Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid

Cabinet Space

Ahead of me a mirage,
A hunger for something,
I feel,
Will always be fifty feet ahead,
On the grey pavement.

The more my fingers reach,
The farther away it becomes.
We are nothing but displaced. 
Tired bodies resting like flat tires in a salvage yard.

I listen to a beautiful little voice upstairs.
Happy and singing.

I, too, want to sing, feel.
To be taken off this top shelf I have been hidden on.

Yet, I sit here, like an old mug, collecting dust,
That no one would want to ever display, nor drink from.

A waste of good cabinet space.
And without drink.

Wood Rots

It’s bittersweet really.
Trying to live in a past that’s,
Burned to the ground.
Like a delapitated barn.
That too, was beautiful once.
But, left unattended,
The paint chips, the wood rots.

Holding on to that pitchfork too tightly.
Those dreams are somewhere still.
Maybe rising in the smoke,
Or hidden amongst the bales.

I just can’t find them anymore.
Because all that surrounds me is fictitious and without love.
Without meaning.

Who would desire such??


There is no dog or goat that can satisfy,
This beating voice within my body.
I won’t line up to be hit on,
Or celebrate the theatrical interpretations of what once was.

You can keep your paper cards,
The token’s du jour cut in the shape of lace.
Uneven and stained with the places our lips used to be.
For love is only a verb.
And our daughters are blind and,
Waiting to be judged.

This recent genesis of actions is not enough to
Be the mechanical maiden at your door.
For I have a quick mind, and eyes that are bright.

The number 16 written in black,
And the silphium again in full bloom.
In the shape of a tired heart.

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Songwriter and Sound Engineer

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