Sometimes it seems there’s no
in-between
like the volume on the tv
My hearing likes to play tricks
or a love-hate relationship with food
Enjoyment and resentment coincide
in a crinkly bag of M&Ms
or the fact that my children
grow up before my eyes
Happy to see their wins
Sad about selfish loss
How can there be no
in-between
when that’s the very place
life chases dreams
Laugh at the tricks
the candy
the kids
According to Mamaw
it’ll add years to my life
in-between
The song to mark the last
A winged being emerges from the clouds blowing a trumpet.
Coffins burst open and people emerge
with arms outstretched
standing resurrected
and ready to begin a new life.
When the call for change is heard from within
and you heed the call of the Divine Messenger
know that there will be a new beginning
after the death of an old way of being.
But when the great work of transformation is complete
and you follow the higher calling of your soul—
There is no fear
on that judgement day
only rejoicing
having shed the ego
and embodied your True Self.
When I was a child, albeit
Same thing erry day
bout to drive me crazy
Whew I can’t take this shit!
Same ole shit different day
same video played
right audio/left audio
break net 7/back on net 7
FLASH ON/SPECIAL REPORT
Shut up Biden
Shet up Trump
Go to hell Netanyahu
Die Putin die/FLASH OFF
Stop talking Gail
Nobody cares Vlad
No more poetry Nate
Speak up Tony
We messed up the planet
Whose to blame-all of us
Burn baby burn
Flood baby flood
How hot is it?
too hot
But it’s freezing in here
That’s the problem.
Problem with drinking the Kool-Aid,
no matter what flavor it is,
someone’s spiked it.
Handing you bile, vitriol,
and trying to convince
it’s good for you.
That’s where they’ll keep you, drugged,
drunk on the lies spun in your cup
so thick you can’t get a straw in.
There’s nothing I can do
until you admit there’s a problem.
the dinner crowd,
always loud,
paying little attention
to the folksinger
she played with
Travis picking
and sang in
her plain-spoken
way
never a paying gig,
never more than
a couple bucks
in the tip jar,
she wondered, again,
why am I here
stories of singers
in some dim Nashville
bar hitting the big time
were bullshit made up
by record companies
trying to create buzz
thumb keeping the beat,
two fingers, picking out melodies,
her voice, a counterpoint,
sweet and thin
lots of couples tonight,
leaning toward one another
over small Formica tables,
hopeful smiles on their faces
the folksinger was like
the peeling wallpaper–
a few passing glances,
but none bothered to notice
the pretty wildflowers
on the paper or
in her heart
one more song,
her favorite,
turn off the amp,
guitar in the case,
three dollars in the jar,
long walk home
she stoically clenches her teeth
into the soft skin inside her cheek
warm blood seeps from tween her lips
he uses his thumb to firmly wipe
the ruby stream from her chin
slowly brushes her hair from her eyes
The interstate is lonely
we drive for hours
Nearly silent
the radio buzzes
static
I’m going home again
