Fresh

 Practiced mania sent out in pulsed waves

The puppeteers up top enjoy the view.

Orchestrating chaos as the nameless benefactors

Pick their teeth of rotting meat, to make way for

Fresh kill.

Tickle and Slip

 Here, before any words spoken,

I sit and analyze thought.

What will Thursday bring?

Thursday, will bring, whatever I induce.

January 13th, a day to design with intent.

Ideas swim, muses distract, intention must

Be the solid Victor.

Sleep brought cumbersome dreams 

Of misplaced jewelry, hanging from threads

In places that dementia would only know.

The message here is dubious, lingering

Is there use in deciphering?

A single copper ornament, lost to its pair

A friend, recently stripped of all familial company

The cast in order of appearance was particular.

What philosophy is carefully placed in this setting?

Where my pillowed head floats in controlled chaos

Meaning, mulled into deep, wordless explanations,

That coast in agitating vibration,

Coaxing distraction enough,

To tickle and slip away.

Free

 In later hours the wrist takes its liberty

Vision dances loosely on the brink of slumber

And still, the compositions present themselves.

With less control there is more risk

The relaxed state promotes flimsy with flow

A grace-line that knows to roam freely 

When sleep takes its leisure as limbs give in to rest.

Two nights now, a slight pattern - forming

The wavy vibrations toy with visible dimension...

Or so I am told.

To what do we attribute to, this midnight muse?

Who glides in gypsy formation

In indelible strokes?

As the severing of workloads cement themselves

I too, like the wrist, post-slumber

Take some Liberty of my own.

Who knew something so powerful as an Inalienable Right

Would be proudly invoked

In a world now parading with the illusion of 'Free'?

Boise Boy

He sends, I read

Punched. 

His words, stirred

Aggressively making their home

Inside me,

As they always have,

Stitched in tight.

Vultures swirl, encircling

Eager to dig in...to...

The viscera. 

Inky tendons, tightening

Flawed indelibly into view

An expulsion of pages

Dictating turmoil. 

Throat rope tangled

Controlled fray, exudes

Blinded eyes that 'see'

"...bone dry words form 

from twisted lips 

come from 

someone something strange 

a throat deranged..."

We roam in tune best

At these distances We have known

From flurries to salty sea

~And anxious knots in time that rots~

Betwixt the Now and He.

...known

Sunday ends in familiar tones 

The abode, dutifully open for inhabitants 

Who sleep to dream to rise and make ready 

A life of welcome change. 

The greenery, happy to hear our sounds

And the inanimate contents, made ready

For use in the home we've built and known. 

Launching...

Finality forming, by

Automated triggering.

The dump of my earned remains-

Clarify much.

Light blows open the status

Of the beginning of: The Where To-

From 'Here'.

Excitedly eager

To climb sturdy ladders

That lead to an infinity

Of yet, untapped wealth.

With value grown, and confidence ushering

I return to begin the finalizing

Of books that are begging for closure.

The Future, launching...

Ratio

 San Antonio, Texas...

And Hatch chili peanuts.

Gas, still under $3 a gallon

This State, a State worth knowing.

I am recognizing this gorgeous place

As I drive back in the path I know well.

The vast expanse is promoting itself

In unabashed tones of Freedom.

Space. To breathe, To move, To elevate

Pursuit of dreams made whole.

I am eager to claim my plot of this story

And drive hard to the mark of Change.

Ready

Willing

Excitedly able.

Midnight oil burns through morning

And on through each mile that we pass.

2022 sees a ratio of gain

That I WILL obtain.

NOW