Haiku Haikus

Haikus do not rhyme

But leave definitions time

Rhyming is sublime.

Haikus are tiny

little colors, jelly beans

simple small smiles.

When the government

Isn't doing it's job well

I must stage haiku.

Relax tiny poems

just haiku-namatata

and all will be well. 

Hauki puns are great

don't ever doubt it baby

here's lookin' haiku.

Idle Marchers

Beware the idle marchers. 

Always stomping

never moving. 

Rigged, 

rugged,

never soothing.

Braking banisters offered,

hands proffered, 

racing minds soaring by. 

No wings

no things on idle marchers.

Bleed blue and black blood,

bouncing bullets,

growing mullets

and trying desperately not to breathe.

Never lack of opportunity

only lack of caring. 

Crisp,

crunching noises are their aspiration and content,

while their eyes remain contentless. 

Wriggle,

wringing 

twitches thinking that their happy.

Forgetting swiftly that life is too short for trying

and too short not too. 

Beware the idle marchers. 

Their icy grip is hard to slip

when they fill your head with the air and sighing.

Stand. 

Run. 

Grow away from them. 

The First Fall

The First Fall.

Sing songs

and it's always spring.

shifting warm and cool

and nothing dies.

years go by

lilting around the sun.

The dance of morning

knows no mourning.

The mudpuppies grow.

Learn to stand

and to bend.

to dance and to

sing songs

and it's always spring.

shifting warm and cool

and nothing dies.

The dragon slithers

and hums cold.

wretched by music

he fell and couldn't

sing songs

and it's always spring.

shifting warm and cool

and nothing dies.

Inside the spring green

the serpent stutters.

he listens to mudpuppies

sing songs

and it's always spring.

shifting warm and cool

and nothing dies.

yet something died.

The mudpuppies weep.

fell fruit felled songs

scream sings

and springs are broken.

shifting hot and cold

and everything dies.

all green goes brown

and falls.

Dedicated to Jennie Crigler for the subject suggestion, "The Season of Fall."

17 and the Pit

There were 17 people walking in a line

desperate to leave behind

to leave behind what they can't rewind.

They fell away into what,

they fell right back, back into what

they tried to hide and never find:

everything they can't rewind.

There were 17 people walking in a line

the pit smiled as it swallowed their kind.

their echoing words were consumed:

their echoing words fell to vacuum.

The 17 never knew they had worked so hard.

fighting for shovels each other they marred.

the whole goal for the hole was to wright their story,

consumed by their nature, thrashing for glory.

There were 17 people walking in a line

in single file they drone and find

the death they carved and left behind:

the pit they dug and can't rewind.

There was fell joy in the ground,

there was fell joy as the pit came down,

covered their bodies consumed their souls

their strive for glory lost control.

The pit smiled, so sublime,

because 17 people had walked in a line.

Hooked

I put a hook in my heart and cast it out to see. 

I'm blinding in depths of indifference

sighing choral songs

as the stars are fishing for my soul. 

My instincts are a great white hunger

and my will is a lying fish. 

Subtle in bite 

never enough 

to last all night. 

The Fisher hooked me

but I turn the water red in rips

and tears of trying. 

Oozing organs of only dying.

The hook rips from mouth to brain

but barely taps the strings of heart. 

Hybrid of swiming and caught; 

Dead and a lie. 

I don't see the deep of the Ocean I live in. 

I keep all my fickle feces floating 

with great effort stored

in upper abominations 

to hold tight to everything. 

I float listless on the surface;

drown in the air.

Drinking Parties

Woah. This hit me like a ton of bricks. Talk about my college/early career experience so far.

1 Peter 4:3-4

For the time that is past suffices for doing what the Gentiles want to do, living in sensuality, passions, drunkenness, orgies, drinking parties, and lawless idolatry. With respect to this they are surprised when you do not join them in the same flood of debauchery, and they malign you;

By Gentiles, of course, it is referring non-Christ Followers (I make a careful distinction between Christian and Christ Follower because many in our culture claim to be Christians while rejecting, ignoring and/or remaining ignorant to many of the teachings and claims of Christ. What is a Christian without Christ?). Specifically I'm taken aback by, "Drunkenness," "Drinking Parties," and "They are surprised when you do not join them." 

Especially when starting my college career I found that drinking parties were something that really happened. (More so they are still called "drinking parties." That is the goal of those gathering at these events.) I had heard about them before but I had never experienced one until college. I used to become quite sad at these parties. Something about the way people had to drive happiness into their veins and then be miserable the next day claiming they had a great time always seemed ironic to me. It still baffles me that people will drink alcohol of which they dislike the flavor in order to get drunk. Don't get me wrong, I drink alcohol, but in very limited quantities and the flavor is the most important aspect for me. Jesus asked me not to get drunk(1) because He loves me and knows what's best and so I never have and never will because I love Him. It is not alcohol that is the issue, only its abuse. 

But that's a bit of a tangent. The most surprising thing that hit me with this scripture was, "They are surprised when you do not join them." That is the exact reaction I've received many many times. I've been called rude for not accepting an additional glass of wine, been teased when denying a shot, and received countless odd looks when I said, "no, thanks." It's strikingly true that "There is nothing new under the sun(2)." Written almost 2000 years ago, our call for holiness (as God is holy[3]) and warning of being mocked ("they malign you") is still in equal and full swing. 

We must keep strong in what is right despite ridicule for doing right or praise for doing wrong. When the line blurs err on the side of caution. God is the only One to Whom we will give an account of out lives(4). Peter reminds us again later in the same chapter:

1 Peter 4:12-13 

Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed.

This is normal. This is not not new. This we may expect. In this we may rejoice.

Footnotes

(1) Ephesians 5:18 "And do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery, but be filled with the Spirit."

(2) Ecclesiates 1:9 "What has been is what will be,

   and what has been done is what will be done,

   and there is nothing new under the sun."

(3) 1 Peter 1:16 "since it is written, 'You shall be holy, for I am holy.'"

(4) Hebrews 4:13 "And no creature is hidden from his sight, but all are naked and exposed to the eyes of him to whom we must give account."

For Masking We Will Strive

Funny things,

like pinky rings,

make our colors show so bright.

Silly sings,

and flashy blings,

pretend to be our true sight.

Bitter wounds,

darkest tunes,

never seem to rise.

Deadest plumes

hide our gloom,

as we cover up our eyes.

Our insides stay in,

our outsides just grin,

Even though the core has died.

It's more fun to smile,

while drowning in bile,

if breathing has stopped inside.

For our face cannot show

the inside hollow.

Our reputation must survive.

For what will they think,

if inside we stink?

'Tis for masking we will strive!

Marching bands 

meet bitter hands.

and throats will be constrained.

For any word

 honestly heard 

must ever be detained.

For all the hand-filled pockets,

hidden, clenched with lockets

become polished plastic smiles.

We love to persist

in a weeping resist

and shine fakery; cold, reviled.

For in this my friends;

our dying begins,

and frays 'till all's consumed.

For in our bloodied hearts

the pressure starts

and we'll go out with a boom.

Spring Feet: A Breath Poem

Rip off your shoes,

sink slowly into the ground,

soak sipping into the water,

and scream longingly into the wind!

Today is of beauty.

Release to dancing your hips,

fling wildly your arms,

flare brightly your teeth,

and sing belting to everyone!

Today is short.

Grip ripe grass with your fingers,

sprinkle wormed dirt in your hair,

sigh falling into laughing dust,

and never ever return!

Today is gone. 

Two Many

How many fiddles can cat play?

how many suns rise in the day?

if two suns rise to surprise of their own

at seeing and starring a burning twin clone

then will they not battle and fume in kind?

They must decide to leave one sun behind.

With ten little fingers and one tiny bow

cat fingers are stringers with no duo.

His fiddle fingers linger only six or so strings.

But with twelve or eighteen who could handle such things?

For two fiddles falling from cat arms are cutting knives

we cannot live with two gods in our lives. 

I Took My Knife to the Sky

I was glazed up at the night sky and thought. I thought hard. I thought a while. That's when I decided I wanted to fit. It seemed nice; fitting. Sitting silently with all of them, trying to laugh when they did. They weren't as funny as they thought they were. They didn't like me when I stood on something so I sat back down again and let them train me. I tried to get them to look up. I tried a little. Then they helped me look up differently and laughed. They helped shoot me to the stars.

I took my knife to the sky. Not really wanting to, but needing to. I reached so high and I made sure it was placed so firmly in Daddy's back. He has a lot of blood and I think I saw most of it then. I stayed caressing the hilt as He pleaded with me, not for His own sake, but for mine. Yet I simply stood there wrenching the knife from time to time imbedding it a little deeper as He bled. 

"But you see, you can't love me now. See what I've done?" I asked as I patted his shoulder. 

"I've known what you've done, what you would do." He gasped from his blood filling lungs. "My love for you isn't about what you've done, but about what I've done. I love . . . "

I quickly wrenched the knife again and caused his body to crumple further from the sky. 

"But I can't think about that.  You see I have to do this. These people are the only ones that haven't tried to change me to make me fit. They make a spot where I will fit without having to change. Your people . . . I can't be myself around them. They change me to make me fit." 

"I made you for . . ." I jerked the knife again and He fell, smashing his face on a cloud. 

"I can't hear you say that either. Because then you'd be the only person that loves me. Then I would hurt. . . You don't hurt. They said you don't hurt and that your mean. . . even though you. . . No, I'm not gonna think about it." He slipped further and his nose scraped a treetop. "Well, I'm going to leave now. Just know that this isn't what I wanted to happen . . . I still love you, I guess. I just cant think about that."

So I fell back down to fitting. Their smiles didn't seem so bright any more and I think someone sharpened their teeth a bit. They smiled and laughed at me. Or with me. 

I heard a faint wail and the sound of gnashing teeth; like a star weeping. I asked but nobody else had heard it; could hear it. He. . . It didn't stop for a long time. I'm not sure if It ever did. I just got better at not hearing It. It hurt my heart a lot at first. I decided not to think about It. They helped me fill my pockets with candy until I was sick. Sometimes if I'm by myself at night I can hear a very pretty song; like the sun on the other side of earth. That's when I miss Daddy; when I remember Him; when I try to forget with so many flavors; when I cry. But I'm not going to think about that.

Dedicated to David Crigler for submitting this Saturday's Subject. Submit by Friday night each week for me to write about your idea/subject.

His wit wasn't quick enough. . .

Weather Clowns

Under the weather, all gristled and grey,

sit four clowns, or maybe six. 

The clowns sit down and do not play.

Even paler than make-up, they look sick.

They sigh and they say nothing,

as clowns most never do,

their outsides grey and their insides blue. 

And under the weather, all gristled and grey,

sit four clowns, or maybe six. 

They have many banana peals,

suspenders that they fixed,

they have quite proper wigs

biggest of shoes, reddest of noses,

and well aimed, water squirting roses.

Yet under the weather, all gristled and grey,

sit four clowns, or maybe six.

Each sighs thinking it's alone,

drawing in dirt with sticks,

not one of them counts

not their brother or their sister

nor the m'am or the mister. 

Now under the weather, all gristled and grey,

stands one clown, in midst of six.

His tears falling with mascara,

his sobs sound just like hics. 

Five clowns hear the sound

and around the one they stood

all their tears fell fast and felt good.

Thus under the weather, all gristled and grey, 

stood clowns crying and numbering six. 

the rain saw them and was saddened

and started dumping itself down like bricks.

six clown's makeup washed clean

and clothes all wet, hair soaked like dawn

the clouds emptied and soon were gone.

At last under the weather, now a bright spring day,

worked so many clowns, I remember them six,

they painted each other's makeup,

and together practiced their shticks.

They finally remembered each other

Their family was bright and revived,

losing loneliness they were now alive.

The Towers of Metallic Wrath

Desperation doth urk mine soul. 

Such fell travesties trickle lightly 

down my face as bitter rain.

The reign of thy metallic wrath

doth enlighten of arrogance. 

Towers long in standing 

after their use is forfeit

have been our bane 

since the days we met. 

Green and blue dashed with white words

surround my soul and deprive my love 

from its unrendered gazing. 

Could thee not for a moment 

find strength to withhold the death

thou so knowingly bequeath?

'Tis black treachery against my sense of order

that thine own feigned ignorance creates!

Let this last bitter plea seek to enliven thy soul

into lovelier thoughts and deeds. 

The character I have once known of you 

is the only remaining hope I can see.

For the last in our bitter pace as we run alongside

must be this engine of destruction. 

I ask thee, I entreat thee, I plead from all my depths,

Throw your own Sprite cans away. 

Norton and the Internet Self

I saw this commercial and found it to be a fascinating commentary not only socially, but existentially. Watch and see how it hits you. 

Norton Commercial

Let's start with the tag line: "Because what are you without your stuff? Better yet, who are you?" This implies at least 2 points: 1) That our value is found in the value of our possessions; specifically our digital possessions and (2 That our internet selves are the truest depiction of our identity.  

I'll begin with the first question; a question of value. The internet has a huge amount of value to our society and without question has changed the world as we know it since it's inception. Credit cards, bank accounts, stocks, businesses, social spheres; all of these things are on the internet and do possess great monetary and and societal value. But when we break ourselves down to the core of our beings, do any of these determine our personal value? If facebook was deleted would the value of people on it lessen? If credit cards were wiped out, online business destroyed, and internet communication obliterated would we be worthless? Of course not, but that is what this marketing implies, though not in such calamity of course. 

This implication leaves us at a lack of importance if we do not have, or as the add forewarns, do not protect, our digital possessions. This ad strikes my every time I see it because of the blatant comparison of human value to our digital prowess and presence. Believe it or not the majority of the world's population does not have access to the internet. The value of these people is no less, not in intelligence or in aptitude, because of a lack of internet. Obviously, our value must then be found elsewhere. 

Now to the idea of digital identity. First, let me define the term as I will use it. The Internet Self; "our view of ourselves and/or how we want other people to perceive us as shown on the internet." The implication of the Norton commercial is that our truest selves is the self which we depict on the internet. This may not be far off the mark. On the internet we see the faux-smiles and most vicious sides of each other as well some encouragement and other niceties. It's much like driving alone and being stuck in traffic. That's when we feel in our seclusion that we can truly let go of social bounds and unleash our frustration because nobody knows what we say or do. The internet in the same way allows for us to remain anonymous so that we can do or say what we please. 

The commercial, however, implies that we are no one without these digital forms; thus why they need protecting. "Protect the stuff that matters," the commercial claims. The inference is that nothing but our digital equity matters. It implies that we have no meaning, no purpose, no name or family, no friends without our digital identities. It's dehumanizing. At the same time the marketing is brilliantly targeted because we do find so much of our identity and value on the internet. For instance, I'm writing this on a blog and thus portraying a version of myself. The importance about value and identity must come from something more than us, however. If it is purely in the digital media through which we live and depict our internet selves, then it fades when the signal fails or the battery dies or the screen brakes. Ever feel naked because you left your phone at home? This is a sign of a strong sense on digital identity. 

Perhaps we should take a break from media and our own internet selves. See who else we are. We must find our value and identity in something greater than the digital world or the internet self. It must be more than ourselves. Otherwise we die and that's it. There's no reason to live if all that awaits us is death and all forms of our selves, digital and otherwise, cease to exist. Try this. for a whole day, do not use the internet or a cell phone or digital communication of any sort. Get out of the house and try to answer the question: Who are you? Even if you don't want to or you don't believe in God, try praying. See what happens when you don't look to yourself for answers about you. 

Dark Forest Haikus

Haikus I've written about Characters I play in the KSU Production of Dark Forest. 

The Green Man #1

My feet root through earth

birds tickle my arms to sky

all my children sing

Sexton

My ears are near deaf

between hourly bell tolls

and my belov'd wife

The Flounder Prince

My throne was stolen

My wet vigil stays unturned

I build Atlantis

Spinner

we three together

german origin seeming

my mother was french

Wandering Man

I will be married

Only fifty more thalers

if Stupid proves worth

The Dwarf

I  am four feet tall

to the end of my curled face

before scissor snip. 

Innkeeper

The haunted castle

holds all my wants and desires

but I am too french

The Ghoul

they broke my shoulder

killed me dead and drained my blood

I have a castle. 

The Green Man #2

my belly is full

the woods pervade me and I

am their soulful glance

Not Giving Up (Letting Go)

I had to let you go.

The nails were driven deep into my skin,

The I’s had fallen blank on my ears,

The laughter drained when you forsook the truth.

Long nights of longer days of longer nights of longest days,

Everything was lying before me.

My time was so precious to you that you stole it.

You saw my chinks and slipped your crevices into calking rhythmic blankets sympathy.

You leaned on me to fuel your obsessions,

To tilt just barely away from overdose,

To live while dying.

I had to give you up to let you fall on your own feet.

Let you stand without aid.

To deal with real and to reel back in shock and awe of life.

I’m full of holes where you drilled me.

Where I allowed you to press into me and drain me dry.

You have enough from razors,

Enough from my veins.

Now you must see,

You must look.

Holding you is crippling you.

Stand.

Breathe.

Scream.

And for the first time,

Move.

My Miracle

This is a true story. 

I was at summer camp with my church in 2004. I wasn't able to worship or really get anything out of the messages at camp. I was just to distracted. Not by anything in particular, just kinda everything. Then something happened. 

During the last night, the speaker had already finished and everyone else was worshiping in an extended worship session. I sat down and just asked God what was going on with me. I couldn't figure it out. I could hardly think. I knew I was His as I am now but I felt so distant. Nothing was wrong in my life. Life was great. Good family, good friends. So I asked God what I should pray for. He laid a few things on my heart so I began to pray for friends or family. But then I finally asked God to fix me. To help me with my unbelief because there had been so much of it. I didn't know what else to do. I missed His presence. Then God told me to pray for His peace, and so I did. 

But then there was... silence.  It was only quiet. There was just.... nothing. It was like when your house is completely silent for a long time and suddenly the AC shuts off and you realize what silence is really like. I could still hear the worship going on around me, still see my feet as I stared at the ground. I couldn't move. My soul was muffled. I was frozen in shock of the emptiness. God had remove His presence from me. He was silent. Completely and totally silent. 

I stared at the ground for the last two songs and as people started to leave for their church groups. Many of my friends in my youth group had out their hands on me during those last songs and, though I knew they were praying for me, I still couldn't move. God was still gone. If it wasn't for the slow movement of my chest from my small breaths, my friends probably would have thought I was dead. Eventually we had to leave so I rose, zombily stiff, and slowly walked out toward where our church group was supposed to meet. 

People tried to talk to me but my responses were nothing more than a shrug or a nod. There was still nothing. I made my way to my seat in the other building and sat down. Nothing. 

Everyone began to give testament to what God had shown them or taught them that week or commitments that they had made. I still didn't move. There wasn't anything to move for. In my mind I began to question everything; God, my salvation, life. But I knew the evidence of these things in the past. At one point I thought that I may have been possessed by a demon of some kind. An hour went by. Then Matt, the Youth Pastor, stopped everything and had everyone bow their heads and he prayed. He never said my name but he prayed for God to move through the room and for healing; his hand joining all the others that had been on my back for the past hour of testimonies. There was still nothing. 

After Matt's prayer they went back to doing what they were doing before. A few more testimonies later, I heard something. Not noise, but quiet words in my soul. "I love you," echoed through the void. Then I felt Him. God began to replenish my soul. A song that we had been singing began to play in my head, "Bread of life, come heal my soul, Living water, overflow." Those words began to repeat in my head over and over. God was healing my soul from the hours He left me to myself and for the first time at camp, I worshiped. I didn't sing or move my lips, I simply began to pray those words to God. I could feel my blood start to move again, my eyes began to focus, sounds were no longer muffled, my arms and legs no longer felt frozen, my breath became easier; I was free. Free from absence. 

God did what I asked of Him: He gave me a glimpse of what I would be like without Him. He showed me He was there by showing me what it would be like if He wasn't. He is always there, whether He has the AC on or not. 

He didn't quite hit the target on with that one. . .

The Dogwood Festival '11

I went to the Dogwood Festival in Piedmont Park for the first time this year. This is what I wrote after looking at many of the artist’s booths.

The Dogwood Festival '11

Artists bleed in carnival fashion:
Milling their meat in hotdog vending
and covering the park in deep soul fishing;
Looking for another who can enslave
their work for gandering
and softly sitting coffee.

Conversation for the rich,
envy of the poor.
Artist’s blood is not cheep.
Prices raised leaving gazes of broken wallets sad.
For the smiling tears must dry and be gone.

17 Dollars buys a burger,
but leaves a spirit dry.
Art breezes by as wind
and leaves with the smile always remembered.

When their soul touches you,
it leaves a mark.
When you can’t keep it,
it leaves a scar.

The Cold-Shouldered Devil

This is the first in a very serious series about deep life issues in a faux-shakespearean voice. 

The Cold-Shouldered Devil

And what, Frost Demon, is this villainous treachery?

Hast thou not debauched enough our great debt?

Run willingly through this whorehouse as gold flows

From thine pockets and is accost from mine?

After all the kind words that grace from my lips,

Petitioning against such travesties,

You leave few ways to rectify the shattered moral agreement.

Once again you embody the bane of mine existence

As you burst forth the winter's chill 

When a summer song should suffice!

Have you no understanding how this function doth bereave my soul?

You demons of winter's light have never known 

What it is to suffer from the mortal toil of chill!

My spindled fingers must thrust deep into the earth 

Searching for any drop of warmth to sooth my iced skeleton.

For how, Cold-Shouldered Devil, can you expect peace

When you impose an ice age that seems unending?

I beseech thee now, reconcile the frigid wind:

Breathe once again the warm air of life and sustenance

For you are my arm and my eyes and my voice.

Yet this villainous betrayal cannot go unturned.

Friend, Brother, Roommate,

Please bequeath me the one gift I ask:

Stop turning down the thermostat. 

If you like it share it on facebook, retweet, subscribe. 

The Hunt of Faded Lady

The art is by Marium Khalid and I wrote the poem in response to it. It has been posted with permission.

I stare.

Water petals pouring.

Bird wings roaring.

Waiting.

Blink of lashes.

I dare.

Slick hands goring.

Scythed fangs warring.

Baiting.

Lilting in gnashes.

I snare.

Serrated mind boring.

Fragranced fumes soaring.

Sating.

Taste of ashes.

I wear.

Double skin adorning.

Simple smile storing.

Mating.

Garnished with slashes.

Joy in Weakness

I was struggling with choreography for a show. I could not get it no matter how hard I tried and my brain was completely fried. Then God and I talked about it. I wasn't entirely pleasant about it, but He reminded me of some things about Himself. Then we had a good laugh at my frustration. Afterwards, I wrote this as a response to our discussion.

Thank you, Jesus, For my weaknesses. My Utter weakness. The smallness of my brain for the largeness of Your strength.

If God is making all of us glorious as He is glorious(1) and He shows us His strength in our weakness(2), then weakness becomes joy because God is glorified by weakness because he makes us able to endure it, glorifies Himself with it and our joy is in His glory. Because He is making (and has not yet finished making) us glorious as He is glorious, He will show us and expound upon our weaknesses for His greatest glory.

To a blind man Jesus said that he was born blind for the works of God to be revealed(3). God creates us with great weaknesses to show His great glory. And we can take part in the revealing of His glory because of our weakness.

If we were not weak He would not make us strong because we would already be strong. Through our weaknesses God shows us our own frailty and desperate need of His strength. Our weaknesses are intended for His glory and our joy.

Take joy in weakness. Don't be discouraged by inability, ask God for peace through our incompetence instead of smoldering in pride. Frustration with our weaknesses does not bring us into joy and intimacy with God, but into anger and bitterness. "Why did you make me this way?" "Why can't I get this right?" "Why didn't you helped me like I asked you to?" all come from pride and drag us into self-loathing and/or God-loathing. Our joy comes from acknowledging our weakness and letting His strength, even if only in the form of patience and endurance, work in us. Enjoy weakness.

Footnotes

(1) 2 Corinthians 3:18 And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.

(2) 2 Corinthians 12:9 But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

(3) John 9:1-3 As he passed by, he saw a man blind from birth. And his disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" Jesus answered, "It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him.

Smoke and th' Track

Hey lady you mind keepin’ to th’ side? I’m trying to rip up th’ jogging track you’ve been running circles ‘round me wif. It doesn’ work so good when I can’t get chou out th’ way. You been here plen’y long enough and I need chou t’ move. Now hold up. Don’t go runnin’ off again. You scoot a bit ova there and we gonna have this out while I hammer th’ road. You been here an awful long while, ain’t chou? Eva since you came through that door. I ‘member how you come in that door and good too. It was like, “woah.” And you dug up smiles long buried. I tried teachin’ you to dance but you wouldn’ have it. You said, “nah, I like dancin’ but I’m scared o’ partners.” I said, “ok,” all agreeable, “but then you ain’t dancin’ really. You should dance anyway. Partner’s ain’t so bad,” and I reached fo’ your hand. You said, “nah,” and ran away all scared o’ dancin’. You left th’ dirt kicked up and I screamed and bit and blamed. When I ‘membered you didn’t mean it, it wasn’t so bad, but you couldn’t find th’ door eitha. I couldn’t let you out ‘cause o’ all th’ smoke you left, see. I smoldered and screamed and we tried to work down to friends but th’ sun in your hair never did let me. And now you find your way back to th’ track so often and I can’t say I don’t like th’ way you run, but if you won’t dance wif a partner then I gotta get rid o’ this track. ‘t’s not fair to take a man’s time and space when you isn’t gonna dance wif him. But that’s just th’ thing. We like each others companies well enough, but see there’s this spark in your eye that always starts fire and never lets me sleep. You don’t even say nothin’ and my goose is cooked and ain’t no thing I can do about it. But ’til we has that conversation, fo’ real and not in here wif all th’ smoke, I’m gonna keep tryin’ to rip up track and you gotta keep out th’ way. So it’s like I said; we eitha gotta dance togetha, or we gotta find you th’ door. Now get on wif yo’self.

When I's Connect

Two breaths rise in a four eye stalemate.
Momentary disfigurations protect
so that primary perceptions can be allayed
in a way that will stop the souls of broken breathers
trying to conceive blurs through mixed up mix tapes;
Lush bowls of poisoned grapes
that count round about glances
as chances of hope and fear.
Falling, rolling, toiling,
moments of click and pow.
Gun shot irises
burn back into the flaming phlegm
hoarded so that when
the moment comes,
when all is lost and gained,
all the darts may emancipate.
Claws raise.
Volitions lock.

A twitch.
A twist.
Paws protecting
halt for gleam.
Chinks crack.
The lenses refit,
refocus,
reignite.
Two slow lights shed armor.
Stand.
Wait.
Walk close.
Examine in tender fear,
and smile sunbeam songs.
All recourse fades.
Volitions dissipate.

A sure grip clasps.
Long chains softly sync,
filling the soul mirrors
with the happy torrents.
Faint stomachs plummet
as swirled smokes saunter
'round in waltz,
drying empty lips
and sipping pupils
in quenching embrace.
Tiny tears grip tenderly,
laugh frolicking along cheeks
as flags of surrender.
One breath rises,
one I sees.

Bloody Puns