Your hair is the envy of blossoming trees,
whose former lover you stole, was the spring breeze.
Your eyes are the pearls of city lights,
reflected off the mirrors of wet boulevards .
Your smile greets a sleepy world,
more warmly than the rising sun.
But none of these does justice to you,
just as a metaphor captures truth
“Playing politics”
Such a curious way to describe a politician’s trade
Whose policies we are forced to play in their charlatan’s game
“A practice”
Such a curious way to describe a doctor’s trade
Makes you wonder what they did in their medical school days
“A work”
Such a curious way to describe an artist’s trade
Dragging through meaningless jobs, unwilling to let a dream fade
In the great greeting hall of
The Sacramento train station
Scattered islands of people wait,
Their souls faded just
As the grand mural overhead.
Gone, like the last train
The days of these veins of life
Who’s steel wake
Echoes in half memories
And romantic imaginings of lonely travelers
Today a mother with child sits in despair
Realizing she’s short on fare
While another
Tells her daughter to say goodbye to nana
Not knowing when they will come back again
A beautiful woman, with autumn hair, sits guarded by herself
Deflect unwanted stares
My future in my bags, off to a menial job in the hopes of something grand.
These scattered islands of people wait
To be brought elsewhere.
Every rugger
Is bipolar.
Caring and gracious lads
But,
Cross
That chalked line
They are nothing but
Bastards.
Bullying and bludgeoning
Those unfit for the game.
But,
Cross
That chalked line
Consummate gentlemen
Offering a toast
To those who survive.
Ever feel those butterflies
Tying knots in your insides,
To a point of a python’s embrace.
But these nymphs inside
Incomplete at this time.
Wait
Wait for the right moment.
Till you can’t handle the visceral pain.
Pray that you are one of the lucky few,
A fiery cocoon.
Turning those butterflies
Into dragons
In flea markets
Every man has midas hands
But hidden away
In rich rubble,
A faded picture
A bright, hopeful young man
With diploma in hand
To Uncle Earl,
Thank you for coming. Here is a picture for you to remember the day by.
As I sat there,
In those rigid lecture chairs
The ones that keep you awake.
The only comfort,
Is your head.
On my shoulder.
Your silken obsidian hair,
Draping my body, warmer than fleece
Distracting.
More attractive than those bonds,
The professor speaks of.
Your sweet scent soothes, then
Shocks:
Of smelling salts.
It couldn’t have been you
As long as I have known you
I’ve never been a recipient of your hug,
Or even your slightest side kiss.
A being pushed down
Subducted.
Under broken halleluiahs
Finally,
Unleashed.
A soul shifted
Alone,
In a graphite wake.
