Wrightings

listen to the white noise a  high pitched buzz like the sound of little boys playing with their toys whispering about their fuzz Listen to the white noise girls maintain their poise play about what life does Like the sound of little boys discovering all the joys listen to the white noise what girl or boy outdoes like the sound of little boys that hums beneath what no one was listen to the white noise like the sound of little boys of bodies waking just because one day each may destroy the static swells, a steady noise

 Internal conversations  I used to argue with her mercilessly  I usually won or at least she’d let me think I had I used to question her morals clause “Where is it written?” “Who was its influencer?” She came up with some of the craziest ideas; “Travel until you find where you belong, Help everyone you meet,  Trust until you’re hurt.” “Life’s an adventure,” she said. “I need to live to be adventurous,” I replied.  It often ended badly. “Oh, but the memories you’ll have!” She insists.

  Nicknames Pumpkin round and orange  Dented here and there  Sitting in its own rot Tiger striped in orange Ferocious and wild Pacing in a cage Colorful Nicknames  Told me who to be

  I was three picking blueberries on the edge of the wood. We weren’t far from town in fact town may have grown to there by now but I was sitting amongst the blueberry bushes one in the pail two in my mouth when momma bear came out to join me. Mom became aware, slowly backed away, and called to me “Just stay still, I’m right here,” as the bear sat not five feet from my and began to eat berries.  Suddenly another rustle on the edge of wood and a cub appeared, then another, momma bear rose, galloped toward them, chasing them back into the wood with a crash of branches snapping.  But neither mother of me got the tattoo, instead my ex wife as part of our separation got a colorful memory inked on her upper arm, a bear class image of sunset or sunrise in the wood where she longs to live. 

  Texas blue trilium  Slow growing, long lived Gender fluid 

  As a Texas Poet, I try to tell a story Not cowboy swagger, but tales of warring. So the day I packed my bags to visit a friend in Austin I learned she became a victim of the marathon Bomb in Boston You know, America’s corrupt when people try to kill athletes For those who run in free air,are an obvious danger to beat When we find the boys who made their mark It’s a psychological trip on which we embark Trying to think like those corrupt Has our brains feeling like it will erupt