The goal wasn’t always red.

Blood washed rewards,

dripping palms, oh lord have I sinned.

Those chains held me down

 

but now I’m free. I’ll let

these hands drip, I might wash

them tomorrow. I wouldn’t

count on it, I need this red

 

and I wear it like a wedding ring.

The goal use to be blue but then

the steel fell. I buried myself

on that lone night only to wake,

 

seeing red.

I’m not alone.

These eyes see worlds only

in photos. Photos

I watched captured
in the back of our mind.

Will hold hands, cry

together on shared shoulders

for our lost mother. 
Will travel these eights roads

marching side by side

hands in our.

We are not alone.
~Till next time. S8

I don’t love for lukewarm.
I stare for the steam to be raising from the pot whistling my name.

If it doesn’t whistle it’s not for you.

The whistle is how I know it will burn. Don’t conform

Wait for the storm 

and you’ll be reborn.

The slight breath of a timid one will settle

while we catch the perfect storm.

Don’t kid yourself they belong to you

They’re the start of a coming race…

~David Bowie

Make way for

the Homo Superior. Greet

the new slab every decade;

they are our king. 
They walk the same

talk, sing, fuck like you,

yet, we’re on the ground

and they’re in space.
Putting moon shine

in a jar and holding it

high as the past.

Homo Sapiens outgrown their use.
Take our leave peacefully

onto the next

written in awe

we’ve finished our news.
R.I.P. ~

Shivering on a warm night

signal it’s time to escape.

Run where the cold still suprises you
lights dim to your will instead

of oppression.

Find me. Find me standing
under this light I power

with my will and I’ll share it

with you. Just be brave to leave
the shivering heat.

We followed your clay

as boys and girls on a crowded moon.

We came for the cheese and left

with your dream.

 

I can finally see through your eyes

weary and dreamy

looking for your love.

As you rest

 

know this, I’ll save this

Provolone through my final

days for my love,

my future Grommet.

 

RIP, Thank you for the wonderful tale.

He told me I earned this title

like the soldier on foreign land.
I never asked for your blessing;

your knighthood. I was fine
under my cloak walking through

crowded hall blending to the wall
like old gum. He saw though.

Something I didn’t realize I was seeking
and he put the compass in my hand,

guided me across these trenches.
He knew I needed a squad, and I,

it’s untested general. I didn’t 
earn this name but I’ll wear the

badge on my chest as a blessed scar. 

The one we needed and we never

acknowledge it until it’s too late. Freedom

gives birth to bliss on a summer
afternoon cliff for the people to watch

in a small box with our feet on a coffee

table. You weren’t the first and 
we will remember your crusade

by singing that fine jingle on last time:

Nananananananana nananananananana
RIP~

We watched a young boy build a sandcastle. Trenches

wide and deep to keep the uninformed out. Towers high as his shoulder to stop the catapult attacks

to his heart. I can see his face filling this trench. The final

touch, a flag, of all colors at the highest point. We walked over with a piece of bark

for a drawbridge and said, “can’t keep them out forever.”