
I’d like to fall asleep
Knowing you were still awake.

I’d like to know you at all,
The light will always flicker.
I’d like the light to steady
So I could see your picture.

On A Popular Transformation

Please, don’t look at me with those drunk eyes
And ask me to kiss those stained lips.
Your lovely lure is gone someplace; it hides
While you pretend yourself with ignorant quips.

I will not hold you, reeking, below me
Nor think you any quicker or untightened.
But I will not wade through, sinking, your show. See,
I have better ways betters ways to let a night end.

You lie in your present state,
What you present is not yourself.
You lie and I resent, I hate,
That you ferment and need my help.

Eggs

I stayed in the milky silk of the bed sheets,
Wrapped daintily around my morning dreams,
While you sent breakfast smells in after me.
They lifted and roused with no snooze
And I soon found you baking, breaking eggs
And discarding the failed shells into the trash
In favor of the creamy spring and golden pearl inside.

And I thought, smelling your damped, showered hair,
And coiling myself around your busy baker’s arms,
That you were like an egg:

Everyone sees your shell, but you give me your yoke.
And I eat it and am better for it. But this is now,
And it took me so long to crack that shell,
I thought I should never really taste you.

Even now I confuse you for your name.
I confuse you for your character.
I confuse you scrambled for your shell.

But then I smell you while you make my breakfast,
And I smile into your eyes while I eat it, satisfied,
And I know that I have broken through
And I can love you,

Because there is us and something only we have;
Each other, our druthers, our eggs.

Stability

Children need mothers, not frivolity.
You are not a martyr in any reality.
This is not friendship, stop trying to cure the malady.
Leave the black hole of the caring abyss separately.
Let them drown in their own irresponsibility.

In apathy there is clarity.

I will never ask you to take care of me.
I am not what I am, nor ever will be,
I am something other than human: you will see
That the quiet, nothing universe is full of beauty,
And that there is weakness in pretended unity.

God was a myth you told for purity,
Relieve yourself of that false remedy
And enjoy the static, self-reliant gaiety
In the hollowness of life and its fragility.

This is the recipe for my system of stability.

And You Go

To keep you alive
I want you inside me
See what's behind my eyes.

Become a phoenix
Burn through and mean it
Ash so you may belong.

Return that char to
The place it belongs to:
Place it inside my mouth.

I know you're dying
Please stop your crying
We haven't forgotten yet.

Just hold yourself straight
Dine on your flame's fate
Let's make this candle fly.

And you're still the one

And it's almost done

And you go,
and you go,
and you go.