Thinner Than Blood

Blood lines cut into
Urban landscapes
As we plan for our escapes
From small towns and small minds
Our youth confines
Familial relations replaced
In these new places
By these chosen faces
Who we add to our lives
Like husbands choose wives
But where does loyalty lie
When we need it most
When we’re raw
When we fall
When our thick blood thins
And spreads on pavement
Broken skin on hard cement
We are this series of transitory moments
We sit alone in small rooms
In tall buildings
Wanting more
Are we not just strangers?
We put on airs and pretend
As we deadbolt the door
We scurry around the alleys of this city
Like rats seeking
Nibbles of love
Scraps of dignity
Crumbs of loyalty
Starving for attention
For connection
To be known
Wanting more
But we come up short
And alone

Leave the phone at home.

It feels good

to leave the phone,

at home.
to walk out the door
without the vice
of a device.
to watch the tick
of addiction
as you go to check it,
but it's not in your pocket.
it feels good.
to be diconnected.
to be reconnected.
it feels good to experience life first-hand,
with our own eyes and ears
and just our memories are there to record it all

Inspired by:

And:

Lunar Fray

 

The full moon is rising,
And she is sizing,
Me up.

The moon wants a fight,
As she takes on the night.
I must be a loon,
If I want to fight the moon.
If I want to pull her from her pull,
But not pull these punches.
As she rises full.

 

I’ve been training for this day,
Much to the moon’s dismay,
To put on this ludicrous display,
Welcome to this lunar fray.

A Response to the Media's Disaster Porn

i don't want to be in a dark corner,
isolated from current events,
nor bombarded with the incessance.
does the headline make the pain go away?
does the death count justify my politics?
does the bleeding lead to anything but ad sales?
the link leads to nothing.
the story has no content.
we grieve.

Welcome to the Fuckery

If this doesn't break you,
you're doing it wrong.
Listen carefully:
This is not a love song.
And this is not some hippie love fest.
It's a fest in fuckery, at best.
Don't harsh your mellow?
Aren't you a wishful fellow.
Don't mellow my harsh.
Go back to your dreams of a marsh.

Welcome to the desert.
Where we are hung out to dry,
Where you will cry,
Where part of you will die.
And in those moments of mortality,
And varying morality,
You may sense the totality,
Of this world and everything in it.
You know those piling levels of shit,
In porta-potties serviced by,
The dollar you claim should die,
All that you knew was a lie.
Floating off in this hot, dusty wind.

The desert gets to the core,
Our bodies, our egos, grow sore.
Welcome to the dark side of the desert.
Welcome to the breakdown.
Welcome to it.