I open my heart
To find the words
To explain
What i see.
What i feel.
I do not want to go on
Eating the roots of darkness;
Nor do i want to be the inheritor
Of so many misfortunes.
If only you could touch my heart.
And feel its beating.
Your fingertips
Would feel those syllables
Grinding
Like gears
As they pull those words up
From the canyon floor.
To rise up to my very being.
Into those crowned howls
That lie deep in my soul..
Car or Truck?
Cat or Dog?
Spider or Centipede?
Bird or Fish?
Ladder or Tunnel?
Beer or Wine?
Food or Water?
CDs or Albums?
Movie or Theater?
Live or Memorex?
Candle or Light bulb?
Pencil or Pen?
Sleeping bag or Blanket?
Box or Bag?
Plastic or Paper?
River or Road?
Water or Air?
Vegetable or Fruit?
Cow or Goat?
Horse or Donkey?
Book or TV?
Picture or Painting?
Bell or Horn?
Door or Window?
Oven or Air conditioning?
Basil or Thyme?
Garlic or Ginger?
Weed or Alcohol?
Ant or Elephant?
Rock or Sand?
Suitcase or Backpack?
Church or the Woods?
Tongue or finger?
Tree or bush?
Chile or Bell pepper?
Tomato or Potato?
Money or Love?
Fruit or Flower?
Plant or Mammal?
Plumber or Senator?
Plane or Submarine?
Night or Day?
Dirt or Cardboard?
Restaurant or Home?
Fannie Pack or Shoulder bag?
Gas mask or Sanitary mask?
Tail or Bobbed?
Staple or Pin?
Front or Rear wheel?
Lizard or Bear?
Immortal or mortal
Bow or Gun?
Pistol or Sawed off Shot Gun?
Biology or Astronomy?
Math or Language?
Paperclip or Coat Hanger?
Kiss or Hug?
Glass or Bottle?
Heart or Brain?
Pumpkin or Biscuit?
Walk or Run?
Drive or Backseat?
Mountain or Ocean?
Phone or Ear?
Howl or Roar?
Paper or Tape?
Plank or Concrete block?
T.P. -fold it or wad it?
I say the morning
She’s a meanie
She does me wrong
Every single day
I say the morning
She’s a meanie
She reminds me of every pain
I say the morning
She’s a meanie She
Wakes me
with her bright eye
In my face
(This a song I was singing
While I was butchering fish,
Doesn’t seem like it
But I had some kind of rhythm
To it)
When I was four
God summoned me;
I refused to answer.
He screamed angrily down at me
between the claps of a thunderbolt.
His sentences short and to the point.
“Speak!”
The apple tree in the front yard
translated it.
The first word I spoke.
“Snake.”
“Black snake.”
Repeatedly,
until no one wanted to hear it anymore.
The apple tree died for that word;
split in halves, forming a heart.
The city came,
cut it down into logs,
and threw ‘em in a loud obnoxious box
towed behind the truck.
The apple tree was shredded
spit out on the other side
into the back of the truck
as wood shavings.
Sap dripped from the cracks of the box.
The air was scented with Granny Smith.
In the end
the only witness to god coming down at all
laid, cut up into little insignificant pieces
in the back of a truck
to be dumped in a landfill.
“Let us build a friendship” She stated.
“Nothing more.
“We will never have any memory of dying.”
Then she slithered away into the wanting parking lot,
nestled within the city’s gut.
A generous light,
splinters its way through the foliage of the buildings
and blesses the multi-colored flowers,
scattered impulsively about the cracks,
amongst the broken bottles crumbled cellophane wrappers
and crushed aluminum cans.
However, the earth remains silent,
as I pick a flower from her sanctified lips.
I touch her and she quivers.
My hunger seems so blatant.
my stomache makes such obvious sounds,
the texture of my words, such obvious Enunciations.
When she exited the room,
closing the door behind her, I could not help but watch
with the yearning to partake of the Tree of life.
I can say. I have suffered things in the Street,
spread myself, and turned over whole lives,
changing skins, names, beliefs and license plates;
regardless, it was I, who walked this way.
No one else forced me into the ashes.
It was something I had to do;
something I needed to find.
I must face the consequences for doing such.
I can say I lost my heart, piece by piece,
giving too much to loves
residing within the dark crevices of the cities’ walls.
Or was it not enough?
Regardless,
the want to pick ‘em up and glue ‘em back together,
is not here.
I have gotten used to that harsher terrain
where no one wants to love.
By giving no answers,
One can say “I didn’t understand.”
Yet where does that get us?
A little farther from the Great Mystery?
A little farther from love?
I could say that I walked those streets,
without seeing, without feeling, without longing,
but I would be lying,
for, I am of man.
I watched every time she walked.
I could feel those firm potter’s hands
grip my neck
her fingers press light steady circular patterns
and knead themselves down my spine
and farther . . .
It’s strange, perverse
it’s as if, it is something my body craves, needs
I cannot deny it.
Maybe, it is not a woman I want;
but all women;
and, I hunt for them in those around me,
one by one.
Ask me where I have been, and I will tell you;
however, ask me where I am going,
I could impart nothing.
I only know of the thorn’s language,
and the taste of Red Chilean wine in a flat bottom bottle.
Regardless,
the tracks I have left behind will be hard to follow.
My heels leave barely a trace imprinted in the concrete,
they will disappear with the walking of the wind;
as the day’s newspaper circulates the night air.
You will not be able to find me.
You will not know me by my tracks,
but only by the skins and tears I have shed
Smyon-Pa 