As Mona Lisa smiles at her Rembrandt

She’s Mona Lisa

looking across the lobby

With her eyes

transfixed on his cold dead body

While the kids line up

single filed and obviously

Unaware that there’s any problem

It’s a warm fall day

colored leaves spin around

And there’s this tired old man

selling shaved ice proudly

Nice to meet you sir

can I help you out

As Mona Lisa

smiles at her Rembrandt now

He was an eye sore for her eyes

it hurt so much still she had to look twice.

And there was something in her smile

lips spread thin like she was in denial.

I didn’t mean to

bother you it’s a habit

I just noticed you

looking lost or sad

With this expression

drawn like a bloody bath

Please now excuse me

I’ve gotta be getting back

Hey wait a minute

won’t you just take a second

To admit that something

is wrong in your head

And if you’d like to

call me sometime and

Chat when you’re feeling

better I’d quite like that

She wrote her name down on his ticket

her area code and seven lovely digits.

Then he wrote in the palm of her hand

a little note that read I think I’d understand.

So Mona Lisa

held her hands calm and steady

Framed herself back

against the wall already

She now felt out of place

like in a fictional setting

While some students

drew her in lines quite badly

What’s the point of hanging around

when rarely any good comes to you in this town.

Thats when she placed her name tag on the floor

and made out for Leonardo exiting the door.

The saint in me is still a sinners son

I look at then

and I see me now

There’s people chanting

standing in a crowd

I wanna join in

try to help them out

But my mouth’s cashed checks

that just seem to bounce

Who be it that you try to believe

Who always turns into a parody

Now brush your teeth and try to behave

They’re all gonna hate you eventually

I look at then

but still see myself

Eyes wide shut

full of fear and doubt

She plucked the fruit

from the apple tree

As I stood staring

still I couldn’t believe

Who be it that you try to become

The saint in me is still a sinners son

Who be it that you try to believe

Now you’re all dressed up living a fantasy

I look at now

like she saw me then

All fed up

fist balled paper and pen

There’s dishes broken

on the kitchen floor

The serpent speaks

in tongues I can’t ignore

Who be it that you thought you saw in me

A break fix and used return policy

Who be it that I thought I saw in you

But what difference does it make there’s an election soon

Ashes to ashes

There’s no denying that’s a pretty face.

There’s no excuse still for being late.

The corner store’s got a sale on

greeting cards that sell half price love.

There’s truth in breathing at an even pace.

There’s beauty bending to bear the weight.

So either way you feel overwhelmed

exchanging coffee for whiskey now.

I’ve got a big bad wolf of a habit

full of hot air and over dramatics

Got a house built solely of glass when

I huff and puff well nothing happens

I gave her cashmere for Christmas once.

She gave me friendship when I had none.

There’s proof in putting a sweater on

the back of someone you’re giving up.

I’ve got a big bad wolf of a habit

full of disdain for love when I have it

Got a house built solely of glass and

no stones left to throw just ashes ashes

Ashes to ashes to ashes to ashes

to ashes to ashes to ashes

to ashes to ashes

to ashes to

ashes to

ashes.

poetry is spam

A large portion of

poetry is spam.

But I don’t eat that stuff,

at least not until I get to see Hawaii

then who knows?

I hear, fried with an egg, it’s good.

When in Rome, you know;

when in Rome.

the other day.

I made Pico de Gallo

the other day

and it needed salt

so I added salt

then put it away.

Then I took a nap

and woke up

more tired

than I’d been before I’d shut my eyes.

Then I wrote a song

drank some beer and

called it a day.

Nobody had to know I existed

and I was fine with that.

The Pico still needs work though,

I’ll send word.

turning sadness into song

My guitar as of late

has been bringing me

all types of sadness

but it’s a happy sadness

it’s a healing sadness

it’s an honest sadness

I’ve fought so long to forget

that it’s funny how

with no one listening

except the walls and this

box of cous-cous

I haven’t yet opened

but sort of sing to

as it’s eye level on the shelf

where I put my phone to record

I am able to free myself

one melody at a time

turning sadness into song

and song into myself

I sing.

a better way

There has to be a better way

than all this bitter pain

and suffering that after a while

no longer feels much like

pain and suffering but rather

mute normalcy of the day

which never really fully ends

and on into the night

which never allows for proper sleep.

Perhaps a song will help

my friend, for now

I think it’s for the best.