The loudest voices
talk the most and
say the least.
The loudest voices
cause deaf ears.
It does not bother them,
so long as their sound does not cease.
Cease and desist,
or at least try to resist,
the urge to be the loudest voice in the room.
This is best off learned now, learned soon.
The boisterous bask in their self-righteousness
and close their eyes while they clamor in empty victory.
It is the silent that are content to be acorns,
laying in the shadows and soaking the lessons scorned.
Knowing that an Oak tree will be mighty in the ground
without ever making a sound.
Southern Blend and white wine
one half raw
and the other refined.
Do not pack me in
to fit into your lip.
Do not box me up
and use me for a sip.
I belong with the wild grapes
growing together under the sky.
Toiling, sweating, sunburnt.
Thinking, listening, feeling.
An imortal soul
inside an indignant ape.
The earth and leaves
leave an earthy scent
that sends me home,
refreshed from the homely,
weary ways in which the winds wave.
Crisp, October air bites
and comforts in the same breath.
Damp and dry,
Beauty and demise,
when life eclipses death.
The sun prepares her goodbyes
Her sorrow spectacularly lashes out
her tears splatter the sky.
She smoulders in a violet pout.
Her silver sister gleams in a stoic stride.
As I slipped into a sound slumber,
an anticipated array of idiosyncratic ideas flooded furiously into my manic mind.
There’s the catch!
Like a great grizzly snatching struggling salmon
I pulled the greatest poetic title from the unconscious stream.
It was glorious.
It would have changed the way that you view life.
It would have made a 1/36th Cherokee poet admit that she’s white.
It would have made the artists put down their guitars, their brushes, their masks and their fifes.
It would have gifted Hellen Keller with both speech and with sight,
and her first words would be,
“Man, that title is tight.”
Some men pursue to be Kings, Emperors, CEOs, Prime Ministers, and Chiefs.
None of these titles mean anything to me.
I had the best title last night.
It will never be topped,
in my great and unmatched wisdom.
My eyes were closed but my sight never better,
I had this title right down to the letter.
Ready to write down every letter.
But I smiled and pulled the blankets over my body.
Content with the future and with the present.
This title would produce my masterpiece, my legacy.
When they burn my body
this title will cling to humanity’s pipe as resin.
I fell asleep, knowing that my destiny was about to begin.
When I woke, I asked myself,
“What was that title, again?”
High and dry,
Memories flood me
of the waves slapping, crashing, bounding, and lashing.
The sea’s ceaseless battery.
Helplessly panicking, beating, and thrashing.
Sinking like a rock, and heavy as one too.
Soaked as a dog with mange
Shivering, descending into the blue.
Saturated, destined to a watery grave.
Yet here I am,
my land legs still intact, my body still sound.
The sun warms my face, my skin supple and tanned.
I smile at my time in the water, the times that I almost drowned.
I appreciate the warmth
and look forward to the coasts.
My back to the tides.
Onwards I go,
to stay high and dry.
What goes up,
must come down.
What comes around,
Fiesty fatigue feasts
on original obligations.
Greedily glued to the game.
Anointed to an apex.
Where are my next steps?
Aren’t I always in motion?
Will day not always become night?
Can I not do anything without reactionary notions?
Can I not get out of light?
I’m going to try my best to not be on,
time to turn my mind off.
The damp dirt soothes my soul
as I walk to my Jeep through damp grass,
Go get gas.
Come back to me.
I choke, tears roll.
I swallow, it’s easier to quickly bail.
The pedal dictates my forced escape
trapped in a mobile, ironic jail.
My journey just now taking shape.
Darkness descends desperately
surly skies sulk
cigar clouds cumulate
enraged emotions ejaculate
belittling bellows balk.
crying, cool, creepy.
Hands gripped on the wheel
and my heart.
Eyes on the road
never on the goal.
Burning gas and burning time.
Coffee, tea, Swisher Sweets, and the grind.
is so much easier than goodbye.
It doesn’t take a fucking poet to figure out why.
She needs me, I’ll take the pain, accept the crying.
Nothing concerns me, not the eye-rolls not the sighs.
I start my ignition,
to do it all again.