The cold air stings my nose

The cold air stings my nose
Making my eyes watery
On a cold summer morning.
This feeling rare and waverly
Passing with the season
Replaced by a constant sting.

The sting is welcome.
It reminds me of youth
Not yet gone, but not present.
Dissipating in a sleuth
Towards quarter-life-crisis.
A creation of the year 1996.

Oh, to be young and ignorant.
Oh, to be young and wise.
A generation aware of the gap
A generation aware of demise.
The canyon approaches faster
As if downhill we approach on skateboard.

All doubt and no support
Makes a generation irreproachable.
There is nothing you can say
Anymore to make us sociable
Towards your ideals
Your archaic and close-minded ideals.

However, my old friend,
Let us not have this conversation.
Let us reminisce on a common feeling
To promote social justice evasion.
Excuse my sarcasm, it is when I tell the truth.
Truth is, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Instead let us remember that sting.
That summer morning cold air
Which in our youth reminded us
That the day was new, and fair.
Ignorant bliss, granted by adults
To children, who would do the same.

Oh, how I miss that ignorant bliss
When mom and dad were perfect.

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“We should get a drink”

“We should get a drink.”
The classic vain offer
Given by a friend
Cheers’ed by myself
Agreement to be let down
Agreement to be neglected
Agreement to be left
Sitting, wondering why I said yes again
Sitting, wondering why he doesn’t show
Sitting, knowing that I saw this coming.

Why offer empty words
That sour like milk curds
Downgrading me to two-thirds
A human like the past herds.

I am human, I feel remorse.
When you leave me at the booth
To pay my own bill.
It’s cheaper than usual.
One beer, seven-ninety-nine.
One burger, eleven-ninety-nine.
One bill, twenty-one dollars and eighteen cents.
I paid the bill, like usual.
I tipped the waitress, like usual.
I sat for one more drink, like usual.

I sit hoping you’re just late.
Maybe you’ll somehow skate
Through the door with visible shake
Apologizing for perpetual mistake.

But you won’t.
I’ll see you at work the next day.
And you’ll leave me with the same words.
“We should get a drink.”
And my response?
“Yeah, for sure.”

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Maple Syrup

The sap pouring from my mind
Doesn’t always flow like milk and honey.
The gears clog and don’t unwind
Stopped by a wrench thrown
Into the cogs until they grind.

Refine this sap. Boil it down.
Heat it to two-hundred nineteen degrees
One quart from the gallons in which I drown
Now take that quart, and pour it over
The gears, slowed down by that thick brown.

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His Wolfness is Gone

The wolf sits in wait, surrounded by sheep
Hidden in his jacket of wool, giving no peep.
He baas like the rest of them, giving cover
Holding back his howl, hiding his blubber.

He has been there for over a year
Learning their ways, dismantling fear.
Most would have struck by now,
Most would have eaten their chow.

He does not. He waits, patiently by shepherd.
Knowing one will stray from the white herd.
When that moment comes, he will lunge
Into white turned red madness he will plunge.

His friends ask him when he will go
“A little longer” he replies, “until the show.”
The longer he waits, hunger makes him sway.
His sleek coat becoming matted and gray.

Then one day it happens, a sheep strays
He looks to it and jumps towards his prey.
Teeth snarled, eyes beaded, legs tensed
He opens his slobbed jowls, howls commenced.

There is no howl, only a baa, unrecognizable.
His wolfness is gone, replaced by the undeniable.
He has become that which he was around,
A sheep descendant from wild hound.

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The Tall and Sturdy Oak Tree

Through the iron bars I can see
That tall and sturdy oak tree.
Though these bars are rusted
And my cellmate untrusted,
That tree stands tall and mean
In that wild field of green.

A remembrance to men like me
That at one point we were free.
Tall and sturdy, green and rooted
Till one day to jail we were booted.
For a crime I of course did not cause.
That’s what everyone says to cover flaws.

That jury convicted- full of ghosts
Practically sending me to the host of hosts.
Good as dead I tell you, in this box
I get one pair of shoes, two pair socks.
Three set of jumpers, indoors and out.
One for cleaning, but they ain’t using Shout.

You called me lunatic, unworthy, and killer.
You turned that true in this house of stone pillar.
I fight to survive, I have no choice, I slash.
Thrown to solitary, for my visions to mash.
They merge with reality, what is true?
Am I what they say? This killer created by you?

There is one constant I can rely on in general pop.
It’s that oak, and Lord I pray they never chop.
It is my only glimpse of freedom from here
That I can dream, and someday not fear.
Till then I sit and watch the leaves change
While I hope that I myself may rearrange.

I watch that sturdy oak tree
Through iron bars it is all I see.
It stands tall and mean
In that wild field of green.
When I leave this place in pine box,
Lay me under the tree, in my dirty socks.

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He Built Your Castles

He built your castles,
Laid brick in your pyramids,
Pulled wire through your studs.
Worked with closed eye lids.

What is it that separates you?
Money, power, and fame.
Stood on your pedestal
Looking down with disdain.

You came out of your office
With nothing but a towel wrapped.
You asked me how the job was going,
No privacy, no shame, I’m trapped.

A fat half naked rich man, proud.
Let me tell you how you are perceived:
Boisterous, obnoxious, and ignorant
Of the messages I tried you to receive.

Nonetheless, he worked on your castle.
Tearing down the old, putting up the new
Committing his blood, sweat, and tears
In your condo castle with a second story view.

The working man, secretly Marxist
Secretly wanting to walk away
But unable. Marxism is a dream.
A far reaching fog gone by midday.

Oh what a dream to do what he pleases
Day in, day out no 8-hour-sacrifice.

But folks, I know the secret of Marxism.
It exists in this corrupt landscape.
Not for you or me, not the working man,
Only for those who build castles and pyramids.

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If you were awake at night,
Unable to sleep, unable to rest,
Would you look over the edge?
Observe your own death?

The indeterminate space between
The living and the dead
Where creativity lives
Closed arms and crossed legs

I stare into her eyes every night
A reluctant Salvador Dali
Walking in the equilibrium
Of that taut wire nightly.

I can see the Inbetween
I speak with the greats,
I attempt to paint with them,
I am no good, compared to these fates.

They care not, they only accept
Grateful for the company
Creativity eases her stance
Staring at my heart hungrily.

She is queen here in the Inbetween.
These relics she hangs with, her servants
The monarchy is not dead here,
She is worshiped, by minds overburdened.

Overburdened by a lack of sleep
From looking over the edge
From seeing something they must mimic
Something not-of-this-word, full fledged,
Eager to show the real world,
What their tormented mind sees.

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The Plastic Bag

Somebody, please find someone who cares
About the plastic bag drifting in my yard.
Drifting in my wispy pale face
Traveling through this dead grass space.
Today it is my responsibility
If I neglect it, tomorrow it is yours.
Find someone who cares
For my jar has been opened
And those around me,
Took what they wanted.

I prayed for you, yet I forgot your name.

I prayed for you,
Yet I forgot your name.
Does God still hear,
These words I chew?

You were all youth,
I, barely your senior.
Yet you my responsibility,
Tasked to share truth.

I acted like I cared,
And deep down, I did.
I still do, I think of you often.
But it was falsity I shared.

I acted like I was fine
Like I flying through turbulence.
But my heart was breaking
While I masked myself with shine.

If I could go back,
I wouldn’t change.
My words were strong
I offered no slack.

I pray for you now,
That my false testimony
Does not break your witness.
That you keep your vow.

Please know, that I believe.
But belief does not mean peace
It means there is somewhere to go
When peace seems to leave.

This Is The Place Where Ideas Flow

This is the place where ideas flow
Like cheap coffee from glass pot.
A place that only I may know
Designed with trinkets to unclot.

Wooden boards I laid out and sanded
Screwed to one another, they mingle
They support my tapping handed
Down to my keyboard to make jingle.

This sacred place, my sanctuary
Denver lies in the corner, curled.
She feels safe here when she is wary.
I give her pets when my thoughts are furled.

Books are laid everywhere, I’m fine with it.
I know it bothers you, their haphazard spread.
I will get to them, I just need to write a bit.
Half of them being half read.

My favorite book? You already know.
I wrote it myself in Moleskin.
A little black book half full,
Of poems, half finished.

Someday, I might just