I work in order to be at my leisure
but I am not at my leisure because I work;
this sick circle takes me around
and around and around yet again
with no exit in sight until the
ripe age of 65. 62 if I’m lucky.
59 1/2 if I’m ridiculously lucky.
Lucky thing that I married money,
(which hasn’t paid off yet
but may before I’m 59 1/2,
if I’m not dead by then,
or maimed, or paralyzed,
either physically or mentally
by the stultifying effects of life)
as a means of saving my zest for life.
Rising tension in my home
Makes me appreciate the peace,
That once freely did roam,
Now captivated creature we need to release.
*
Like a pipe blocked and filled with steam,
The pressure uprise could be
An inferno or geyser it would seem
When it explodes higher than a tree.
Rules can be bent
Crossing bridges over streams.
Our eyes will adjust
I consider myself to be a normal boy
(perhaps even a normal man)
with normal likes and dislikes
(such as apple pie and country music),
but then I question all this
when I find myself liking the smell of my own farts
rating the quality of each I release.
oh sweet refuse, filling the air
byproduct of my own waste,
handiwork of my own bowels.
sink
somewhere in the pacific swallowed perhaps
by
the waves of this cold black ocean as their
sandals
wash ashore: and this we cannot even begin
to comprehend
despite
our in
tern
et a
cc
e
s
s.
Summoning all my courage and reciting
the Bene Gesserit litany against fear
I plunged my hand beneath the water
grasping the cardboard
with which in my stupidity
I had clogged the toilet
when you run everyday for a week
without changing your clothes
the whole house can be ruined
by the overwhelming smell
of those stinky socks
like that
i intend to invade your thoughts
Riding off into the sunset
isn’t as glamorous as in the movies;
in stead of being triumphant,
really it’s just a lot of squinting
and wishing for sunglasses.
Genuine and synthetic happiness is therapeutic while summer thoughts of joyful and depressing moments in one’s own history and genealogy caress and tear upon their minds
it takes a skill
few have
and reserves
few care to create
or hold
a skill we have
and reserves we maintain
the sieve and the sand
will leave its
own fragrant
mark
standing
in light refracted through jesus
we listened.
Clutching at my Mary,
Thinking of the gift,
I’ll always remember
Who I wish to be with.
But some dreams can’t come true,
For life is the beginning,
Try not to grasp to tightly
Before Death comes running for you….
meek- lame
in the presence of strangers
i wander wondering
will I inherit this earth corner too?
what about the bird, the man, the stone,
the sieve and the sand
do I get them too?
a reward for all my awkwardness-
for laughing off
the absurdity of the
adult stranger sticking her tongue out at me in the streets, or the
friend’s endless babble about the pregnant shrimps he ate.
like a single shot—
fired at close-range—
kills all impossibilities.
she moves sharp and violent in bed while sleeping
the tender cream sheets do nothing to comfort her thrashing
and neither do i
i lie next to her, still and awake
feeling nothing
i do not try to calm her anymore
sit many,
silent spread out and waiting
to be taken the same place but not together.
hoping their train will soon arrive.
as children they’d sat near to mother afraid and close
holding her hand, small and wondering
not knowing where they were going.
some things never change
now, not brave, but bigger at least and used to being alone
or maybe just resigned.
hoping their train will soon arrive to take them away
on the train now, they all sit apart together, looking away
out the window, avoiding eye contact with all the other someones
outside a sign:
“Use caution when exiting the train.”
and then:
“Please be mindful of children. Please take them by the hand.”
Sound advice
as if hearing the pleas of the silent passing eyes.
cyprus trees spread their
roots instead of settling down
resisting the cold water below
legitimacy
is only one of the many reasons
to have labels
so beautiful
we seem so real now
i just want to poke us
to see if we’re really still here….
sieveandsand.com
Inside the diamond
Poets write with leather pens
On tablets of wood.
at night we count
not stars but gunshots–
five two days ago.
the sieve and the sand 
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