The Moon is another reminder that you made it through the rough. You can't hate her, can you? Time is fake, man-made to control the seconds but it keeps us tracked to when to pray and when to party.

The Moon is another symbol that we made it and it was not our last. Presences of relief, reinsurance that you will be okay for the sun to tell you to get up.

To get up and survive again.

As we remember
The moments when
We danced below the stars

As I wave goodbye
To your wooden cell
Floating on their shoulders

As you go, free at last
On the pyre of regret
I throw the flame

I bought a slingshot
from a cartoon ad
at the back of my comic book.

I made a target
from a piece of wood
and it kinda looks like a person.

I collected rocks
from the school
but only the ones that are sharp.

I waited for the mail
with Mrs. Kliven next door
whose son is in the military.

I got my slingshot
from the ad in the book
and all my rocks fit in it just right.

grasping at my supple shoulders, applying your veined, snow hands, you haul me from enfolding infirmity

These are wounds
piled on my desk.
They bleed for
attention and ink.

These are nameless,
kept away from view.
******* children,
of my quill.

Urchins in rags,
unkept and unfinished.
They haunt my dwelling,
as beggars do.

They are dismembered,
without proper structure.
Perhaps faceless,
void of identity.

Give them names,
would equate their freedom.
Label them,
and they shall see the sun.

Or not,
and leave them,
as they are.

Untitled.

A jack of all trades
But a master of none
How many can I claim
Before I’m done?

Titular titles tumble from my tongue
Mumbling by mere menageries
Of often overlooked and occult occupations
Professional practices performed profusely

Waiting out the rain
Slumping through the pain
Perfecting nothing but aversion
New things tempt me like a ******

A word to begin
the singing of my lines







A  word to end
this sentence of rhymes 


But the    middle   is lost     and 
undefined. 
So the     poem is unfinished     until 
due time.

My tongue could never keep up with my thoughts,
And I stutter.
My thoughts could never keep up with my ambition,
And I falter.
So it just makes sense my works will forever be untitled,
And I shudder.

strange
how strangers
fill our lives with
endless, heaping love


then walk away



s.q.



.

is what you left me
not important enough to be named
no reason, no plot
no closure