Failures

That necessary evil,

failure.

The body breaks down,

Crying childishly

For a bottle.

No more sweet

warm milk to

pacify. Thumbs down

Because you see

copper pipes

those sturdy ducts

dried up, stolen,

sold.

A single bed

on a dark dirty floor.

No braided plaited

rug, primary yellow red blue green

black and white, cover less.

The books, naked and open.

A diary, open a empty

Inkwell, a pen without

A quill. Wait for more.

A hand slaps

A label .25 cents under

candy apple cheeks

Born of tears and

Screaming

Learning

Recreational lying.

Running away

from home

My growling hunger

Turns to fear.

Where carelessly

Boredom hides

Its face

Mistaken by death.

Nothing to burn

yet on my body. Dirty

Electrical storms

And outrage

For the empty

Breasts of

Disgust. Shame grows

Beside a weed

Garden where the

Soil hardens

Into rusty clay.

Glowing up worthless

Deep in alternate

currents rides

a tight head.

My hair once

bubbled with curls.

Now straight as

a cactus prick

a crown of

new cowlicks

spin around my

head with the

shock of shame.

On the rocks

peeling open

a rattle snake

Molting to expose

anew. Skin burns

in moonlit

Curtain less rooms.

It’s time to move

Again.

Everyday failure:

Unthreaded and

without a needle

To sew the holes in

a ripped pair of

stockings, darning

Instead

Stay Positive, stay.

Sometimes my mistakes

Reach you and yours

And others myself, me and

Mine. Lead the dense ore of expectations leads

Not to gold, not to diamonds.

My pick axe and

Shovel, sieve and

Headlight

Mocking the brave

Fish that live in the

Darkness so ink black

They willed themselves

A headlamp on

Their hard hats. Darwin

Had his way of

Plumbing the reaches of

My Grace in the name

Of the father who

Died with experience

My tribe hid

It’s treasure from

My failures.

Broken bird-

Sized bites

My genes unzipped

Now simply read

She bred.

Lead her away

She deserves

No less than Expulsion.

The Little Prince(ss)

I’ve no time for fiction anymore.

A folly of a hobby, yet what could taste sweeter than this wasted layer cake?

Years and weeks, those larger tenders for anyone with leisure time to spare

(How can I afford those considerable denominations, now, anyhow?)

Can I recall whose face frowns on the thousand?

Whomever, he held only a few notes with his own face, mind you,

Not enough to carry a tune in his sow’s ear purse.

Instead I play with pockets full of minutes.

The change jangling as I count my fortune repeatedly,

Yet my blessings just once.

Sifting it in my fingers like beach sand in a swimsuit

Blindly reading my wealth like Braille

In my cinched up hand me down blue jeans’ pockets.

I remember the feeling in the grooves in time between

The hour hand and the sweep hand.

Feeling the smooth thin copper of seconds.

Im unqualified to earn hours anymore,

That time belongs to a different reader now.

Just as the hour glass tells me I was and I will be,

As the cliche says, it all spends the same, bills or coins,

My heavy change slows me down.

To cashiers, what does it matter how I pay?

To the line behind me, I waste their time

As I count out my minutes in cents they look at their watches

And tap their toes on the slick toast colored linoleum floor.

But it’s just enough to pay a poets salary.

Such a task for a quixotic empath,

Kicking dirt with swollen feet in tall worn boots

Right alongside the railway tracks. (I hope the train’s not the local)

My hands hide deep inside old suede coat draping

Over me like closed curtains hiding the light

In the cold parlor from the afternoon.

This picture doesn’t resemble anything familiar to you.

No dogs play behind me, chasing my strained heels,

No little fox to find me alone and existentially incomplete.

Down where the saddest of scars betray my enemies

Pointing weaponry at a made-up game of risk and reward,

Where I hold (hopeless) hope like a balloon in a child’s chubby hand.

Tightly gripping at the candy-cane twine, leaking

Air leaves a wilted poppy stem fainting over my fist,

Petals dripping red years from the tired back of my wrist.

A little fox chases me until I stand atop a moon

Drawn high in a blank white sky

Head bowed heavy by the ascension of a fool.