had me my hand me downs
and, we all know too well known
if the shoe fits wear it

nicest stuff is worn out and she wore my XXL shirt around the house
her chores, get done…
one bra in the wash and no panties on

The first steps
commemorated with expensive shoes,
soles being broken in,
a mash of burning glass,
molten sand and in it,
it’s silica content

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My turn
I’m going to
spin the bottle
no one ever even noticed me
in High School
our first kiss
needs to be perfect
you don’t get a redo

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obsession …
— envy us
in the way they stay upsetting
themselves.

you’re setting yourself up for failure

possible optimism

two glasses
my other, half
fully blurry vision
they’re prescription
usually she has to squint
and hadn’t felt the planets tilt till now

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in pursuit of riches
snapped twigs, and
perseverance
exhausted —
all my resources …
gone,
in the heat of the moment.

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martyred
Tupac Amaru Shakur
Los Angeles

thug poetry

40 ounces of malt liquor
Olde English and calligraphy

slurring my words…
sounds as if I’m speaking in cursive

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take your shoes off at the door

I’ll take your coat

your hair smells refreshened
from the ozone
and
remnants of soap
lathered and rinsed out
in the rain shower

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attacking my integrity

questioning… me

myself,

I, was taught there was no such thing as a stupid question

second guessing…

why?

you were impolite.

looking for answers in an inner view

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big brother
little kids,
children in the middle
of
civil war torn nations

warring

civil discourse

say your prayers

“Our Father”

we gather together to ask for salvation

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Spun -
A burnout —
driven to madness
and
crashing,
in a
drug fueled accident

What a catastrophe!

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cut from a different cloth
dyed in the wool you pulled over your eyes

you made your bed now lie on it
tomorrow
is a wonderful day to die innit

I dress my wounds
and wear my heart on my sleeve
with cuff links & fingers crossed

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pack your bags
and
go get ready

to walk the walk
through the traffic
of differing directions
wave down the runway
and remember…
never, look back

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The Poor Little Dove/Michael Kwack

To watch the wave play with the wind,

I sat by the museum garden pond.

Then a small pigeon came flying,

Landed to her feet, tiny and cute,

And stared up at me, a bit intensely,

Only blinking her eyes, no other move.

She was like a camera model baby,

And I recalled my infanthood pictures.

I started taking some ph...

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Poupée de glace modelée par les regards 

Figurine de lumière 

Mais carcan de toile 

Fuite impossible 

Grâce piégée dans la création.  

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