It begins in solitude at 3 am

When drum rolled thoughts
beat against
moments grown long,

and moments forgetting

When the zzquil kicks in

and shreds away on the

mattress where you lay,

like clowns without sound-

Clowns without music.

Those moments not mentioned
when you finally get it

and there’s nobody there

in the kitchen to witness--
It is in solitude at 3 am,
It is,
   and the motherfucker 
always wins.

Trailer Park Boys

They should have saved more time

for reflections in the mirror,

but leisure hours passed

with their tongues hung up in bottles

licking smoke and sailing on

towards a castle made of stank

and day old booze.

They were insects displayed on a pin-
exposed, helpless and unable to explain themselves,

but concealed their worries with clown trickery-

Drowning their calamities

in a kiddy pool filled 
with Captain Morgan 
and hillbilly blues.

You should have seen it, the place was a mess-
Empty cans thrown into sinks,
cigarette butts floating lifelessly

Posters that read: “Keep calm. Get your redneck on” 
stood staring back at me,
 like a bad song 
forever on repeat.

I remember the voices like the back of my hand
and the music from a farther room.

I know the eyes already

 like they were my own

because I almost felt they were

I almost felt this place was a part of my heart

But it flickered and ached when not around.

The trailer park should have been

our worst of times,

coated in ignorance and a wall of shame-

But it wasn’t

and it was
and it was all so beautiful

either way you look at it.

So long as society
remains transfixed
on money, and success
we will forever construct a mess
of who we are
and ought to be.

I long for more primitive days~
Earth beneath my feet.

Come down from your spinning head

And busy bees of human dread

There's much more to offer

Like Pocahontas said,

"Just around the river bend"

Photography from Heitz Wedding

The Circus Show

Society is a mutated circus show

Organized by fungus eating clowns in black suits

With crazed yellow eyes that lull

The sheep-ly masses to sleep.

Even in great slumber, their hypnosis depletes me-

Sickens me like a sour toungue in flames

I am left baffled and rotting,

Like the smell of oxygen on Wall Street

My heart is drenched in gasoline.

I can hear children in ancient Navajo weeping

They weep for my country,

Like cold, wet dogs howling in the rain

Deserted, forsaken are they

Gazing down upon Gaia

With memories of a lush green landscape

Now encompassed with fear

And drones--border patrol,

Chem-trail air and cardboard dwellings built for those

Who’ve become too afraid to walk away,

Escape the circus show.

Sleep

Absent sleep I dream of
The trees remaining there-
shaking leaves and hoping she
returns from out of nowhere.

To sleep or not to sleep?
Tis' should have been the question.