The very first thing I learned about you was your ex-communication from Mormonism. Did you really try teaching a preschool class that Jesus was a Rastafarian? Or was that one of your many big fish tales told to me over the years?

This was when you were only a mischievous high-schooler. Not the cynic you are today, worn down after choosing the safest choices life can offer. When did a clever person like you acquiesce to such homogeneity? Somewhere between your Economist-reading days in undergrad and law school? I know you claim the reason was something about getting your heart broken one too many times. And yes, I know I whacked it around like a pinata... as you did mine. Because that's what reckless kids do. Will you ever accept this as an excuse? Or will you always use it as the reason to avoid my calls?

Back at the age of 15, though, you could do no wrong. A shy smile was all you'd see from me, but I'd go to bed dreaming of all of the clever things I wanted to say to you. My friends would later say you exploited your teaching role as my debate tutor... but me? I was totally, utterly, and blissfully enamored by your explanation of Foucault and FoPo. I'm convinced the reason you fell in love with me was because I wrote a letter to Crayola pretending to be 5 in hopes of getting a free pack of crayons. You liked that kind of smart *** behavior because it was the kind of stuff that made you come alive. Which reminds me... do you still have the "#1 bestseller" sign you swiped from the grocery store? You wore it in your back pocket while wearing your "I spoil my grandkids" t-shirt.

How appropriate that our first kiss was on the debate room couch. I'm glad kissing was, in fact, better for you with your braces removed. And how appropriate that my first date was you taking me to the high school musical, "Kiss Me Kate."

What is it about first loves that make even the most mundane so magical? I can't tell you the number of times I looked out the window in hopes of seeing your red Ford Escort pull up. It took my breath away more than any Mercedes could. Who knows what we'd do when you did come over--probably play Donkey Kong Country, or watch some ironic movie like Donnie Darko. If nobody was home we'd make out to the Disney "Fantasia" soundtrack.

Back then you were always intrigued with the whimsical. Nowadays it's 1940s classics, malt scotch and Coachella concerts. I think your career ***** you so dry of life that you overcompensate with your expensive tastes. The wildest you'd ever get was smoking a hookah. But the guy I remember? He liked pocket watches, Rufus Wainwright, and Harry Connick Jr. I know you're a responsible tax-paying adult now, but I still see you as the wild-eyed wholesome troublemaker you once were. I prefer you that way, even if it's mentally dishonest of me.

Since you, men have wined and dined me at world-renowned resorts and have taken me to presidential *****. But none of these dates have given me the same rush of euphoria as sneaking out and spending the night with you in the home you were house-sitting: That night, we were a pair of 16-year-old rebels. At least we didn't get caught by the cops making out in the high school's agriculture department parking lot. That would happen in a few months' time.

Then you left for college, to gain an education and have experiences that sounded overwhelming for my sheltered ears. It didn't matter that I left for Europe that year--you had left for college, which was a distance in my head that couldn't be measured geographically.

I could recall a thousand barbs exchanged from then until we both finished college: you dated her. I dated him! We made promises. We broke promises. You'd come home for summer. We relished in the relatively new-found art of *******, mostly perfected on each other in our youth. We'd hate each other. We'd love each other. Your friend would hate me; my sister would hate you. On it would go.

But there were such sweet times. We saw Harry Potter together and we sat on my roof, imagining that one night could stretch til forever as we looked up at the stars. It was then that you dedicated Coldplay's "Yellow" to me. And no expression of love was greater than seeing you in the back of the auditorium, waiting to drive me home after my 6th period drama class.

I honestly don't know the person you are today. Sure, you give me snippets. Usually when some girl breaks your heart and you need to vent. In truth, I know you saw me as your plan B. Always. Shame on me for playing that part so beautifully for so long. Could we have worked out, you and me? I smile, knowing that some things from the past should stay firmly rooted where they are. There would always be a part of me that would feel like that freshman trying to impress you, a senior. All the while I wouldn't feel funny enough, cool enough, witty enough by comparison. No, we simply wouldn't work.

You know the rule, about loving your family because they're the only one you've got? I think the same is true with first loves. When I reflect on our oh-so-ordinary relationship, you--I mean, US: we weren't so great. Nothing special.

But my heart sure seems to think you were... even after all of these years.

At birthday parties, we didn’t like to imagine
What the paper donkey felt like
Being knocked around
By our wooden bats
Swinging blindly, alone
Until it bled beautiful colors
Until it gushed sweet things
And the sweet things told our mouths
“Thank you for releasing us.”

If my heart was a piñata, I would give you a blindfold
And hand you a baseball bat
Spin you around three times
And close my eyes
And we’d swing blindly, together

I can't heal the deaf or blind,
I can’t turn water into wine,
But give me a glass, and I can turn it into kool-aid
Maybe if I were more like Jesus I could get laid

Neil Armstrong walked on the moon
And I’ll be leaving this place soon
And if you have any sense, you’ll decide not to follow
As I’ve told you before, my chest is hollow

Smoke me up before I go
Here’s a tattoo of a rainbow
I found it at the bottom of a box of ******* jacks
Put it on, and when it's gone, never look back

One last kiss upon the cheek
We'll both have moved on in a week
So walk me to the bus stop and say “adios”
You think you love me, but I know you can’t love a ghost.

Adios

the pH in my stomach has plummeted
to an all time low. as a defense mechanism,
my stomach clenches.
2. my jaw is extremely sore from grinding
my teeth while i was sleeping (and having
the regular nightmares.)
3. sometimes, my joints decide to act like they
are eighty years old instead of twenty.
4. that's what i get for burying the acidity of
the self loathing.
5. now i am a pinata except i'm hallow.

It's nice to remember
who I am, ever since
Eros shot a quiver
of arrows into my chest
and spun me around
sending me aimlessly
towards the first
man shaped pinata.
Swinging blindly
into the darkness
of my blind fold
waiting for the thud
of hearts hitting the ground
and shattering into hundreds
of tiny sweets
begging, to be cherished
and gobbled up
by a school yard
kind of love.

I am wisened by my wounds.
My thirst is sated by monsoons.
Scars teach me lessons.
Fighting for peace is my weapon.
Every memory changes a sliver of me.
Through time, i've turned into a motley pinata.
Pieced together haphazardly.
But i know what its like not to be afraid of taking a swing
and i know what its like to fly
because baseball bats give me wings.

Loose congregation of words ,mixed syllables,sounds ascending to  an annunciation made upon announcement
Clashing conundrums of verbs accented with adjectives  ,while crashing and dashing looking for a place to stay
Confections with conflictions searching for reasons to become more easily resounded
Papier-mâché used as the blind box  waiting to reveal its hidden appeal ,will we use sticks for new words fray.


Teachers use their rulers to help crack the skin or  layer of drooling uninterested information gatherers
  Finding synonyms is easier with a hungrier  fool  ,yet opposites distract if paying pledges to the papers
Finding the unknown fabulous riches still hiding inside is best without the blindfold ,hearing proper direction is what matters
Cracking the outer code ,scattering packages of messages is titillating especially if involved  as crossword players

Clarification containers from Macmillan help refine an ongoing array of writing gone astray
Pulling new or familiar sounds to another level ,hollow waiting to filled with tasty sweets
True copy that has been pasted,not wasted gathered into changing shapes in a new way
Can make our day, just right for many to explore the contents, blindly poking formulating new treats

Thesaurus as a party tool could it be  taking on the shape of a walrus
Antonyms with  many wrappings ,nuggets or nougats of wisdom
Wordy party favors masked new flavors seeking to be savored ,hidden like walnuts
Players programmed with reading ritual learn to approach life with new optimism.
R.C.

I can't dream if it's from this closet
Every thing I want to do just sounds so ******* pompous
I talk about what I want to do and everybody thinks I've lost it
I'm on the radar, but I'm the darkest blip
Walking the plank on purpose, S.S. *******, I'm off this ship

I feel like I've finally got it, and of course then I've lost it
I write a masterpiece, "hey where's the follow up?"
Like me and my girl jinxin the future with a prenup
'Oh you know we just trying to be safe,' right *****, let's marry up this **** then
You can take it all just split them assets
Get me bent with no price or rent

See I ain't tryna get around just tryna win this
Can't seem to get to the top when I'm the only one in the bracket
Try to be a team player, but my teams full of *******
I'm Harry Potter *****, imma smash that *** like quidditch
I gonna hit that pinata, till the cash flow get me riches

I talk ***** but I miss the way you talk
British, you a fit birdy, girl
I eat my grits, but I ain't really eating till after we're flirty, girl

Take you to the back room, pour some wine and then some feelings, watch some mad men and tell you bout my last girl
I said I like the way you talk to me but I think I just like how I can talk to you
You're an outlet, and I'm plugging, your sticking around, but you should know I'm just thuggin
And maybe I just say the ***** things I say to mask my potential under promiscuity cause I got a real problem promising myself I'll solve my problems too
(I'd never admit it though)

See that's just something me and my crew do
I guess it masks all the little ***** blues 'fake cries'
During this poem I think I grew three inches for you  
In my heart
See it's so easy to gravitate to you like your the sun and I'm Mercury, I'm too close and you're burning me alive, but I can't pull myself apart, girl it'll never work
We can't stop Miley, that's melancholy for sure (but keep the twerk)

You make me feel like Frank Sinatra, and I can't even sing
So **** confident, you let me discover myself, I'm deep, I can feel, I'm Mike Tyson, Kung Pao chicken, I bring it all to the ring
All these little kids on the streets learning how to *** from me 'like fricken'
The thought of you got me sick to the stomach, it's sticking
..
Too bad you're just a ******* fling

driving on an electric highway,
it shoots to be the
monkey on the back.
white, green in a bottle or a machine.
foul breath creams
out words that i hold dear.

holding up a candle
by its burning wick
while a sea breeze slaps me
with a salty sting.

fumbling through an atmosphere
joined tongue and groove,
from the first breath to the last,
the artichoke heart pumps out a beat.

one foot in front of the other,
another swing, the pinata breaks,
raining down lies to be gathered up
and taken home,
to be stretched out and hung
along side of the truths.

© 2005

I put my heart on a string
and gave it to you
as a necklace

You hung it from the ceiling
and beat it half to death
like a ****** pinata

Wrapped it around your finger
and yanked it up and down
like a macabre yo-yo

I swallowed all of the pain and
it tasted like hairspray

like chewing up eggshells
like biting aluminum foil
like licking pennies

I don't even want my heart back
please just please **** it now
step on it wearing stilettos

I just want to be whispers in your mind
I want to be a spider on the back of your skull
I want the curse of remembrance upon your soul

Sometimes I wish
This pant dries slower
Around this canvas
That curses my name,
Every drag of smoke
That reaches into my subconscious
Meets my hand
To pen
To ink
To this blank idea,
I guess this is all i got
I curse the lords name
Throwing the pen
Against this yellow wallpaper,

Depression is only called
To the ones who can see
The writing on the walls,
Left in blood red,
Words that make me a victim
Of labeling what it means
To be a victim.

This pen sounds like my mother,
White powder filled with innocent memories
Stick to the keys
She could always conduct
The simplest symphonies
The sting to her words
Wrap the vacuum cord around my neck.
Terrorist apart of the self doubt group called my insecurities
Swing at me like a pinata,
Crucified to my old drafts
Of this blank canvas,

I scream enough I say,
My words cast a light
Through the pen
Shattering this oddly warmer room
I pick up the pen
And write on this canvas

I'm driving down the back roads, back home in Virginia.
I drive past that field,
The one where you parked your truck,
Where we sat in the backseat and shared our first kiss,
And I think of you.

I hear that song on the radio,
That Drake song,
The one that you dedicated to my dog, ha,
The dog that we had to give away when we moved,
The song that later made you cry when you heard it, because you missed my dog,
And I think of you.

Your mom calls me tonight,
She tells me that story about the pinata and the bunny rabbit,
The story shes already told me three times,
Because she thinks its so funny,
Because what are the chances that would happen to anyone but you,
And I think of you.

I drive past one of those roadside cross memorials,
And I think of the one we made for you,
The one I went to the craft store to buy stuff to decorate it,
And bawled my eyes out in the sticker aisle,
Barely beginning to grasp the idea I would never see you again,
And I think of you.

I look into our daughters eyes,
The daughter you never got to meet,
The one with the big blue eyes that look just like yours,
With the dimple in her cheek just like yours,
And I think of you.

If someone were to bash in my head, the way a child smashes a colorful pinata, candy would not spill out. Blood, brains, chunks of bone, this is what you are expecting? Down right logical... But not entirely correct. What would fall into that scattered pile, to be dug through and have the best treats taken first, would be an assortment of many things. Books, art, poetry, precious memories, pointless trivia, a lifetime of collected information so painstakingly remembered. But there in the chaotic midst of what used to be organically organized neurons, would be countless thoughts of you. These of course would be the sweetest tidbits, the tasty treasure gathered greedily by the party guests. Countless thoughts of you... And yes... Also, blood, brains, and chunks of bone.

Mamma's Boy

There was a man, his name was Tom,
forty five and still lives with mom.
I guess you can say, he's a mamma's boy,
morning, noon and night, plays with his favorite toy.
Mom don't let him go out on dates,
Rosie and her sisters, are his only mates.
Has naked posters on his bedroom wall,
stares at under age girls at the mall.
Loves movies that are ****,
been that way, since he was born.
Hangs out at every school park,
targeting his next victims every mark.
Tried it once or twice in his cellar,
tied them to an old plane propeller.
He buried them after he had his fun,
only girls between ten to twelve,
made him shoot his favorite gun.
Missing person posters turned him on,
he considered himself the preteen Don Juan.
Then one day his mamma died,
Jekyll is gone, it's now only Hyde.
He went on local web chat sites,
all young girls got wanted invites.
With no mom, things got easy,
my stomach is getting a bit queasy.
In a months time, maybe twenty girls,
promised them dolls with clothes and pearls.
This small town was in an uproar,
if you needed girl parts, he had the store.
Near by neighbors noticed an ungodly smell,
police came and found and an under ground hell.
Everyone thought this man was strange,
after his mom died, they noticed a change.
They strung him on a giant pole,
while parents played Whac-A-Mole.
They hit that human pinata till it exploded,
his blood and guts became unloaded.

A backward smile
Smiling backwards
A frown turned up
And the up part turned down
A Mexicali turnaround:
Festive pinata
With one stick for a try
Birthday time!

By: David W. Clare

She told me her family was well-off,
then she started to cough...
To me, putting on the dog was never impressive!
I could tell she had plans for me that didn't include me at all...

I was her pinata for the weekend!
Drinks, dinner and a lobotomy were in store...

Her place was in the city where I would be beaten up with kisses!
Her wishes were venomous, yet I was at her command...

Along for the ride!

She drank heavily; especially before work as a stock broker!

Seemed the joke was on me...

She tried to fashion me into her dancing-monkey while she would grind the *****!

She liked to slap me around with her scotch and sofa slaps...
Only to watch me pull myself up by her bra-straps!

I pretended all was great...
*******, violent date!

Her high-heels stabbed my sense of pride!

I was only... along for the ride!


(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks

love
with
her red umbrella
dangled in the air
like a red pinata
balanced herself
and
walked across
the
thin spaghetti tight-rope
with
her frighten soul
suspended in the air
upon
her
tiny tippy toes
high in the sky
like a slippery *****
unready for death
where
love at her best
is
a
different breed of cat
i
must say
with
her
nine lives to spare
but
still
she survived

As a child I had a perfect red balloon.
I took delicate strips of crepe paper,
dipped them with paste, and formed a fragile shell around it.

Growing up, crepe paper turned to newspaper, smudged with ink from words marking time.
Paste was no longer strong enough, so I found glue, and occasional stickers to strategically place over gaps.

Aged on and weathered, the strips of newspaper presented carelessly crumpled and shredded.
Glue was replaced by mud of my tears and settling dust from constant construction. Random gems occupy minor dents to deter the eye.

I've built a paper mache heart, strengthening it as life's hardships pay their respects.
Layers upon layers hardened it to be sturdy and solid.
The balloon deflated long ago, but the structure remains. It's cracked, has holes, but holds a nostalgic beauty like that of a well loved antique rocking horse .

I fear though, my demons look up with hallow eyes from down in the depths,
and see a pinata...eager to beat it for the treasures collected inside.

It is a lake, no, pray, a balloon. Pinata can burst, and turn into something quite different. Mark these eyes, believe anything can happen. Hope behind such eyes, broken cages, broken hearts. We sit alone, bars freeze, please... help. No help for us. Lucky? Doubt it. Wish for just simple mental trust, unfortunate, cannot be that, that close.
Assistance needed.  
Going to go, going to stay. Were told to stay, but they never came. Still waiting, but lost hope, lost life. Shy, traumatized, just need soft stream of dew. Just want to be home, but cannot be, cannot stand living. Only belief is belief in a lake. Round, depth defying eyes stare at you to be gentle. And then the bubbles turn into broken, shivering, ***** of mortality.

a rhino wobble
dance the token noon
pinata Connecticut

A memory suppressed by thirty years
A face stained with biting tears
A life so full of irrational fears
I need you by my side

Like a pinata, I was a toy
Only to be broken, not to show joy
As quiet as a mouse, I was coy
I need you by my side

This all happened in my youth
As no one around me knew my truth
Like a fox "they" thought they were smooth
I need you by my side

They say I have a heart of gold
Despite the story I've never told
Forget all the drama that would unfold
I now can stand alone.

pinata spring
of hatchling gallops
dandelion spear

EMOTIONAL CONFETTI
Fluctuating feelings,endless raindrops flowing freely in our minds beginning with weeping...
Simple expressions smirking, smiling never beguiling picking up perceived perceptions...
Gradually graduating, waiting to be defined curiosity as a helper.
Adding to a emotional list,simple samples to leave us smiling, storing fledgling perceptions.
Growth of anonymous senses without pretenses layering in levels loosely stacked.
Unknown actions can create new consciousness clear paths rapidly become another titillation,unfocused, acquiring new knowledge of our senses.

Fables or cut & dried on a table, reminders of danger, more learning is required, to be careful, actions have reactions.
Middle aged resilience leans towards laziness , simple lessons idly waiting, rising or raging hormones...
Maybe now reverting back to to an open minded teenage mess.
Stop,think, forward with learned caution ,processing procedures or fall into flagrant mating.
The lessons learned thrown aside, spontaneity instead of logic, not reasoning for future distress.

Friendly, finicky, joyful, jovial, anxious, regressing, positive, become life shaping a personality.
Lessons falling from skies ,bubbling from underneath, like it or not always along the pathway
Absorbing through language, actions, maybe lineal, inherited...then sharpened to become more an internal part of our individuality.
In stages - never really understanding the gauges - a deeper spirit ,developing whit clamoring, climbing up a bit.
Finding feelings, new intensities, finding with more fervour, progressing with new sentimentality...

Fluctuating with a daily play, goodness with glee, sadness with wrath, passion with affection...
Sensibility - gifted through experiences - leading to instinct, forming, acquiring apathy.
Flowing like chad, ribbons of color, grandiose glitter - as if from an exploding pinata. A distraction or attraction...

Do we learn to love or live to love?
Left with only what we've lived...
The feeling; our only collection. R.C.

Driving on this electric highway,
it shoots to be the
monkey on the back.
White, green, in a bottle or a machine.
Foul breath screams out
words that I hold dear.

Holding up a candle
by its burning wick,
while a sea breeze
slaps me with a salty sting.

Fumbling through an atmosphere
joined tongue and groove,
from the first breath to the last
the artichoke heart pumps out the beat.

One foot in front of the other,
another swing and the pinata breaks,
raining down lies to be gathered up
and taken home
to be stretched out and hung
alongside the truths.