fit enough for the elites
in one realm
and bruising the
preschoolers or mother’s petite.
Grown men making
words that have meaning
demeaning without words.
both strong and fit,
and unfit for family life,
unable to shed anger like
a block or a pick or new layer
from trash talk.
No they are the waste speaking,
wasting air with cutting tongues
sly on the woman they so choose
to pursue in an unknown primitive dance
for unknown pregnancy to occur, or
even willingly placing a child in the womb
to spook when they arrive,
to display dominance and intimidate the enemy,
their own self doubt in what it takes to be a man
It’s the thought of being sick that makes most ill.
A hard fought glance to the ticker wristed
gentleman glaring at the fog coated sidelines
memorizing each square foot of distance,
happily exhausting each moment that
brings him closer to the mechanical voice
speaking his destination.
Nervously pilling over pages like prescriptions,
never reading a page,
feeling the dampness of the fall,
sweat collections into pit of stomach.
Swallowing shallow to avoid choking
from milliseconds of cart off track.
A woman, compelled to assist,
gathers a hankered breath,
slowly exhaling into the mans shoulder,
saddling an excuse to calm the salesman.
She tries to close the deal, but he is fragranced
A small bump. A hiccup. Rich man grips his briefcase.
Brief discomfort, but the train settles.
A larger slip of the wheel. A deep swallow.
Swallowing winds reverse the train,
sending the frightened man outward,
slamming into treeline and cable wraps.
She, as calmly as could be, walks off.
Calming the man, she kneels down to his ear.
"Tag, you’re it," she says to him.
Something similar to be said to me.
We float compliments on beauty
like they had a choice.
We also dig graves with our detective
work as “flaw finders”.
A branch with braces
abrasive and abandoned,
debarking the tree trunk
to reveal the ancient pine,
flesh to fill and nourish
with sappy disdain
on the thin side of a blade.
A slight breeze
could snap feeble body to the ground
and make me a twig for
a wand of smoky play,
youthful elegance and
Believing a treehouse could work here
if only the tree wasn’t killing itself
from the inside out.
A killer’s speech
in thought bubbles
above the body,
ready to pop.
Your eyes are mirrors
but not for me,
your focus on beauty.
Forecast the forefront
and outlast at the door fronts
live like a thief and take what you need
give the rest away on gesture of ease
joke around like the jester to please
gave a rib up to have the lovers’ disease
coughing up blood from a heart that needs
a creed written intravenously.