A Poem in three Parts



All it takes is a mule in a lone field
to make you feel as if there is a part of life
you’re missing out on

Rustic roughness of dry hands
and forehead sweat under the western sun,
only found in Steinbeck novels and places red
It makes you feel as if what the walls said
when they were closing in on you (in the comfort of your own living room)
was completely fucked

What makes life         worth it?
What am I          worth?
I’ll promise myself to answer that
before I die. Or die trying. Or try
dying, and then find out

And of course I could make the words rhyme
And of course they don’t so I won’t
I’ll just pull and drag the shit out of it.
Until I make myself sick
With the idea

No moving back


Lungs full of smoke choked with cancer
the sweat of organs taken from home
and replaced inside make me want to
cry, from the evil genius of it
It’s just a puzzle put together
without pieces we can’t see

I’d like to try
being grateful of the mystery
for keeping things interesting
scrapping the overwhelming
of its presence

Light years of stars far away
twinkling with the inference of
foreign shores

painted, they remain there
a tangible imagination


and then some…

feeling life always passing by
in bewilderment of the real

you can’t find clues with your pupils
while it may have to do with
being(s) together

Yet I always wonder
will there come a time
when all answers
appear lucid?
toes tap dancing on a cloud

If only they had told us

when we were kids, I wonder
how many of us would still choose
to rise to the challenge
or see what’s behind door number two

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