Sep 10
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breaking free

The clocks are weird today.
Off by a minute, missed by a mile.
The leering face of the minute hand 
staring down at seats meant
to mold the mind
in perfect concentric circles,
a target waiting to be shot with,
what? A gun.
Trying to land a hit, a bullseye 
if your succsesful. That perfectly
​molded mind.
Painted cement only a thick 
disguise to cover the jailers office,
trying to make the uninviting 
somehow just a little more attractive.
Tortured by the hour hand,
we wait, one year, the next.
To dream of endless cook outs 
and fourth of July freedoms,
when you, finally, break away 
from the clock.

Sep 04
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The dark of an unlit candle

All the flowers in the world
wouldn't have been enough,
not nearly.
Not enough to cover the gentle
valleys of your heart or the
bed of candles lit as prayers
and silent whisperings to something
bigger than you. 
All the time in the world won't
erase the ever present
smell of the kitchen as you,
small but a force of nature,
worked throughout it.
The quiet shuffle at 5 am
as you awoke to a day as I am sure
had been done your whole life.
Wisely crafted from years past
I felt you always saw
right through people.
"Oh Mija I have missed you".
I have missed you too but now
the words are spoken
to an empty chair and the 
quiet flickering of candle light.

Aug 27
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In the right mind

When the wind blows I imagine the world
is speaking to me, guiding me into a secret place,
a place only my heart will see.
I used to see ghosts
that came out of the floor boards
and talk to strage fairies that lived in flower condos.
Late at night I would stare at the moon
and sing a siren song of lament
about a life not known to human kind.
Planets circled my head
in a world of day dreams.
Trees leaned in to listen
to my plights and the shadows under my dresser
held mischief and strange demons with
glowing red eyes.
The lapping of waves on the shore
was the lake saying hello and how was your day?
In the bed of the old truck was a polite ghost
who enjoyed our car ride chats.
Elephants on a wall tapestry danced
before my eyes in the dark and came to life 
in my dreams, only to be still come the morning
but every so often shift
like we shared a secret.
Aug 27
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Judgment day

I don't know why but I don't like my neighbors hedge.
Stupid bushes cut to sheer perfection, 
every time I pass it by I feel distaste.
Something about the way they keep those stupid
plants in line, a neatly kept barrier
against the neighbor hoods comings and goings.

I dont know why but I didn't like it when other girls,
wore short shorts or revealing clothing.
Faces painted to perfecection, to me, 
just screamed, "I am insecure" and it
irked me to no end.
A short dress was like a big,
"I need attention" sign.

I have made so many judgements.
Shame is what I feel for every time 
I didn't try to understand or see my own 
reflection in the people I judged.
i'm sorry for every person I have spoken ill
about or even just talked about behind their back.
i am sorry for every secret I did not keep
and every secret I created.
Don't be afraid. Don't turn away now.
May 09
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The Storm

I want to be a storm.
Feel that roiling in the air
and electricity on my finger tips,
holding the balance.

Make me a goddess of the sky,
feel my fury strong and true,
I will reign down upon you.
Let loose the icy tendrils and feel
them reach down
to where I stand,
say screw it to logic and here I
In a field.

Waiting for that glorious 
laughter that shakes the world
to consume me.
That electric pop pop
connecting to ground 
from sky, through heart,
through me.

See that flash in the sky and run
for the cover of your
boxy hole in the cement jungle.
I echo deafeningly off your city streets
just to show, you can't hide
from natures roar.

Everything shrinks before a
storm. Only the trees daring to
stand tall and proud, bending
with the windy tirade singing 
their groaning song,
as if they summoned me.
May 08
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Why run, tyrannosaurus, from
the rust colored sun.
Say sorry to the ranting 
chicken at it's roost
for leaving it to live in the
raw cold night.

Why stay, chicken, with
the sorry son of a bitch.
Is it to say whats right
and continue to pick at
the rye sir saurus left?
You are not just a runt.

Nay, tyrannosaurus will
not stay. Chicken watched
the rat ass tear off into
the horizon, running
from the rye.
May 08
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Here (after Angela Narciso Torres)

Even without leaves
the crab apple blossom
outside my time worn
white house stands,
tall against the weather,
and somehow
blooms again, just
as brilliant when
summer comes.

To say I would still
stand proud without hair
as the world pounds
against me, and winter
comes to freeze everything,
would be a lie.
Shallow as I am
towards myself.

We might have been,
had the world not
shaped my view to turn
my back against
the unusual, as you,
a firecracker against the sky,
were anything but usual.

May 02
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Where do Your Poems Hide?

My poems hide in the trash,
there they meet an old
homeless man who tells them
stories of everything, everything
from the war he fought in a far off place,
to a love lost, to a family long gone, 
to a goose that chased him the other day.
Cause geese are a**holes.

My poems hide in a tree
which seems like a peaceful
place to be but honestly,
it isn't. The other day a hawk
(yes a hawk) dropped a dead rat
right next to my poems.
It then preceded to sh*t dead center
on them which, now that I think on it,
is kind of an honor.
Hawks are rad and its better than
pigeon sh*t.

My poems hide behind my eye,
and they hate it because 
its gross and dark
and straight up uncomfortable,
for everyone involved.

My poems hide because they 
are crap, and they know it.
Mostly because they are covered in it
cause I am to lazy to clean and
May 02
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Patterns in the Rock

You can't walk across hot coals,
I found out, without a stinging sensation.
I take a step and I am seven again,
walking across the worn down
rock driveway on tiptoes feeling
the smooth sharp edges on my feet.
I am there again,
walking, with a friend
who holds me.

Once the rough rock patterns
from a climb marked my hands,
shaping the life line
that runs across a palm.
The click of metal as I swayed,
the shock of height drove my heart to
a snare drum beat.
The next suspended plank a step ahead.

Maybe the coals followed,
each step golden, red, glowing.
Marking each footprint is the past.
Worn down rocks, a old rope bridge,
Apr 13
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The Blue Bird Sky

There are clouds this morning.
The hidden blue bird
behind them. 
Wings spread out
covering the sky in
brilliant fury, sometimes
turned red by the
setting viscous golden yolk. 

The hills provide a breath
from UV warmth and
comes the dark black 
dragon of the night. 
Shadows cast by it’s
bewitching shining silver
eye, watching the world
as it sleeps beneath.