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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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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THE INBETWEEN

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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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

That Cracked Fallen Tree

In my woods, only about ten feet
Off the path lies a tree.
Fallen and cracked, covered in peat,
It works as a seat, big enough for three.

It was there that we ate dinner
Taco meat, made in a gray teapot
If I could choose anyone, it would have been her
To sit and make a fire, and possibly be caught.

I cannot forget that day we shared.
It is burned into my memory like that scar
We left on the forest floor we swept bare.
Someday we will travel back there, despite it being far.

Now we sit in our kitchen, far from woods.
The teapot in storage, waiting for us to leave.
We cook on electric stove, improving our goods.
We will return my dear, to that cracked fallen tree.

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The words of a pensive starving artist

I plunder for passion
Often revealed in painful fashion
The words of a pensive starving artist
Scribbled on paper ready for harvest.

Pick them with your eyes,
Pasteurize them before it dies,
That persisting pestering feeling
That is all too poorly revealing.

The regretful feeling of passing on
Without presenting my truth upon
The page for you to recognize
The passive feeling I have to compromise.

I dream of presenting my words
I ponder the crowds listening in herds
To the preciously chosen syllables,
The portraits I paint with letters visible.

The ambition soon passes and I’m left
With words left presently on my cleft.
Prowling through my mind for a moment
Only to be persuaded to be put in postponement.

If I don’t take the two seconds to put
Pencil to paper, they are lost at foot
Forgotten and past, for no one to hear
Precariously placed in back out of fear.

Fear of what? Packing another’s heart?
Do I fear poking into another’s art?
No. I preemptively sabotage myself.
I feel safer when pushed to the shelf.

It’s too pretentious.
It’s too portentous.
It’s too over pressured.
It’s too under pressured.

The lies that pop into our heads.
They keep us from potential threads
To be laced together on the pegs
That just might pull one onto their legs.

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Cows have taken over my camp.

Cows have taken over my camp
I tried to take it back, I advance
On them, but stand no chance
Against that original leathertramp.

They mean no harm, they are curious.
They wonder what I am, what I do
Just as I wonder, “who are you?”
Though this is inconvenient, I am not furious.

There are other camps on this property,
They require more hiking, sure.
But they all offer ground still pure.
Something that has become a rare commodity.

The cows may have my campsite.
It was theirs before it was mine,
I stole it from them from their treeline.
I know they would run, there is no need to fight.

I have said before, nature kills reason.
Perhaps reason beckons a different call.
That this land was created for all
There is no reason to commit treason.

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The Sins of My Father

The sins of my father rest
Upon my shoulders, sinking my chest.
Like a yoke with two buckets
Straining sinew in my knees.

The buckets are full to the brim
Five gallons each, contents grim.
The lids are on, I dare not open them.
To do so would force me to face what is within.

I carry this yoke ignorantly by choice
Perhaps to avoid having to voice
My true feelings, hunkered inside
My chest, now failing, falling towards feet.

My back is tired, it creaks and cramps
I should have left the lids over those lamps
If I had, I would not have seen the buckets
I would not have seen the yoke, I would not carry it.

I question why I am the one who lifts,
Why I am the one whose foot shifts.
Is it love? Is it hate? Is it a way to be civil?
Am I just being complacent? Compliant?

I have to believe it is love.
We all have those things which shove
Us to our feet- demand payment.
I choose to help lift, to carry these burdens

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The fog of my eye

The fog of my eye hides truth.
I peer through the haze,
I think I see a corner booth,
It’s full of friends from past days.

I rub my eyes and the image changes.
The lighting of this booth is dim,
Ill-lit to hide the scars on our faces.
As one mutters, “who invited him?”

My ears deceive me in this moment.
Am I wanted, or not? I cannot tell.
My feet are stuck in the cold cement
The sudden shock rises in a drastic shrill.

The exit serves as a sweeping draft
That cools me from the rising heat.
Is it just me that feels the heat blast?
Or are we all just faking, stuck in defeat?

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