Flat Tire

All of the ‘Them’s
That are a ‘Him’
All of the ‘They’s
That make me
Misbehave
Are headed
Towards resting
On his chest
In between
My cheek
And he
The sheets
Will sing
And love will be free
To take a sweet
Stab at me
And he
And we
Will see
That sugary
Knife
Inside
Now resides
By our thighs
As to remind
Us of the nights
When we both just lie
Down beside
Each other and sigh
Knowing tonight
There is no ‘but’
Stopping us
No cuts
To wonder
And fuss
Over, just
Us
Under
The sheets
And dreams
We’ll see
When we
Shut
The ruckus
Off and just
Breathe
In peace
And bleeding
Our hearts on the sheets
It’s worth certainly
Remembering
That sometimes things
Aren’t as they seem
Flat tire’s are there
When you aren’t prepared
And you’re just spared
From the death that scares
You right there
Long enough for prayer
And to pull over
But you’ve got no spare
And no one could care
Less as they tear
Past you like they’re
In some hurry
So you sit and stare
For hours like there
Is no air
In your body
Until finally that rare
Moment is there
And you are spared
Any more waiting
Rewarded for patience
We are remembering
Sometimes things
Aren’t as they seem
When luck runs out
Leaving you shouting
And banging the wheel
Of your automobile
And the only thing that you
Can do
Is wait for your cue
Because your tire blew
Never does one
Come so undone
That one loses
Sight of the future
Somewhere
You’re aware
That you won’t be there
Forever.
Flat tires are truth
But thats not exclusive
Love is the truth
Too
And just because knives
Shred tires sometimes
Doesn’t mean I
Can’t see that knives
Are exactly just like
All things in life
Sometimes
A kinfe
Can cut through the lines
So blurry that I
Was made blind
Was held back from my
Other side
My
Lover and me
We sleep beneath sheets
And remember when we
Blew a tire to pieces
And laugh when we
See
The history
Of that story
And bleed
And breathe
And breed
Our ‘He’s
And ‘We’s
Into each
Other and sheets
And sleep
While we seep
Because that's exactly
What we
Agreed
That we
Both need
When finally
The side
Of the road passed us by
And we met with a sigh
By our bedside
And smiled

When They Stop Vacuuming

I sit and think
At the most odd hours of day
With old and heavy eyelids
Too old to be my own
But grown that way
From a life of days
Unlike my age group
Or so I think
And I think
When they stop vacuuming
I will focus as I need
And be free
Of this rolling boil
I have been stuck inside
But how can I create
When thats not really what I do
How can I expect
Myself to move
From my seat
And meet my day
Head on
When what I do is write
Poetry
The essence of poetry is laziness
Its what makes poems survive
Through time
Its their lack of activity
Or agenda
Its their consistent
Sitting
And starring
And saying what needs to be heard
Softly
Silently
With old and heavy eyelids
And for the most part
Poetry waits for you to walk up to it
On your smoke break
And overhear
What you needed to hear
Clearly
And until then
It thinks
When they stop vacuuming
I will start to yell
My poetry does not know when that day will come
And wonders if maybe
One day
A fire will eat it instead
When the same people who have never heard of it
Burn this place down
Because
They’ve never heard of it
But I am never worried
I would not grab my hard drive
In a fire
Because poetry doesn’t get lost
In the fire
It jumps
Into the flames
Knowing exactly when to enter
And when to exit
My poetry is not me
I think
I would put the fire out
I think
I would prevent the cause
But the only way I know how
Is poetry

The Weatherman

So I guess I am
The weatherman
And I just keep on changing
Just about the time I think
I can play in flip flops and cargo shorts
I find myself bundled
Huddled
In a corner missing
Life
Breath
Warmth
Only so that
No sooner than I’d changed
I am holding onto the heavy baggage
Of a backpack stuffed to the brim
With an overcoat I don’t need anymore
My back hurting from the
Back and forth
And so hate me, if you will
The weatherman
Responsible for these changes
Find me to be a frustration
To your day
Wonder why I ping-pong
With no rhyme or reason
But mind the season
Because no one said that Spring was easy
No one promised you buds
Not covered
In frost
And you can spend your time
Like mine
Wondering what comes next
Setting expectations
And losing
Or you can spend your time
With me
Understanding that no matter what comes next
The best
For the situation
Is all that you need know
To be the forecast

90s America

Only God ever
Killed gay boys
Before Matthew Shepherd

Cannula

Pavlov's dogs were not puppies
They were full grown dogs
Our subconscious is still growing
Going and
Developing

90210

More than just the fashion
Of a time
Is captured on a television show
It is impossible
To isolate
The arts