As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.

Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.

Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.

Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.

Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.

Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.

As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

It seems winter has come early.

November is barely here and already it's snowed.

The once warm summer breeze that rolled in with the tide, has been replaced. Replaced by a frigid wind that just hits you and keeps on going. Blowing right through you as if you were no more than the leaves that it was here to strip away.

The Autumn leaves.

Natures finest hour.

Clear blue skies and green grass have their place and their appeal, but when the leaves turn red and gold and yellow in no particular order, the world is truly beautiful.

Its peaceful, serene.

Its a time of change.

Its like the world is getting ready for bed. Its putting on its pajamas and slippers and warming the milk for the hot chocolate to see it through the long nights sleep that is winter, with its white feather pillows and soft blankets.

This year its been different.

This year summer came late, stayed for coffee and then all of a sudden fall had passed in the blink of an eye, as if to get things back on track so that winter wouldn't have to wait til next year to show up. What a row that would cause.

But as I sit here above the rocks and look out at the cape, at the setting sun and the dark green sea. Watching the white horses gallop up the beach before disappearing into the sand, I feel that so much more is changing than just the seasons.

I guess nothing stays the same anymore, anymore than anything lasts forever.

At home a letter awaits me that I dare not read. As if not doing so will somehow change its contents.

It sits there above the fireplace, waiting.

Taunting me.

I caught myself the other day walking down the hallway rather than going through the lounge because I couldn't bear to see it.

Its the handwriting that scares me.

Its the same handwriting that used to be on letters that could lift my soul from the deepest abyss and raise it aloft to soar above the highest mountains. The same handwriting that has now become the bearer of all news that is bad.

I know its from you.

And I know what it says.

It says that you do still love me and that you probably always will, but that its not enough. It says that there's no way you can see this working with me here and you there and it says that you're sorry. It says that you wish sometimes we had never met because before we did you didn't know that this existed. You didn't know how much it would hurt to be without it, and now you do....

But whats missing are the questions.

The "can we make this work with me here and you there?", the "if we can't would you consider moving?", the "how do we get to keep something we both want so god ****** much?" questions.

I know they're missing because I have the answers. I have all the answers, but nobody is asking the questions.

And because you write, and not call, I don't even get to ask them rhetorically just so that I can get the answers out in the open where you can see them and hear them and know that we can do this, and that we should do this.

But thats not in the letter.

The letter can't see that I'm in purgatory.

It can't feel like I do. It can't feel that that bit of me that all my ribs connect to in the middle of my chest, that bit feels like its been ripped clean out. Now all thats there is this big empty space. A space full of nothing but longing... regret... unshed tears and sleepless nights.

Why didn't you call?

Even if you'd called to tell me all the things that are bound to be in the letter, all the things I didn't want to hear, then at least I would have gotten to hear you... to hear your voice.

It used to be like a switch. It triggered some Pavlovian response deep inside me, just the whisper of it would make me smile, just the rumor of its presence was enough to make my pulse race a little quicker, make me breathe deeply, savouring the imminence of it all.

Maybe I should have told you all this before it was too late. Before the letter. Before the conversation that pre-empted the letter.

I should have told you this every day.

I thought you knew.

Maybe you did? Maybe its only in books and movies and fairy tales that it works that if you love someone then they have to love you back. Maybe its only in make believe that any of this really matters.

I wish I'd said no.

When you gave your speech about time and distance and **** getting in the way I should have said "NO!" I should have said "So what!? Yes you're right, its driving us both crazy but lets fix all that. Lets decide what WE want and take that instead?" Thats what I should have said.

But I didn't

I don't know why.

I loved you then like I do now.

Nothings changed.

You can use that one to start the list. The list of things in my life that I regret. Number 1, top of the page, the only thing to make it to the list my whole life. "Not saying no to you when I should have"

Why do I always have to be so ******* agreeable all the time, where does that come from?

I think I was shocked. Stunned into total inaction, like a deer that freezes in the headlights of certain death. That was me.

I remember feeling like something was draining away from me, the way maple syrup does from the bottle that gets knocked over just after you've told your kids for the umpteenth time to put the lid back on it when they've finished. There it was, slowly pouring out, leaving a mess behind.

Only the mess was me, is me. The syrups gone and the bottles empty but the mess is still here.

And the only thing I can do is sit here and conjure up this story of a letter that never got read, that never got written, in the hope that one day you'll read this letter and then you'll know.

You'll know all the things I never got chance to say, because the questions never did get asked. But the answers are real. Just ask me.

Let us take a drive
to a road where flowers
are smiling upon us.
To a road where
the smell of summertime
is flowing through our veins.
The breeze of the wind
that carries the wishes
of the dandelions.
To a road where
every word uttered
by our lips
are syrups of chocolate
and strawberry.
To a road where
the stars shine the brightest
when we look up the nightsky.
To a road where
smile is all you will see.
My friend,
it takes a mile
to smile.
It takes a while
to smile.

It's a cool place to meet.
25 cent wings.
Nice, tiny booths
Lit by tiny electric lamps
In the guise of candles,
That give everything a nice, golden glow.
It's a Corona light,
And Corona-colored light always makes me feel
at ease.

She pulls up in a silver acura.

Gets out of the car and I can
see her ***
from the front of her
as she syrups over.

She’s got on a Black tanktop;
black bra straps showing
against white-pink
puerto rican skin
all while holding up those veritable C's.

Her hips burst against
a
long, beige
d
r
e
s
s,                                                                                
and I'm wanting to slide my hands all the way up her shirt to that black bra, and snap it off.

We have conversations about feeling older than
eighteen
and twenty-one
respectively.

Our lips are saucy
and oily. Tiny chicken scraps
can be felt in our teeth.

"I just started reading Starship Troopers."

"Yea, I love that movie."

I've never seen the movie,
but it endears her to me

that she loves it.

"Do you have any plans?"

"Plans?"

"After college?"

I plan on finishing my wings
before you, then I'm hoping
you'll let me hold your ****.

"Not yet."

"You know I've read some of your poetry."

"What do you think?"

"I like it," She smirks,
uncomfortably.

She ladles a wing in a slick of sauce.

"Truthfully, it was too much for me,
you really shouldn't talk about things like that."

She brings the wing
to her lips
and smacks it down
with a loud ******* noise
of a working, pink tongue.

I’ve wanted to hold her **** ever since I met her.
Now I’m lost.
Because she’s got black eyes
and I’m not even thinking about her **** or her bra.


I start thinking about how white her teeth are,
and how much two people can never know about each other.

Outside, but not so far away,
Missiles are falling;
Early snow has settled
Beneath gray overcast....
Sirens in the distance
Send their low moan
Across the miles...
Echo faintly in our canyon.

Too cold for lightning,
We turn away from light
Flickering or flashing
Upon the bellied skies...
Don't want to think
About the thundering
The light implies.

Muffled sound and muted light
Confirm our living
Away from town.
Perhaps we are
Far enough....
These days, though,
Places to run are few,
And war is moving out.

At least the news has stopped....
Was sporadic
Then...
Stopped altogether
Now.
Almost a relief....

The coal oil lamp -
Her mother's mother's -
Burns a reddish glow...
Diesel's charring smudge...
Comforts us
In a growing dark.

Roast potatoes,
Rabbit stew,
Pickled beets...
No bread this time
As I uncork chokecherry wine...

And it is summer 1999....
We are standing in tall grass
Somewhere between Red Lodge
And Laurel along the road,
Ice cream pails echoing
With plopping chokecherries
Near black and hanging thick
Like miniature clusters of grapes.

We are there to beat the birds and bears,
Knowing choke-cherrying
Is the hurried work of many races,
Some wearing claws upon their heavy hands,
Others flitting in with beaks upon their faces.

And then the kitchen smells of cherries boiling down
For syrups and for jam,
The old ten gallon glass fermenting juice and sugar,
Stands waiting in the corner,
Later to be filtered off and corked away
In twice-used bottles....

Other years and other picking times
Lie bottled  in wooden racks below,
But we have chokecherry wine tonight,
While storms we never thought we'd know
Blow hard against the world.

1: take that key to your heart and throw it into the lake where you watch the sunsets every Sunday night
2: even when times get tough, remember who you're here for
3: cough syrups won't help you in this situation, but the arms of your significant other are medicine in itself
4: don't get rid of your heart just because there's a chance it'll be broken
5: finally, and most importantly, **never let that young love die

They bustle, hustle
like ants in a box,
going nowhere, nowhere,
pop up to my counter top
from their semi-ordered line

I take their orders, same as last time:
Venti-turtle-soy-sugarfree-latte-extrafoam-nowhippedcream
a­nd I swipe their plastic cards through my machine.
What a dream, a dream.

Chatter, swipe, shout, sign-here-please
And scatter on out with marginal ease—
hands full of coffee cups, bagels, cream cheese
Calling a boss, late again (I laugh,
I’ve been here since six,
and they think they’ve got a tough schedule to keep?)

When it’s finally time, I take my break,
stare at the syrups, the powders, the cakes,
and pour my coffee black
with nothing that’s fake.

Parents are the weirdest - of God's creation.

I mean, who on Earth would desire the responsibility of another human being from the time they **** in their pants to the time they leave saying 'what have you ever done for me?' ?

Who would, of all the things in the world, like their homeroom stuffed with stupid CDs and stuffed racoons, waterguns and Legos, dried acrylics and miniature utensil sets, ugly pyjamas and strange half-knit sweaters?

I need to know why parents don't object to their kids pooping everywhere.
It's either the kids are super cute or the parents are super crazy.
I'm sure it isn't the former.

A certain lack of imaginative faculties, in parents, is evident to me,quite frankly.

Think of it this way- if it weren't for us - kids, our parents would have been carefree playboys and playgirls, and 'living their lives' - cliché.

What weirdos really!

Their standards of children's safety too possess a particular oddity.
It's only the exact moment of physical contact during a hug that our parents feel we're safe.

Their sense of economy and finance is oxymoronic.
They love discounts. But they'll pay extra for whatever their kids wish.

I wonder how they resist TV shows of most sorts just because they won't have their kids watch remotely explicit content, visual or auditory.

I bet their sense of direction is most unnaturally affected too.
Why do they even follow their kids, when they know kids don't have a working GPS?

Do you have any idea, to what lengths parents go to make veggies seem delicious?
Veggies, Really?

Parents will have you take disgusting syrups and painful **** injections,
And claim they love you.

Parents will have you hit the books,
And claim they love you.

Parents will ground you because you do something they don't like (but they too did it when they were kids),
And claim they love you.

Parents will stop you every time you say a swear word (but they swear all the time),
And claim they love you.

Parents will claim they love you,
Maybe, because they really love you.
Oh, their weirdness never ends.

Parents may seem eccentric,
Their ways might seem a bit too bizarre,
Maybe that's how the people who really love us behave!
Yet, we're always rushing away from them.

If you have ever traveled in a bus, you'll know how absurdly keen the passengers are, to get off, when it stops.
That's how keen the kids are, to leave the laps of their mothers, quite literally the most comfortable place in the world.

Parents really are - the weirdest of God's creation.
And the loveliest too.

I feel keenly the quiet of many dead suns
Growing inside of me,
A biting blackness
Leaching out towards my fingertips.
It reverberates back, again
And again, swelling in my chest
Until I feel I could burst from the abundance
Of nothingness.

How horrible this could be!
Such quiet, inward rage...
The mind consumes itself
And turns to feverish delirium,
Enshrouding me in a blanket
Of bitter, tacky sweat.

In this empty, blazoned state,
I swallow worlds of men
Like syrups from a bottle.
O, the ravenous binge!

I devour it all to a hush.

making pancakes tonight.
i know it’s not morning
but it kind of feels right.

i’m making pancakes tonight
do you want some
i know you want some
maybe if i smile i could
get some
you win some
and you lose some
as he always used to say
but the smell of pancakes
eyes melting like butter
you win some
and you lose some
but you can’t help but want some

i’m making pancakes tonight.
come over, it’s like old times
dry eyes
and syrups no way to start a fight.
i’ll cook
you clean
let’s enjoy some pancakes
no kitchen brights just butter
moonlight

cause they’re fluffy
they’re sweet
make you weak in the knees
they hit the spot just right
so come on.

my treat
like i said
i’ll cook
you clean
the griddle, the ladle,
like your eyes shine and gleam

just put it in the sink
time flies by
stomachs filled and riding a high
let it soak
cause we’re eating pancakes tonight

feast your eyes
cause it’s not so attractive to have eyes bigger than your stomach
the memory of breakfast
wanton, happy , an image redacted

you win some
and you lose some
and you can’t help but get some
pancakes? pancakes ?
i know you want some

Pancakes and Maple Syrups
Sunshine and Light Blue Sky
White Clouds and Golden Hashbrown
A Round Sausage and Chilled Milo

Red, Chilli in my saucer
Red, they are in my eyes
Red, they are burning strong
Red, is my tongue and my taste bud
Loving it

Yellow is only when "you're loving it"

Convenience store where I stopped to buy poison gum *****,
Here I am baptized in the light of the new genesis.

For new life sprang up on the oil rigs
In the industrial world,
We live in a future no one dared to comprehend.

We blew up the old world with new ideas,
We couldn't resist the urge to push the button any longer,

I sit under my bed
Duck and cover Cold War safety,

Safe from communist war criminals,
So when is the bomb going to drop?

No, I don't believe the Earth is going to be reborn as a paradise...
A land of altruistic Eden.

The lost garden is doomed to burn up in the sun,
As is the mausoleum for my memory.

Best guesses say we aren't exactly advanced,
But what if there's exceptions in our numbers?

What if we sat awake in our tombs for all of eternity
And your soul keeps locked
Waiting for the oblivion of the unburnt citizens separated from the material world,

How great were our ambitions if they didn't stretch to something after this course of existence...

Then what right do we owe the Catholic church that was not there at the beginning of our symphony.

I'll show you a great story of illuminated migrations and books about the lights of the pillars of creation,

When they tell me that Walt Whitman's work here is not done,

And so walked into the bathroom to lock the door,

Wash his face before yelling on both coasts of the American Empire.

Our Prime Minister has flawless memory and offers us codeine syrups of all flavors to vote for the Environment.

You'll have me yelling about the importance of taxation,
You can't have me acting like this if I've already bought us tickets to the art gallery...

And can you even now believe that toddler's first reaction was to destroy that giant biblical oil on canvas.

Maybe it was the violence,

And the same God who gave us our nuclear training wheels.

The same God who kills men of euphoria under meteors

And the same God whose name was in the air on Inauguration Day.

When I drove down the rode with you and your new ideas about where to go...

You had words I didn't know,
But we had Prince on the radio,
And that's something I know well.

I have a Wilco CD in my backpack,
I have every reason to just set my alarm
And pass out in the passenger's seat.

i am nine
and learning
by osmosis
secret women's business or
the art of  pie making
production line style
to the uniniated

i sit perched on a stool
in the corner, out of the way
boxed in by fruit
it is a heady place to be
as scents of apricots(bought)
blackberries and apples mingle
sweet woody and exotic,
with the citrus tang
of  zested lemon that sits
in an ever growing
pryamid on the table.

ginger and cinnamon motes
float in the oven warm air
and flour clouds the room
and settless in drifts
and dusts the collection of bowls
on the table

my mother aunt
and mrs blunt,the neighbor,
bustle about the room....
my aunts girth designates her as chief baker
and she rolls out pastry with
gusto...fat arms swinging
penduously, humming to herself.

mrs blunt is the pie filler
adept at judging the mix
and making the gelatonious
gooey syrups filled with sugar
and spice, chopped crab apple
and lemon zest.

mother is the friuter, she peels
destones and cores
chopping up apples, apricots and peaches...
leaving berries and cherries intact(sans pips)
and then later she mans the ovens  
watching for the golden crust
and bubble of pie juice...
before removing
them to cool on poppa jacks
old oval dining table...

me I sit in  wonder,
snacking on fruit,
and  ***** of leftover dough
swooning with the smell
of stewing friut.

Next year my true apprenticeship will start....
Until then, I listen to the murmer of gossip
the passing of secrets,
the bonding of these women....

Once a month the doctor visits.
She makes her trip inland, driving from
her coastal town to our village
hidden in the hills.

Here, people rarely get sick.
They say whatever's carried in the wind
stops them getting dizzy in the heat.
They believe in the hills,
gifted with sweet smelling herbs
waiting for the miracle of alchemy
to transform them into oils, infusions,
syrups and decoctions-
feverfew for headaches, fennel for digestion,
lavender for dreaming.
The doctor's young,so has an open mind.
Never critical, she's always willing to listen.

Most days, she's woken by the ocean
on its way to demolish the dunes.
Dragged back by an invisible force,
it roars in frustration, straining
like a tethered beast demanding
to do what it pleases.
But Earth won't allow it just yet
and the ocean knows who's in charge,
the rules will change only when She decides.

The doctor's irritated.
She can't see the ocean any more,
her view's obscured by unfinished business-
silent carcasses of half-built villas.
She can taste the salt.
Feeling trapped, she would like to find shelter
in another skin.

But today, her cure is in the hills.
At her door, she waits for the mist to lift.
It whispers there are other choices.
To unlock another door while she still has time.

                     *

In each on of us there survives an intuitive preference
for all things natural. The great continuum of life that
contains and sustains us.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

I went to the garden of love
I found a juicy fruit
as I indulged it oozed syrups of bliss
as I tried to talk, my words sounded like music from a flute
I looked into her eyes
I saw the tainted mind due to lies
and her body, with romance was written
She remained pure even after being bitten
she left my hands sticky and as I licked the excess
I felt my soul swimming in honey
This was her dew, broad was her view
She knew about erotica but I was something new
I then blew her away with blown kisses
I showered her with comfort and poems and she'd listen
She was very inviting, as I entered her essence would glisten
We would take walks in far distant lands and realise we had been dreaming
Many envied and found this love demeaning
This is the juicy fruit many search for so life can give them meaning.

The night is young, most lights are out. You're a sad one if at the end of the night you are without. You fail to flash flair if you dare have doubt. It's the nightlife and there are multiple exchanges. It's wild, the young are free and they don't fear the dangers.

The saaz hop pops and the syrups drop. Jack is swallowed, Daniel follows and sons feel like paps. The captain is shot down and Johnnie leads the way so even in the morning they'd keep walking. It's a feminine thing at the Red Square when joy and tears are shared. All feeling bubbly they smoke on hubbly. They reach their destination when the Three Ships land at the breeze of the Southern Comfort. The boys walking down the streets reeling say hi time and time again - but it sounds like Heineken. It is a thriller, she Miller, when she sinks and the body turns into an ocean.

These syrups, energizer potions, inspire wilderness. They get loud and walk proud as friend and he have fine girls for the night found. Scream "uhm-I'm still" for it is the beverage that tells - it is Amstel. High and drunk, in loose mode, the thought reeling in mind is "take off clothes" - play with pole. Sleep with the girl that he has stole. Stories of old, not for folks (only amongst peers are told). It is he weak a man, he who chokes. He who can't make it to the morning.

Drunk emotions are starting, it's time to head for the bed. And all the while, the thought reeling through their minds as they move side to side, is that it was no fantasy and conclusion that reel is real

Reds and golds and
maple syrups dripping
from the leaves of the trees
Greens feathering the
walls of the valleys and tickling
our feet with their cool tongues
Blues that missed the sky
and hit the seas instead
forever keeping time
with a celestial conductor
Purples that kiss the forests
and leave their lip prints
on scattered petals
like tissues on the ground
The deepest chocolates mined
from the sweetest of soils
and baked by the brazen
Texas sun
This is what I paint my face with
in the morning
and then you left
your paints
your grays and charcoals
your cigarette butts
your footprint.

They say that the first cut is the deepest
The other shots that follow are the cheapest
How will you know where to go when those who know keep secrets
I do not fear demons that go about randomly
I am frightened of the demons that hide in innocence and act as friend of me.

The poetry is in expression
How a smile can be a frown perfectly stretched and kindly curved
How those lies in eyes hide and appear as love in disguise
How ecstasy can be easily confused as joy, pure gaiety
Yes when frivolty is accounted for as a meal served free
How the enemy
can be so near - within thee
Not knowing what the mirror keeps showing for the illusion keeps flowing
Blinding a mind held confined in streets of the system
Dancing to the beat, the rhythm
Which is a euphon to the masters, an orchestra to the masses
It is a show and performers do not know that they are masked in fake skin tone
A world not their own, mind dictated by the men who boats and gold stole.

Where do I go with this *** of gold?
This *** of gold a soul of my own
What do I see when the vision seems blurry?
I am sedated by the infective syrups of delusion and secrecy
Held between scriptures hereditary
Morality and reality both in a fray necessary
The gospel I search for is one of truth
The wisdom I seek is of a world brand new
I am fighting for the mind the vicissitudes of life took
And I throw blows and pass death - I am off the hook.

Nothing is right, everything is permitted.
If I was the king of the world, I'd make more things round, nobody's
Baby ought to be put in the corner. Nebraska full of skyscrapers for earthquake And hurricane victims, the soybeans and corn there is a machine of mutually Exclusive syrups that taste the same. We could go back to calling sugar what it Is, sweet.

I could make you a prince, her a dutchess, myself just another worker among Workers. This hive society is getting old, and Britain holds half of our honey in gold bullion. I would make stone soup, and make it Special on Friday. Acorns would be exclusively for dendrofied alum, and not for raking or Rattling. We could call the bad sick, because there is no bad; and we could Eliminate the goods and musts, and mustn'ts as they just make people feel low. No one can feel fat, they can only think they are.

We too could have an organized society of writers and editors and critics Whom decide what words we allow into the English language. Commercials Are poisoning our youth, our mainstream, our middle-American allies that Rebel against us with their extra-laminate NRA cards. My right to bear arms Allow me two, a left arm and a right arm. That should be plenty for many of Us.

I would call the president a model citizen, since he only models. Change Fitness Journals into Fashion magazines- everyone would like to dress Similarly enough as it is. The costs are high, and the big cities have rifles and Shotguns aimed at us over their shoulders. Data sharing, wi-fi could come With high-fives and we could all use one cable for everything, and one Password of password that unlocked everything.Perhaps we could begin Banishing people to live outside of Rome again. The hunting is better in the kept gardens. so we should allow this.

I've done something wrong, I've been rendered invalid by the bell, cowardly When it comes to giving advice, and if I was the king of the world I'd make More 24hour pizza places in Chicago, following the outdoor food-styles of New York CIty. Given names should serve as middle names until people are Old enough to choose what to call themselves.

We should reward more nobodies, and depopularize all of these "somebodies," leaving a little room for the poets to do their work.

If I was the king of the laughter, I'd package laughter and ship it Internationally, bottle up messages and send letters. In fact I don't have to be The king to send letters, I just need some postage and an envelope. One for Every person on the planet, to send a thank you note for being alive, a flower To bring them comfort, a quarter, and a bottle of pear nectar to nourish and Show them that I care.

That I care about we and not just me.

As far as Good Contact with Cats concerned
Where Hard Fingers plate his Long-Standing Skill
To peel all Doubts; And other Picknicks burned
As for that Moment he goes for the ****
So Sixteen Wings - each plomb their Unique Draft
Shower their Graces for his Faith restore
Despite most Secrets may reduce his Tact
His Gift of a Gear's Living Edge breathes more
Thanks to you. All and still less Condition
Plunge a Goblin like me for my Wrinkles
Though try as I might to brace his Rendition
Were Molten Syrups bled for my Freckles.
I Understand. With two Posted Views contrite
The same Blue Hero admit to my Incite.

I said
i like the smell of whiskey
and the whole cabin was filled
with puerto ricans and chile pepper
seeds scattered on the floor, a hundred
pots lined up on the stove with rouxs
and sweet syrups, masa mixed with
pork broth, shortening and garlic
the men lining the porch in
sunglasses and blue wranglers
going on about the rig or Virginia
or Hurricane Matthew--

what is it?
about running away?

I thought;
time passes so fast
I've clipped pieces from the past, snapshots i've unknowingly gathered
Uncle Dude three sheets out, standing in the kitchen
after you'd been drinking all day, your mom reminiscing in the corner
with tired eyes and stained fingers from wine,raisins, condensed milk,
consoling a drunk neighbor, (Florida State won earlier)
through the screen while you reclined in the sun or
the rotating image of your heels crunching through the
long morning grass.


I'd been sustained on quiche that needed no seasoning,
coffee creamer, cherry pie and the feeling of slipping bare
feet into boots, on quiet, on  
dark forearms and white biceps
the print of a little bird ring,
dark, brittle nights that smelled like cigars and Coors--


I've been trying to talk to God
all weekend but I think he's gone.
I think I'm alone.
I think I've run away.

I'm home, but there's nobody here.

Take your car out for a drive
Become a robot in your own automobile
On your way to clock in at your 9-5
Tune in to the latest hits, and buckle up behind the wheel

Don’t forget to grab your caffeine fix
To power your through your shift
Throw some sugar-free syrups in the mix
Don’t be late to work, behind a screen you shall sit

Thank God it’s Friday
You’ve scraped through the week
You’ve got all sorts of bills to pay
How else will those on welfare eat?

It’s your hard-earned cash
But let’s spend it my way
You need prescriptions, then McDonalds fast!
The corporations are hungry for your money today

The latest fashion now is out!
Look pretty-****-skinny-super-cute
Woo-hoo for unlimited money on your credit account!
Those East-Asian kids are working hard for you!

The latest IPhone is coming soon
You must buy it, along with an unlimited data plan
Then buy all the popular apps, games, and tunes
And check all your social media accounts as much as you can

Post pictures and videos of all of the places you’ve visited
Pin your most frequented to a map, to connect with peers
Include your address, phone number, and everything about your kids.
Share your hobbies, goals, and fears

Remember how blessed you are to be an American
But don’t push it, patriotism is no longer cool
Anyway, you worship the government now, not some silly religion
Rule by Obama, for Obama, because dictators rule!

One moment you're tenaciously checking pulses
chopping carrots and tomatoes and measuring
Spoonfuls of syrups and splitting pills and counting
Capsules to prove your sister-in-law skipped a dose

And you sign the cards and you lick the envelopes
And you write the checks and do your math and
You dream of France in the summertime after falling
Asleep in front of the TV at 9pm on a Friday night.

There are dishes to wash and shelves to dust full
of five lifetimes of bric-a-brack amassed and leaks
To mend - so much that really matters enough to keep from
Breathing too slowly or speaking of the implications

The next moment it's all vanished and there's one less
Complication but at what point do you cry and at what
Point do you relax after cathartic loss as ineluctable loss
and when is it exactly that it hits you if ever

That some day the complication is you and the vanishing
Provides a blank check to forget and an invitation to
Dance around the vacuum of absence

I roamed as free as
the wild green parrots
and the grandiose peacocks
all up and down
the darkest street
in San Pedro.

Our yard was without
boundaries and full of the buried
treasures of the past.
I'd spend summer days
digging in patched
kneed jeans.
Pulling from the dirt
old time cork top bottles
that once held
***** laced syrups and
other types of liquid joy.

When another ones life needed
saving the red flashing  lights
of fury lit the darkness with faint
hues of shifting reds as the
chariot of death sped past our
grand window.

The pill box shaped hospital sat
atop the hill like a morbid
kings Gothic castle.
Always overlooking
the lightless way.

Memories of our golden *****
running proudly across the canyon ,
a ***** white free roaming
hen still flapping
between her saliva,blood soaked
jaws.

Or the back street rushing
with brown garbage laden
runoff as the heavens opened
and cried rain upon the earth.

I didn't stand a chance up against
the pull of the *******
the dragon and all the
crimes and times away
it brought with it.

I laughed and fought along
side the ****** ones
and became apart of
something more than me.

I learned the true meaning
of the number 13
and earned the right to tattoo it
on my young body like the
true symbol of valor  
it is.

Life on the darkest street
in San Pedro
where the fall leaves of the
Eucalyptus
and the fruit trees burned
lasting colors of
yellow ,orange and red.

Those early years on the darkest
street in San Pedro
where my young mind took in
all the bad it could.

Coming of age on the
darkest street in San Pedro
with most of whom who are
long since dead.

My young life so long ago
on the darkest street in
San Pedro
brings about some of the
brightest memories
I have today.