Violated

Weathered wood, Grainy, weighty, Now closes. Loud thumping reverberates through you Cotton Converse busted with stained laces that dangle untied taking steps outside It's always the first ones you feel and Exposed hairs tell you it's cold it's heel to toe west to a falling star from here Strangled sky The shades are drawing shutters of wet mad clouds yelling and the wind is their breath and the unclear rain is their spit spraying at your face running down your cheeks Mumbling meek small words for it all to leave a storm precipitates I have been here before I forgot the hurt of clinging clothes tearing heat from shivering skin What was the

The old man whittled the wood down as shavings slid lazily off the block. Time passed and it became smaller. He went into his shed to grab some paint but he became distracted by the piece of beach wood on the work bench. It was mid august; more towards fall than summer. His kids were going to help with this project but they were working on things of their own. Couldn't blame them. He was the same back then. Time passes, sight goes, and he was only able to see what was right in front of him. The dull ache of memory didn't seem so much a burden and he would forget he knicked himself here or there. His wife would put bandaids on the bad one

Two light bulbs in a gas station bathroom. Ones broken, glass is on the sink, the other is flickering fluorescent pink so the junkies can't find their veins you're more concerned with sending spittle flying into the graffiti'd mirror with every strained syllable Breathe. “Get it together man” The nights still young and you have a long way to drive

Small birds are glinting far off in the morning sun in the centre of spring that feel a binding need to come home after the cold Whose frost wont rattle off the pointed grass it clings and shakes those rusted chains that fight the white glow of morning light until childrens feet rustle and flatten the blunted blades Like a messy crayon drawing sketched with clenched fists they fly strings securely tied to them tied to the kites until two parallel lines cross to form impossibility and crash to Frank Sinatra singing "Come Fly With Me" from a car radio

His nose wrinkles in the airy hay dust Musk and mold He inhabits the corner of the old barn At the edge of the property   Old paint and wood Use your imagination He comes around for food and water Obedience baggy eyes begging for table scraps Swollen knees and lob sided hips from taking the same hill each morning Yeah he don't have much left in him But he ain't scared No, he's probably just too dumb to know he's dying And years down the road some bones will be left                             And when they're found they'll get tossed to the pups

You are right there Like a piece of dust in the living room Catching the rays of sun The sun that shone shone on your face while you were you, trying to nap, in the back of the car. Through those sleepy eyes the rain clouds would pass, like memories, in the distance. The little memories That would turn into little stories That you share Only so that you can hold onto them And the stories They hold you too.

Synapses are sodium stars They twinkle like the keys on a toy piano There's a comet that burns a fiery trail of pastel pink and teal and galaxies spin like a dancer dressed in fluorescent light but Between stars and atoms: space

The Children hop along the creek bed stone to stone some slip and splash water spilling down there faces as they get closer to the shore the stones are further and further apart surer feet take greater risks and when they reach the other side they rest

The lightning cracks the sky like oil paint on an old home, and thunder like the hushed growl of a whiskey soaked throat shakes the fog out in the distance and the dogs go crazy while the kids hide at night pretending to be brave