What is that noise
that interrupts your poise?

Is it a thought that grabs your attention
to something odd you might mention?

A joy that grabs your interest,
a pause from work business?

A thought you can savor
to change your behavior?

For no reason at play
it’s a break in your day.

It took some diversity
to keep you from urgency.

Maybe now you will spy,
pink clouds in the sky.

A beauty you’d miss
thinking moments of stress.

Always walk opened eyed
for beauty you may miss on the fly.

Now when taking a walk
don’t let beauty be blocked.

i think we lost the plot
we breakin down
fore we even off the lot
your heaven and hell
couldn’t believe in that god
keep tellin myself
least you got a job
aint got a lot
but grateful for all that i got

living’s not about getting things
this is me talkin shop
not spending time living your dream 
tell me what’s the cost
i aint gon bow and kiss the ring
of these god awful cops
who protect and serve
the ruling class
don’t project the nerve
to do it back
prison’s big business
get the kids in the system
so we can have their free labor
kidnap thy neighbor
if he loves all his children equally
how can you be highly favored?
what about that kid in a tornado
guardian angel with a pitchfork
no halo
what’s all this for
but to change the globe
they already tryna stick a fork
in us we can’t lay low
that’s how they get more
of a stranglehold
blood splattered
star spangled soul
try to keep the pain from being told
only say the real things
when they standin over you with a rose

i think we lost the plot
we breakin down
fore we even off the lot
your heaven and hell
couldn’t believe in that god
keep tellin myself
least you got a job
aint got a lot
but grateful for all that i got

but what am i posed to be grateful for crumbs?
the bare minimum?
am i just posed to be faithfully numb 
never makin enough
to save nothin up
just enough to pay the slumlord
the rich always tryna bum more
off the working class
they tryna make it curtains for ya ass
this shit ain’t workin like the math
they all led us down this murky path
AI drive the car it gon swerve and crash
at every turn we already gotta serve em cash
and it’s only gettin worse than that

i think we lost the plot
we breakin down
fore we even off the lot
your heaven and hell
couldn’t believe in that god
keep tellin myself
least you got a job
aint got a lot
but grateful for all that i got

There is plenty to be said 
About the life and possessions 
Of those who are amongst the dead 
Trinkets and collections, furniture 
Albums, house plants, boxes stacked
Floor to ceiling, family heirlooms discarded 
Memorabilia mazes maxed with unique 
Unconventional art flounced on the wall 
We chose things that we were certain 
We could never have imagined affordable 
Bargaining our way through the entire time 
Until the treasures were abound
Loaded into the back of our car
Twelve hours to make it home 
These folks may have been long gone 
But they will not be forgotten 
Appreciation for the rest of our lives 

After all these tribes of drifting lines and lives have fallen into a greater disrepair, 

A plenty of fish

A simple date was the plan 

or  plenty of fakes

“Yucca Filamentosa”
Is not what I grew up
calling these bunches
of grand green daggers

The towering central spike
and creamy white flowers
defying the rains
and the heat of June.

Masses guarding old farmyards,
some for houses long gone.
Here, the only sign
of a quiet grave.

Bravely green in all seasons,
Winter barely browns it.
The thicket of swords
shades a crumbing lamb.

Stop beneath these nodding blooms
send a wish, remember.
You will pass from here,
“Adams Blade” remains.

Victim. The sour taste. I try to sleep the feeling off
on the floor I have not cleaned in a year. The grime
peppers my hair as the dark sinks but does not stain.
I wish it could ink me out. An erasure, the remainder
of my life will be lived around this gaping wound.
I could fall over the edge of it, dive into the avulsion,
swim laps in the pit of blood. There’s no healing for this.

These things inside the box
only images.
The parts of my identity
I choose to share: 
The bell that belonged to my great grandmother
who used it to call students in after lunch.
A photo of one of my tattoos;
a memorial to dead relatives.
My brother and I at a Hu concert.
My father and I dressed in Steampunk. 
Me in front of Weta Workshop
during my dream vacation. 
These are me: 
Teacher 
Sister
Daughter 
Niece
Traveler
Geek
There are more versions of me, 
but I’ll keep those close
for today.

sometimes we might worry –
a world on the brink and all,
guess it’s those times when
you think the worst, that
a series of close encounters
of the young kind tends to
change your mind, convince
you we’ll be just fine
after all

how is it 
that I come to worry
over an old man 
who takes
23 thousand dollars 
a year from me

so I can pretend his house 
is mine 
until
he sells out from under me 

it’s a kick in the teeth
so hard that the wind 
escapes the lungs 
and the hills get so big
you don’t feel like 
ever crawling out