Tortoise and the Hare.

Frugal with my offerings
what little I have is given
with turtle like hesitation
I was never one for racing.

Too scary it is to be in the lead.
I was given a candy bar once for outstanding leadership
to be young again,
tugging on a rope screaming “PULL”.

As an adult I pull my pants down.
Convincing those bloated with doubt of my undying affections
manipulating the course
a slight pink hole used for misdirection.

Weighed down by another’s needs and wants,
cemented feet,
I’m thrown into their rivers.

It burns you know
taking in all that water.
Odd how that which sustains also kills.

Pacing is important.
I always licked my plate clean
barely a breath between bites.
My excess has always been an issue,
so eager and hungry for something savory.

Heart burn,
I regurgitate most of what I believe to be edible.
Still searching for my last dish.

Hopping from bed to bed,
Am I the hare?
Focusing on using the wrong pink hole,
maybe lead with a kiss?
Slow burns can be good.

I’m a turtle with a broken heart
hiding in an unbreakable shell
longing for a reason
to poke one’s head out.

 

Effecting my truth with unbuttoning.

 

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Splinters.

the apple did not fall far from,
remaining attached still,
veining for your touch,
shining its peel to be plucked.
how could one know,
a plucking could be so traumatizing .
gobbled up and spitting out seeds,
stolen from its family’s tree.

 

defecating out one’s meant to be,
to not fall far from.

wondering why it is,
why a mother bird flees?
when a stranger’s hands invades its nest,
while her baby birds were left to rest?
never being taught the proper way to sing,
they exit this world with a chirp.
wanting to be a scream.

tree of life,
I see a tree of lies?

I see a man hanging from its limbs,
limbs were made to move,
but just stiffened.
the wind his only friend, giving sway to a limp corpse,
his crime you ask?
none, his race.

dogwood, crafted for a carpenter,
shaped into a cross.
pyres stacked and lit aflame,
devouring women for supposed sins.

so many coffins.
one atop another,
replacing gardens with tombs.
smaller coffins taking up less room,
child sized.

 

reliving the time you kissed me,
under its shade,
our initials etched into the skin.
dandelion salad fit for a king,
feasting on your lips, tasting of grass.

would have been so lovely,
for our tree to be used.
I wish I knew the one,
hoping it was maple.

coffins atop coffins.

 

I don’t see what’s so special about trees,
or have I simply become indifferent.

Baptism.

Stepping into the tub,
my feet trembling, steps slippery.
Afraid they will see my male breasts,
such a slim transparent white gown.

Am I intended to experience shame,
meant to be exposed before being saved.
The man with the saving hands, preacher or juror?
lowered me forceful.

I've been made to lower,
by other men.
Whispers of pretend tickling my ear,
becoming erect, I felt the water rise to my chest.

Little boy sinner, had they known of my transgressions.
I could feel them crucifying me,
nailing me to the cross with their eyes.
Had I lost the chance for confession.

Ten years old, with the taste of cock on my tongue.
Would I be held under to suffocate,
don't they know perverts prefer to asfixate.
Had my parents offered me up,
a sacrifice to "Their" God.

Faces of strangers,
male breasts for all to see.
Plummeted into the glass surface, held down.
assured that I would not be able to lap it up,
too much water in the tub.

Male breasts always bouncing.
This piggy preferred sweets,
lustful for icing and ice cream.
Never meant to pickup a taste for cum.


I did not drown,
I rose back up into the light.
Feelings of ambivalence washed away,
I could feel it on my skin, 

Cleansed by my own acceptance.

Dead Son.

an empty canvas,
ripe full of possibilities.
melancholy on the tip of the brush,
a deep well of sorrow in the choosing,

shades of blue.

black for the bags,
full heavy in death.
smeared are the eyes,
drawn open by fear.

his coarse, brown hair,
so many strokes to achieve,
passed down by her.
even then, no such thing as a vibrant brown.

she could have painted him on the slab,
instead electing his room.
hues of his existence,
looming still.

mother painting dead son,
lying in his bed.
Incapable of finding the perfect shade,
lips so blue.

statuesque, 
a single tear,
was it for him or her?

demands more blue,

the coolness of departure,
hanging on his spout.
no more words to be spoken,
a cave of nothingness,
in place of a mouth.

mother paints dead son.....

longing to paint herself,
lying beside him.

Tea Leaves.

 

Kisses on the breath,
Tastes of tea leaves left behind.
Never you mind the reluctant eyes,
Looking for escape.

Unbearable it seems,
To graze upon your face.
Fingers tracing,
Beautiful arrangements.

Unbearable I say.

Use to dim and dank.
Blinding it is, taking in such a sight .
Eyes look away,
When there’s too much light.

Five more minutes,
Head to chest, eggs over easy.
Yes we differ, preferring coffee with cream & lots of sugar,
Eggs scrambled.

Palates collide when where together.

Too much,
Forfeited was my deserving,
No light to give in exchange,
Furthering question of your earning.

I’ll find my answer in the tea leaves,
Each sip you take, a premonition.
Another taste an invitation,
The leaves promenading on your breath,

Sometimes chai,
Sometimes mint.

Tea leaves becoming,
My favorite scent.

 



Wolf who cried Boy.

Biting her tongue,
Hunger snapped back,
Blood taste biter,
When seasoned in deceit.

Change everything, 
Shed thoust skin, 
Slithering across the floor,
Feels strange when you’ve grown a spine. 
Stand upright,
No longer a cub.

Commitment,
Scarier than the kill itself, 
Waiting,
Praying.
Prayer for the boy.

The Wolf waits,
The snow falls in perfect symmetry.
Blanketing death in a beautiful white sheet.

Outgrowing his own charade of change.
The boy appears.
Blinded to the wolf's proximity. 

Blood upon his lips as well,
cracked from the widening mouth,
Out pours of pleads.

The boy begins again,
“WOLF” he cries.
No one comes.
“WOLF” he screams waving his hands.
No one sees.
“WOLF” He pleads.

With great sadness, 
She did as summoned.
Circling,
She cried for the boy.

Crunching, 
Ripping,
Ingesting,
Emptying,
Devouring,

How truly deep in despair,
To call for her so many nights.
Blood on her snout she howls.

Monster.

 

Turn the lock.
Don’t let him in.
If you do he will see.
You are the monster and he a man.
Not welcomed.

Tear drenched pillows.
Long hot showers, 
Snot pouring.

Sitting in silence.
Empty,
No fulfillment 
Loneliness.

For I am a monster.

Knocking.
Maybe he is different.
His eyelashes are endless. 
Asking about my scars.
Then pulling out the knife,
Adding a critical wound upon my heart.

Retreating,
My form catches the light.
You see the stitches barely holding me together. 

I am made up of several parts.
These arms those of an addict, 
Trying not feel.
My head is that of a dreamer, 
Whose dreams never came.
This torso a victims, 
Who doesn't know how to move on.
These fingers a child's,
Made to do adult things. 

Forever ashamed.

My legs are misshapen. 
One was that of a Warrior,
Standing his ground.
The other a Coward,
Quick to Flee.
Circles I only go in circles.

Cruel to say you see the man in me. 
To tell the Monster he is kind,
Or good .

Now you are outside my window,
Pitchfork in hand.
Knocking.

I won’t let you in. 
I thought you kind.
You see it.
The Monster in me,
Instincts over feelings,
Alarmed.

You've rung the bells.
Like a sheep you've decided on me. 
You congregate outside my door. 
The townspeople who never saw the man behind you. 
Red flint flickering flames dancing in the night sky.

I see now. 
Burning,
Everything is burning. 

You were the monster.

Bullets.

Encouragingly they sing,
Words shouldn’t bruise.
As if we aren’t emotionally draped,
Thin skin hanging.
Wrong to inflict lacerations,
But only instructed empathy,
Towards carbon copies.

Words, 
Rock on rock, 
Igniting embers.
Nursing the fire of hate.
How eager some are,
Content suckling on Detest’s teats.

Words,
Load their guns.

Terrorists,

         Thugs,

                 Perverts,

                          Radicals,

                                    Immigrants,

      
We the people, 
Bullets.

Intolerance becoming a national anthem.
Intolerant as if being different were a glass of milk,
Unsettling in the stomachs of bigotry.
Maybe they should try chocolate.
No easier to digest,
Premeditated hate is.

As a child I naively believed we were all “precious in his sight”
Yellow, black, and white.
Bleeding red.

Red in the pews.
Red on the dance floor.
In the classrooms, 
the mosques, 
The streets.

Because of pigment,
Sexual preference,
Inheritance,
Freedom of religion,
Hands not risen.

Red in the hands of men,
Fist clenched,
Overcome by another’s existence.
Their glocks and their cocks aimed,
people they hate and or crave in the crosshair.

The puritan masses,
Drinking from a well,
Dug in a time when people were born,
With bar codes as birthmarks.
Pointing fingers proclaiming “WITCH”.

Precious in “HIS” sight.
As if seeing were enough.
Let HIM hear.

Yellow, black, and white. 
Bleeding red,

Riddled with Bullets.

Aspahlt

 

Do not liken,
Your hell to mine.
Apples and razor blades.
Balance inequitable.

The journey to said hell,
Intimate.

Separate roads we travel,
Even if side by side.
Hazardous to stray,
Stay in your path.

Thresholds and tolerance,
Building.
Should we exchange shoes?
Or traverse the hot Asphalts hand in hand.

Loneliness,
The universal fork in the road.
Alone we suffer,
Turn right,
Together we heal,
Turn left.

Hotter is the Asphalt when standing still.






 

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