A breeze from the north pushes a sense of freedom,
blowing smoke vapor – yet, not sure why; it’s a bounce back reflective thing I guess; reminiscent of a conflict,
a non declared war taking its toll, the body count continued to rise even after it’s proclaimed ending
back then, during those days of peace, love and LSD
We vowed to head north in the name of the revolution, self preservation; open arms and hearts from our Canadian brothers and sisters, U.S. citizenship be damned

A somewhat romanticized tag of beaten down times,
and humanitarian struggles at the tender age of rebellion

An easterly wind has a kind of hip vibe, east-coaster glow flying high without malice or intent; I’m a loyalist,
footing rooted in fantasy cement, skyscrapers
but for the most part basic pride in being a native – New York state of mind, Hudson River highs and lows
My apologize as I continually digress, no rhyme or reason, just a bend in thoughts that are not linear-flow

Looking out 3rd floor bedroom window; baby boys look across the harbor at the Statue of Liberty
We chat about snakes, their fascination with;
and all I want is to redefine the flow of her patina gown,
explain with grandiose and sweeping hand gestures
what it meant to be gifted by the French;
what it must have felt like
without all the faux gloss and glitter
that eventually gets piled on layer upon layer,
year after year; hence, patina

Beautiful baby boys blue eyes gaze at me with wonder,
amusement with a touch of simplicity
Influence has twists, turns, flip a switch;
laughter, tears, a fine line between;
cutting off auto response replay contrary
to pop demand – breathe

In the middle of my high flying rant,
I stop dead, dead in mid thought,
out of thin air a memory decides to surface
in the form of time-worn fractured images
that I can’t ignore

Twisting rosary beads for salvation and forgiveness
“Skip the centerpiece medallion, and on the ten beads after that, pray a Hail Mary on each bead; on the chain,
pray a Glory Be.”

I carry fear and frustration like a scar
a token of my strengths, my failures
Freud lay me gently into a pine box,
chicken scratched handwritten label,
misdiagnosed manic fuck up
A past that wont heal or drift off;
drift off into a blank space clean slate abyss
My darkest cobwebbed thoughts and nightmares,
always ready to shove me off the proverbial
suicidal cliff with one foot remaining steadfast,
the other in a shallow grave

I do miss you Mom

A continuous torment that never excepts
or acknowledges the light of day
or the end, a clear-cut off end; darkness
Slip into that space where I can only inhale
All the while panic sweat forms just above my top lip;
shadowy images unclear skewed forms – Quasimodo-esk
But, the words remain like the tat on my wrist;
personalized ID to a flippant idea
The past jumps into the present
with a sense of “as if” and ownership
When I look into the faces of baby boys,
that are destined to always love me,
I wonder if my sacrifice of the norm
will keep them in my heart without shifting whimpers
of regret or callous scorn in my senile years

I’m never going to be the front page top line
or the page 6 fold; always set invisibly,
obit, small inconspicuous font spelling errors ignored
Acceptance from my jump off starting point,
free wheeling moving more and more left
becoming an educated misfit nonconformist
don’t give a damn screw you free spirit

I still eat pomegranate seeds with a fork
Truth be told, lies to hold, because
I didn’t know any better, then
Not a defense or excuse it’s just my way;
you know, kind of eccentric and such
The handicap flips from a lacking to a cool quirk
A distinctive attribute, a trend setting fad
No stone unturned, no voices ever heard;
the dust settles leaving quietly

I still cry in the morning

Eyes wide with certainties never really knowing
fingers to lips hush, promise I wont tell a soul
And the angst; the angst has grown into a delicate knot
that’s a twisted fate, a mirage, faux diamond,
nondescript woman with a past, woman of the page
And I only ask that you kiss me like you are good in bed
Then leave me with the fantasy of never knowing
Keeping me in uncertain check;
dotting the “i’s” and crossing the “t’s”
Door closes behind my greatest escape

©2018 TrilbyYates