Come springtime, when the magnolia
tree exploded in bloom in the backyard
I’d grab the bolt-action .22 from the closet
and call out to my sister to tell her
that after a long winter, it was time.

There were hundreds of them, and for hours
I’d knock those blossoms down while she
darted below the canopy catching every one—
stunned pink birds nesting in her hands.

We never missed, either of us, and when
the bullets and blossoms were gone,
she would laugh and shake the petals
from her hair and brush them from her
bare arms and neck like pastel feathers,
the soft relics of an unexpected snow.

In her dreams, the docent
maneuvers schoolchildren

down museum corridors,
shepherding their bodies

into evacuated galleries
where nothing changes

except the patterns
of nails hammered
into plaster walls.

She speaks pedantic
falsehoods until one

by one the children
disengage and find

themselves a constellation
of nails upon which to hang.

A renaissance takes time, but
not as much as you might think.

Come midnight,
the museum is full
of masterpieces.

And though the works
of art make her weep,

the docent is inspired
to study each small frame
for a brushstroke

that might signify
the break of dawn.

somewhere in Paris, Texas, someone screams into a mouthorgan
its haunting sound comes clear across the ocean
like a lover lost to the wind it rises and falls
a spaghetti western starring Clint Eastwood comes to mind
and a gun shot rings out and I think the lost lover just gave up the ghost
the music of the mouthorgan lost somewhere out in the deep.

inconsistency is my most consistent companion
it fits so I no longer fight it.

If you tell gold it's worthless,
It might believe you.
But does saying that
Make it true?

Is worth defined
By what's verbalized?
If you criticize
Does worth minimize?

Words are words,
Not always true.
But gold is gold!
And you are you.
Don't weigh your worth
On what you're told.
Despite it's value
Even some dislike gold.

what is life but want
a line that embodies a whisper
fine as a strand of silk,
just as fragile

we crush, we stamp
we wreak detruction
but we also think we love
and we cherish

but is love love when you want more
more till they break
till they hate
till its over

what is enough

love we spoil by demanding more
eager to feed our rapacious mouths and our craving minds
always greedy, begging for more
insatiable
more
merely for us
what we get slips between the cracks
falling below our flaws
so that we are hindered, caged, by our own souls
and when this is devoured
we justify searching for more
desiring the exceptional

life oozes opportunity
it pours like the rain,
drips like condensation

and yet we stand
mouths gaping open, hands grabbing
how long will we stand before grasping a hand, an opportunity, a mouthful
how long,
how long do we stay yearning

our cold lives will never be full
our voracious bodies can never be blessed by satisfaction

we want to know
we want to love
love the one
love life
love ourselves

what we really long for is time

a clock strikes
the revalation that we possessed the world weighs heavy
hanging precipitously but it is not to be shaken off
it is a chain
a prison
forged of gluttonous greed,
regrattable malancholy,
gloom

what is this life but want  
and who should care
for your bleeding, your suffering, your tears
but those of whom you demanded the world
they were the world
now ravaged irreparably by our want

and now we sit,
wanting for all of time
until the end

humanity is hated by humanity

                                                                             -k.g.