Roadside Attraction

Step right up and see

the amazing debris

of life on the side of

the road, left behind

by the bourgeoisie!

Follow me through this

shallow cavalcade of

destruction, loss, regret,

and strangeness of our

petty charade.

See the single baby shoe,

see the lost hardhat,

see the mangled plastic and steel

of crashes forgotten by all but those

who saw that.

The goose corpse, feathers

fluttering as cars whiz by,

it’s been there for days,

unmoved, rotting, roadkill,

but none of our biz.

See the nightmares of

tragedies past, lost items

of mysterious origin,

a rocking chair, one crutch,

seemingly just tossed.

Baked in the sun, piles of

steel belted tires, blown,

shredded, ripped to pieces,

marking their time in silent

no man’s zone.

A stroller, a pack of paper towels,

a solitary block of wood, fox tail,

another lonely shoe, another lonely shoe,

skittered across the shoulder,

items to flummox.

See the amazing Roadside

Attractions, see the refuse

of living strewn about

in drifting piles! Wasted

in passing, bizarre clues!  

Here’s the exit, thanks for

seeing our exhibit,

you’ll see it again on your

way back home, but thanks

for your visit.

A Rambling Rush

Let me get it out,

the rambling rush of

scrambled, spangled,

words bludgeoning my

brain.

Thoughts like sunshine,

spilling over the whole landscape,

beaming though every nook and

space in bright rays, constant but

scattered, diffused.

Love, sex, longing, smoking,

drinking, partying, sitting,

sleeping, working, stressing,

jumping for joy, wallowing

with blues.

A ping-pong match of thoughts,

emotions, thoughts, emotions,

thoughts, emotions, thoughts,

emotions, missed, bouncing on

the floor. Match point.

Give me more, I want less,

Give me less, I want more,

tempt me, accept me, want me,

choose me, suffer me and

break and be healed.

Insufferable tangles of

inconsistency, the mind,

balanced between need, want,

desire, rationality and the

ambiguous present.

Words at the gate, words on

the ramparts, arrows slicing through

the air between the advancing thoughts

and the entrenched beliefs.

A rambling rush, crowding the landscape.  

The Bullshit Beating

The bullshit beating of

a busted blood pumper.

I felt it, bruised,

in my chest, into my belly,

blood hot and fiery.

Backed-up with bile and

bilious flotsam, bursting

through angered veins,

colored green with envy,

distrust and betrayal.

The heart, a carefree monster,

living behind bony bars,

loving and caring without a pause

for the brain to catch up. Diving

into peril, shunning reasonability,

only to be stunned by wretched silence.

The bullshit the heart gets into,

to break itself, to suffer at the whims

of others carelessness, callousness, and

general malaise of how the heart wants

to beat in unison with another.

The throbbing ache of rejection,

disappointment, and shame.

Shame for letting the heart do what

it wants, when the brain knows better.

The brain cursed with the hearts woes.

The brain, bent on being understanding;

we’ve all had issues, truths, lies and we

should not let the burning blood of heart rage

blacken an open mind against one another.

A shield, made of courtesy and manners, and

“I understand, you’ve got issues…”

The heart knows it’s bullshit. It doesn’t

want to understand. It wants what it wants,

untempered by polite society and the rules of

modern morals. It beats, like an angry fist

on the door, demanding the love it was promised.

“Let me in,” the heart shouts.

“I know you’re in there!”

“I’m busted up and I need your help!”

“I’m hot and wet and confused!”

“I’ve given you what I could and here I am, beaten and beating”

The blood pumper, still burning, unanswered,

met with icy silence. So in its cage of bones

it remains, bothering the brain with sleepless

wonderings and constant doubts and hot,

frustrated blood.

I cannot sleep.

Greasy Diesel

Greasy Diesel,

what a terrible smell,

seems to spark some rage

in me, telling everyone to

go to hell.

A billowing cloud of toxic

gas, belching from an exhaust,

billowing across the road,

stinking of sin and oil, gas

and indifference.

The rumbling expulsion of

hot air, signifying abhorrent

contempt for the natural order,

blotting the blue sky with a rottenness

and corruption.

The greasy diesel odor, filling my

nostrils with anger, I hate it. I hate

the air wasted, promises broken,

lies told and slickness of which

I was so easily brushed aside.

The putridness of those greasy diesel

lies, choking the kindness out of me,

the desire for sweetness, tenderness,

love and honesty; hidden in a cloud of

foul smelling disingenuous intent.

A pollution of the winds by a

decomposed heart, incapable of seeing

the damage it wrought to the small parts

of the world inhabited by desire, goodness

and sincerity.

Greasy diesel stink, suffocating good intention,

paving a road to ruin, pitch tarred and buried,

without consideration for the joys on the edges,

the wild flowers arching toward the sun, aching

for their sun dappled kisses.

There is more pollution unseen, than seen,

yet it bears the same smell, a noxious fragrance

of greasy diesel wheel dealings

in the air of the heart and soul,

adding to a foulness I thought was prologue.

Tenderness Trap

Tenderness is thick as honey,

sticky, gooey, and tough to

get out of. To show a little tenderness

is to display the most delicate

part of yourself to someone else.

Your underbelly; soft, supple,

and vulnerable. Exposed like

a raw nerve to the potential

hazards tenderness can create.

The trust tenderness imbues.

Tenderness; open to the elements,

to the brambles, barbs and porcupine

spines of mistrust, confusion and love

unrequited. A leap of faith in which

we hope our soft underbelly emerges unscathed.

Scarred tenderness; mutilated by silence,

indecision, carelessness, and abuse of

honesty, makes us recoil at the thought

of ever trusting another person to see

the rawness of our vulnerability.

We are stuck in the goo of it ourselves

when we are thoughtless with the tenderness

of others, though inaction, inattention, or

a general malaise. We cause the harm we so

desperately wish to avoid, trapped in the stickiness.

We pray that the right someone will see our tenderness,

our doughy underbelly and not jab at it with lies,

disingenuous designs or blatant stupidity. But rather,

caress and softly run their hand over the delicate parts,

gently cooing, “it’s all right, it’s all okay now.”

We want the honey of our two tenderness’s to

become mixed, a substance that nourishes us

both, rather than become a sticky trap of

which there is no escape. A royal jelly of

delight and inclusion, communication, and

genuine trust.  Something sweet to sustain.