peaches

An idea
fosters questions.

And questions
raise ideas.

Picked like peaches,
pickled and peppered,

in sealed mason jars,
upon dusty wood shelf
buried in a garage that smells
of gasoline, and summer.

Where as kids playing nerf
we never raised such questions

not having any idea
of the hungry beast out there

waiting, sharpening its claws
using our parents as dental floss,

grooming its teeth, and ready
for the day

it too, could devour our peaches.

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fears of men

The fears of men

are as trivial as

children, picking children in gym,

they never change

they just get bigger.

an open coffin.

There will always be poverty

and powerless men, who feel nothing

towards people just trying to exist.

Believe it or not it was a club to join,

Till 1955,

all it took, was a .45 colt, a river, a fan.

But it (is) not that world anymore, is it?

I want to say no, but Jackson’s slaying of elderly men?

Born of the same bullet that lay Evers dead.

It’s enough to make you want to blind your eyes, it’s enough to know better than to blind your soul.

So as there will always be poverty and powerless men,

there must never be closed,

an open coffin.

your dying

Did you burn yourself out

like a flame wick under wax?

Or were you just here for the holiday?

Is that why you smelled vanilla?

I don’t have a match that’s long enough

to strike you from this far,

with another year upon us.

I just kind of smelled your dying.