I tried so hard to tell you off, but stumbled on my words. I could not outpour the hate I wanted so badly to say. Maybe out of good wisdom, I bit my tongue, or in recognition of my future crumbling, I wrestled with those words, I wanted so sourly to spew, but refrained. Either way, you never heard the honest truth of what I had stocked, buried cocked, with rejected memories, forever echoing silently. The vocabulary, burned in my throat and tiptoed behind my lips. The well-prepared syllables expressed completely, the person I hoped to never meet. I need you to stay at shouting space. Exactly, what I wanted to pronounce, when nothing but this odium of anger coursed in my thoughts. Increasing in distance from your ears, the monologue I swallowed is never explored, but was ready to explode. As I chose a higher ground, from such suggestions of inequality of human respect, these words, these sounds of utter detest, sat in lonesome squalor out of reach; finding themselves pressed to the roof of my mouth and dissolved to a bitter taste of defeat. My words, my poor heartbroken speech, in time will soon be forgotten letters I had in mind; wisely choose to never speak. Instead, I left you alone with your guilt and self-doubt, worse than any rotting discourse I could have spoke out. Tell yourself all the words I bring with my turning shoulder, happily alone without a sentence.
I now find it simple to dream.
Today I sat back and fell asleep.
Under the shading oak tree,
I buried myself in sweet slumber with ease.
Now I find it’s best just to dream.
Drifting away into a sleeping play,
I direct my life toward a different act each night.
Cheering on the floating lucid calm I find.
If I found myself swinging toward the same,
my naps will change,
Lulling myself into a new dream.
Letting the air swiftly carry me to the moon.
It’s fitting I find some rest.
Having worked all my love to death.
I relax with oak as pillow.
Finding dreams to be the solution.
Reducing activity from trying days,
life seems easier to portray.
Hazing drops of reality,
distract from painting daily pain.
We both circle about,
clinging tight
through rough days and nights,
through rusting rains,
and breezing earthly shouts;
held together as one,
like a screw trying to be a nut.
There’s nowhere else I'd rather be,
than here breathing this frigid Michigan air.
A bitter misty exhale when breath's released free,
thrusting our souls out into a harsh smoky cold.
In the dismal December when the freezing rain is sleeting,
saunter a three-step stomp to clear boots of slushing ice.
The low lamplight, that plays as a fireplace,
spreads across my face with the blasting storms
beating against my windowpane.
I sit in somber, causally repeating a simple phrase we Michiganders, utter,
“This weather will change into something better. “
City and soul screaming out of a black man’s horn.
Tearing down the avenue with unmatched care and pace.
Marching with the procession, to the distinct rhythm of Summertime.
Performing on a stoop, he keeps his seat with trumpeting pride.
Turning in the air hitting ears 'round the brick-laden boulevards.
No surprise, the stomping feet pass by in cadence with his melodious despair.
His piercing voice rejects love long lost, like a guitar without frets;
The town’s pounding heartbeat arranges behind each crashing song like a cymbal keeping time.
Tapping feet results to dancing in the saintly streets as the lonesome man cries.
The misery strikes a chord within stumbling tourist's trails.
Smooth as sorrow, the gliding tone of the tempered tunes tremble in the twirling alley lights.
Each French Quarter-note adds to the blue atmosphere sighs; blasting bass overtakes market square.
Thumping hopeless pitch shapes the community-laced sidewalks before waltzing boots.
A cheerless speedy laze spills from each timbre of the night.
His drumming sadness strikes the steps he graces with harmonious sounds
of his heartbreaking in disaster for public amusement like a clown.
Sitting like fruit, the snowflake decays.
Waiting to melt away, in the dimming afternoon,
laying on the injured window frame.
Within the silent residence,
a piano slowly comes to life,
drowning out the blizzard’s shriek
resuming where it left off one night.
Brittle skeletal hands
press musical breath into the room.
The ivory fingers haunt the ying-yanged keys,
rattling those notes awake.
The remembered limbs work the tones,
bellowing the closed doors with a whistled breeze.
Fighting the freeze that spills from outside,
the aching sounds warm the house with melody.
Then, with a quick click,
unlocking the red front door,
the music went dead,
as I walked into the comatose home
frozen to the bone and alone.
I’m gonna get me a chicken
and name him Earl.
He’s gonna be my very best friend
until he is no more.
We’ll play and he’ll cluck and I’ll laugh and he’ll eat;
all the seed I feed him.
Then, nature willing,
he’ll grow nice and fat for winter.
He’ll peck and crow,
I'll smile and high-step around the yard with him.
I’ll even let him find a mate; and encourage it,
but he’ll never officially procreate.
nor will his widowed wife be a mother,
but all the same, fun will be his gain.
It’s the least I can do to be fed a happy meal.
Remember when we were in love?
When our two hearts fell into one.
Lying silently together in bed, with nothing said,
Only our eyes, gazing longingly into each others,
whispered all that needed to be expressed.
