they try to divide us.
humiliate us-
they aim at our hearts
with fear, with force.
–
they need us to fire back
to justify their rifles
but our hands
stay open.
Tag: Connection
(o)bake
i don’t believe in ghost
but i see them.
scared if i say hi,
i won’t go back to the real world.
cracks in (O)lympus
inhale, exhale at first crack
swishing in the clouds, harmony of mouthwash.
brothers on my bolt.
hovering storm plays their encore.
father grasped thy by my throat &
heaved into the black of night.
sister rain wailed.
crashing deep into our uncles wide belly.
(A) note on the jar
you breathe too sweet
galloping toward you like a bear in a red tee.
oh honey honey-
the picnic is you
oh honey honey-
open the jar
(w)orry
you laid awake
listening through the creaked window.
serenated by bellows of our regular alley cat.
sirens grow more and more distant.
wearily focused on a blank screen
waiting.
(r)aw
first lover-
taught at the tips of her claws
bloodied- vanished into the hush of the night-
forgotten, bruised, Raw.
–
than you, a foreman, building our home- slowly
homely hands warmed my soul- yet
the scars bled too deep.
inevitably, leaving us, Raw.
–
now, chief surgeon’s table- my chest pried wide-
gaped wide enough to let her soul in.
she stitches through my veins; prowls on all fours
lovingly, passionately, deeply, Raw.
march 28th 2022
it was the night before;
the one you left in your rear view
driving 210 down main
but never went that fast for her.
memories are a crazy thing
one day they’re dreams
the next, nightmare
dread the night.
it was the week before;
like it was yesterday
tail lights chasing
fleeing
from a fear:
fear of leaving more bodies
alive dead npc
didn’t matter;
that life was messy-
-people got hurt,
-wake up.
this is real life,
it was only yesterd-
-that was three years ago
-this is real life,
-wake up.
Camp Wednesday
like a pitched tent-
we hide away:
can hear see smell taste the world
but they can’t touch what we have-
–
around a camp fire, we tell stories
snacks and a heap of pillows
lip service is on the clock
& weeks worth of sleep in an afternoon
–
i like to tell jokes
& you’re so beautiful when you laugh
you know what i like
such a good girl.
–
you’re different out there
& so am i
but here- we are one in the same
a founding titan
poetry
mostly, i loved the editing.
looking at someone’s work
their body their life their soul- in my hands.
& they left wanted me to look after it
like a mother leaving their child for daycare
to be picked up
their sophomore year, changed, scared-
will they love the choices they made?
the hearts they broke, they may never know
but i do-
i was there for everything,
but don’t worry ms. worthy.
i think they’re ready for the world
Clint E.
i use to wr-
i use to post a lot, small moments
covered in a scarf
or bundles of blankets
like a timeline of me.
& somewhere along the way
i started to take in
this negativity that spawned:
some from these memories
from the dread of time
the doubt i have over these dreams.
more input then
i could process
all the good the bad and the ugly.
if everything was put into a blender
mashed, spewed out of a topless container
caught in all of my gears
along my side
locked up
& eventually
my audience lost interest in my work-
myself.
so now
high noon
moon beaming down like a spotlight.
crisp evening air blows through a chipped scarf down to these worn denim.
whistles of a challenger:
matching gray python boots and pistol
all that’s left is a trail of smoke and an eye meeting mine.
he whispers, “Every gun makes its own tune”.
Saint's Muse 