Bottle rocket screams up to the top of the sky and bursts, releasing any and all sexual energy it may have accumulated in its rise, in its hope and aspiration to kiss stars. It dies and explodes before it can. How are we any different? Moths attracted to some flame? Standing outside on our rooftops now, watching the night; That breeze that blows through big ol’ branches, it’s a light hiss, a din of peace – To only be interrupted by fireworks all over this town. There are big booms, little hisses and pops, some are singular, some incessant. I will keep my matches in their drawer and not take them out. This is a passive activity for me. If you get close enough to the blast-off launch site, you can smell the sulfur and see the chemical smoke clouds surrounding this barge in the water, or the middle of a field. I recall my teenage self going to the town-wide 4th of July fireworks gathering. Newly drunk, huddled under a towel with friends to block us from the new rain. Despite the overcast, the colors seemed brighter that night. Though we were damp and probably miserable, somehow those things do not seem to matter when in defiant, rebellious teenage moods and those minor trivialities and discomforts we carry around like some “Fuck You” Flag. This is our country, this is our beliefs, and if you can’t feel it or understand it you never will and you need to leave and get out and leave me alone. America as a teenager, in some reverse-dog years in its immature xenophobic attitudes. My heart breaks everyday. This mailbox is full. Too full to open, too full to listen. Cool wind pinpricks my body when summer transitions to fall. When a hot day can become a cool night. I want to wade in the water with you and be baptized again. I am scared but won’t say so. Soul vibrates in holding back. I don’t want to hold back anymore. I want to speak out with confidence for any and all things. Where is Han Solo now? I want to sit on the sofa, lazily, holding your hand. There is so much power in simplicity and simple actions. I feel these fireworks rattle my window and I hope they will be over soon, because I can’t imagine a lifetime spent indoors pissed off watching the dog freak out.


Hand on the bible. Sworn in for life, even if it’s really only for a set period of time. There are changes that will ensue that are a roller coaster track being set for a lifetime. Where you thought your journey’s end is only just the beginning. Two-parter episode candy-stripe good time. Care for me, like I’ve cared for you. I’ve sworn it in vows and in bars and over graves and over cities bombed. Psychedelic g-force gravity; I can feel the skin start to melt where it meets the eyes and nose and mouth and ears in my face. Dream-like Salvador Dali. Misnomer surrealism. It’s just a switch-shift, a switch-flip. We are no longer dinosaurs though our cars drink the oil lifeblood from this earth and we fill up to the clang clang of the gas pump, pulling forward to get ours. I don’t want to be unapproachable, menacingly different. I don’t wanna rush around to fulfill trivialities. I swore to you, over the needle of a buzzing heart tattoo that I love you. Wide open hall where a Skyrim king sits undisturbed and unperturbed. This golden palace can only last so long, but a lifetime. And this king he swore his allegiance to his land and people, and those people swore to him. This thick bond that calls on its citizens to protect the land they love and live in.


Painfully pulling out branches from an old, wiry tree. It stands immovable and motionless. What can I learn here? We gaze upwards and our eyes rest on a waving banner. Patriotic sentiments barely stir within me anymore. The pit of my stomach is moreso laced with dread, weighing the pros and cons of being dead or alive. Reckoning. Grappling. Pleading. Shedding the skin of naiveté. Snake-like knowledge slithers up and binds us in chokeholds. We turn blue and pass away to the old ways. Raspberry Strawberry Rhubarb Pie and extra whipped cream. This is no ordinary supermarket-purchased pie. This is homemade from scratch, I mean scratch. With care, with love, with songs sung, and honest, decisive movements; Kneading that dough and needing that dough. Delayed reactionary. Delayed revolutionary. American militia trudging through swamps, the swamps of history books. Bibles are heavy and weigh so much. Finding our true path, our one true path to contribute to society always feels like fitting a square peg in a round hole of equal size. Fluttering flag, saluting the brave, saluting the scared and innocent, and frightened. Saluting those who brought it all back with them and don’t know how to let it go. How can we better let each other know that we are love and valued? Why do we draw lines and build up walls, tapdancing around eggshells and unmarked graves of past traumas we do our best to lay to rest? Somedays everyday is armageddon. It doesn’t matter if the sun is out and the sky is blue. Somedays a stapler is just so loud and familiar. Folding flags in the traditional military triangular formation. Soldiers stand at attention. Marvelous parades tearing up the road. I don’t know what it all means anymore. I don’t know what it means to not be constantly distracted anymore. Putting out thought-bubbles like little anchors and fishing lines. Seeing what bites and what sinks the ship, holds the ship in place rather. It’s easy to get seasick. Too easy to look the other way. Complacency is a quiet, pervasive devil. We put so much faith into a symbol that’s supposed to identify our bloodlines. But I don’t know how I feel anymore about it. I have taken too long to say my name. I stand here spiritually hungover.


Whale of a tale diamond studded starstuff buried and embedded within the fabric of Time. As it’s cause to this causality let me know when the lemonheads cascade and align. Sour grapes over the moon, grilled cheese torture chamber. Medieval fish heads and this is just some stupid conglomeration of everything that’s going on in my brain. I don’t want it to count, but it counts. Letting you know about this unadulterated stream of everything that’s been going on. Any and all minutiae. The dregs of what has not been filtered out. Because I don’t know what to tell you so I’ll just tell you anything at all, say anything at all. Rubber eraser friction smell. Like carbon, like sulfur. Storybook pages glossy and colorful, decked out in sketches and drawings that I have remembered. Light blues and grassy greens and perhaps a frog or hippopotamus with dialog. Surfboard with a stripe running down the middle. Paranoia melancholy paralysis harbinger drug, safety ripped away and I will not dive too deeply into the Alice in Wonderland puddle because I know if I jump, I may not be able to get out. And once you submerge into the unconscious, that reality, those experiences become distorted and strange. Fisheye lens on acid. Marshmallow.

wicker basket

Wicker basket. Someone call Moses from the wood, from the water, through the reeds. There he say, there he lay. In his basket. Crying. There a little shifts of ripples that find their way to the edge of the basket, creating mild turbulence and little rain, little shift, little waves. It is soothing though and he settles. Wicker baskets carried on the heads of strong woman who go to the river to wash their clothes and linens. They are regal queens with turbans and headresses whose strength knows no bounds. Gaia-incarnate. Simplistic to no overture. Their biceps and triceps and thicker and stronger than mine every will be. They could knock you out with one punch if you overstep the line. Honorable samurai code. Total separation. On this evening, dusk scene there is incense in the air. Perfumed frankincense. Perhaps there are also jasmine flowers growing under the window of some home, and there is a woman in her kitchen sipping tea and she is living in now, living in the present, smelling the jasmine and thinking “What a good life this is that I can sit in my kitchen in the dark with the lights turned off with an open window and hear the crickets singing, smelling this jasmine that grows right underneath my window”. It’s all about syllable placement. It’s all about getting it out. Temper tantrum hurricane, because maybe the Earth really isn’t that hold, that old. I’ve resignedly accepted that I cannot will myself to do everything. The tales the backstory holds. Watching television. Numbing out. Do you remember what it’s like to be floating in wicker baskets, biding time, and twiddling your thumbs. Some authenticity quest having to do with finding your stream. Some big empty vessel, pour your life into that somehow. There are women etched onto the walls of some Egyptian tomb, painted on with gold-flecked paint. Hieroglyphics and pictographs depicting life, a life that we no longer know and can only imagine to the best of our ability based on the texts and pictures and tools they left behind. For every honorable king, there are at least three narcissistic scum bags. To root them out, we must be better parents and teachers and humans and teach them to not be and not value those traits that make them so. Basket weaving circle. Women sitting crosslegged in a sacred shape, singing and smiling.