For those who are curious, feel free to click here———>TUCK

off kilter

dangerously

courageously

counting the cracks as they appear

beneath our feet

tectonic shifting plate people

once upon every time

to run would lay all to waste

slipping further out

and down

into the startled eyes of some sham divinity

where we crawl along on words and razor blades

cutthroat angry lies

spires of weeds

we take the usual punches in the face

all puffy and rearranged

in truth and things that permeate

through thin skin and fear

we are the shout that lives

inside the hollow of a sigh

The banshees have got nothing on you

all days numbered linear and in a neat row

each year a milestone if you care to appreciate the depreciation of it all

a prison of comfort for some or chamber of horrors for some seasons of meaning

no guarantee of anything but the minute you ride in on burdened with woe and fear

holding fast to the fixation of each new dawn fending off the reaper and the gatekeeper

until one day the vessel breaks, the heart stops, the flooding sweeps away the breath caught in your throat

and the windpipe dreamer splits open revealing the grain of sand for each life lived

Life is indeed beach

feet on shifting ground

gesticulating maneuvers perfected

in the art of manipulative entertainment

one fine distraction after another

and another

and another

ultimately stained by the turbulence of your conscience

it was counterfeit love to the jugular

three doors down from the last lie you told

and lust makes one final request

to slit honesty’s throat

once and for all

pretty tales and polarities not-with-standing

reality makes a corpse of your personality

for a funeral where grief is optional

drama, the dirge

with cup and biscuit in hand

a clearly defined purpose

to discuss the moral of the situation

steering the committee to new and loftier heights

but when the discussion allows in the unholy marauder of reality

cups are never filled

biscuits remain uneaten

and not  one crumb will ever be  tossed under the table

for the people who need it most

because they don’t do anything really

but

have tea parties

eye each other jealously

surreptitiously

from behind their humble bumble bee stinging smiles

After all, it is in the truest sense of the word a sort of social club for the bland and unremarkable.

of string games on fingers

elastic bands knotted together

heights to jump over

and hiding from the tragic seeker

there is you

big league dreamer

toss me the ball

I’ll catch and toss it back harder

always a child of eleven

defiant

a backward glance

from the threshold of dying

that is my urging

my reminder

that to be here

in this place

of fear

of poverty

of greed

of rage

of war

of abuse

is still better than the canopy of angry flames that swallowed you alive,

the rest of us numb, sifting through the poison ashes

for the human remains of our murdered innocence

I’ve been truly spinning for you
matinee idol
suave of manner wise to me
on my craftiest day
sweet dream of mine
come through for me and you
heralding all that could be fine and true
suited to be tied in a matrimonial knot
that I didn’t want to share
our mutual breath choking noose
oh but sweet juice of a man
I could drink you under all the tables round after round
link your arm in mine
let me thirst no more for need of you
wrap your soul around my black and blue

I recall a kid with sticky bubblegum fingers
in a raccoon hatted tail
running around the dirty vomit spots on a train platform
thinking himself into a supernova
exploding sparks of hyperactivity
moving little combustible
Mama’s bane
Papa’s penny drain
who didn’t live to see the age of nine
My friendly broken Jerricho

You can listen to it here: Getting unTucked

While you are at Radio Valencia, take a stroll around and enjoy the healthy and edgy art vibe that is the very nature of what they do there daily.