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.

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.

semi colons &

It was raining cats and dogs

when she spoke in

semi colons &

claustrophobia.

I’m glad you’re here,

she said.

I told her that

I was glad that she was too.

So we continued our

run on sentences &

admiration a while longer

before settling on goodbye.

It had stopped raining

and the sun was coming out.

As for the cats and dogs

they lay sleeping sound.

Her Genius

We are all our own genius

aren’t we? Self-help tells us

to be selfless while the world

tells us to be tough

slowly, gradually

like a surgeon’s steel

picking apart pieces

of our sanity like a game

of Operation. We are all

children at heart, aren’t we?

When our nose’s glow red

and hairs stand on end

while our souls ignite like kerosene

flailing our arms in ecstasy

remembering the truth which

from birth was wiped clean

like a board of chalk.

We’re always trying to get that

message back, that message which

in a world or man and steel and greed

can only exist as long as love at first sight

where in the morning she lay

soundlessly asleep bound to no one

her genius in my memory forever.

don’t think twice it’s alright

She said she had nothing to say

and the hard part was

that I kind of believed her.

She had it sometimes, this spark

but never really fleshed it out.

And even when she did

she always just kind of played the part

but never really got it how I saw it in her.

I think I just wanted her to be this muse

which she understood she couldn’t be.

Not because she didn’t want to but rather

because she’d already given so much of herself

that there really wasn’t more to give.

And what’s the point of giving your all

to something that never really gave you anything

but headaches and a broken heart?

Oh how we live for those who treat us like dirt

because in the end we respect them better than

the rest who smile and nod and tell us how

good of a job we’re doing just to get through the day.

But they don’t really care. To them

we might as well not even exist. I mean really

who do you call when you’re at rock bottom?

You call the ones you’ve loved, lost, and

will love regardless of the pain they’ve caused

because even when she said she had nothing

to say, I knew better than that.

I just pray she wasn’t telling the truth.

Hell even when I have nothing to say

I have something to say. But that’s me.

That wasn’t and will never be her.

“So don’t think twice it’s alright.”

Bob Dylan said that.

“I’ll let you be in my dream if I can be in yours.”

Bob Dylan also said that.

“Write with fire,” I said that.

I’m probably taking this harder than I should

but that’s who I am and what I do.

I know this. I admit it. I am this.

There is no turning it off, no turning back.

I’ll wake up tomorrow pen in hand regardless.

Don’t it feel good? That spark. Like fire, right?

You just can’t put it down no matter how hard you try.

See, you don’t choose it, it chooses you.

And if you don’t say it, someone will.

It’s all just wishful thinking in the end

so here’s another penny to the well

funny how it doesn’t even make a splash anymore.

This guy at the bar ain’t half bad!

This guy at the bar the other night

tells me my poetry aren’t poems

but rather songs

as he takes my phone

and begins singing them to himself.

These are great man, he says

really good stuff here,

as he sings, flipping back his hair.

And I don’t stop him, because why

would I stop someone

who’s turned my pain into pleasure

when I’ve tried so hard to do just that.

Hell! This guy’s voice ain’t half bad!

I’ll be a mourning dove

Every thought is vital, so while I find myself
on the verge of another vital breakdown,
at least this time I’m in control,
creatively speaking,
so that’s got to count for something.
If not, I’ll be pushing daisies by morning,
or at least I’ll be a mourning dove, lying in their virtue.