dweller

trying to enter the space
through an entry way
a door or portal
a passage, a way between
two connected places

there she dwells
waiting to block me
stop me in my tracks
a wall of heavy thoughts
pounding against reality

she's a liar
but what she tells me
sounds like the truth
I have been telling myself
to ease the discomfort

of being alive
and being human
in the cacophony
of guilty pleasures
and pursuits of power

to be comfortable
to make up stories
and tell myself
I am just as good
as my imaginary heroes

I am their god
after all, I created them
she turns and scowls
they mustn't be very good then
if they came from me

the dweller breaks down
walls around the entry way
the door, the portal
the passage between spaces
and she forces me

to chose a different path
another way through
around or over her
and then I have to repair
the damage she caused

breaking the walls
down and damaging
the art hung there
I sweep up the dust
from the construction

if I want to get in
I have to go past her
so I go through the rubble
and clean up the mess after
rather than push her out

Bang Bang Bar Poetry Slam

There's no use 

Trying to write 

With a green gardening glove 

Fixed to my right hand 

Like skin 

So let's rock 

*snap* 

The crowd disperses  

Leaves the floor 

In front of the stage 

Empty 

For a dancer 

And the lights that surround her 

Our hearts surrounding her 

Our love for her  

A quarter of a century deep 

Had been locked up in a moment 

An explosion 

In the bank vault of our hearts 

Swallowed whole in our sleep 

But we're no longer holding our breath 

For that love to find a way out 

To snap out of this coma and 

Find us, find me 

I've only been a muffin for 25 years 

but I've always been Laura 

Find her. Find Laura. 

Take her from the trees 

Out of the gold casing of death 

We suffer everytime we say goodnight 

So instead of dying we heal 

We save this place and we save our hearts 

From the cold guild of gold 

From shovels and jumping men 

Save us from the trees  

And the prophecies of logs  

Held dearly by a lonely woman who listens well. 

Please, find her and save us, Hawk. 

So we can spin out and ask you 

To tell the truth under oath 

The judgment of the destroyer 

The experiment, your mother of abominations 

American made and fed equal parts 

Crude oil and hope. 

Drenched in lattes and blood  

Against the backdrop of a glass box 

That holds secrets like a diary holds memories 

Detailed and out of time. 

We ask over and over 

If you had so much sand 

Would you blow it up 

Light it up, drink it full 

To follow the path to 

Your childhood haunts 

To a tree in the woods 

Where owls are true to their word 

And good men gather  

Where their fathers used to take them 

To tell stories about kings 

In tiny palaces and dogs loose 

In municipal buildings 

Or would you keep it in your pocket 

Keep it to yourself 

Hidden in the echo of a drunk 

In the cell across the isle 

In a booth on the other side 

Of a bar you like to frequent 

Just so you can see the MC dance 

To invisible bands 

And watch young babes 

Turn into tough dames 

After an asshole in the booth beside them 

Lights up under the no smoking sign 

And sooty specters 

Leave a wide trail of blood and charcoal 

For the dying to follow 

We watch the path 

Wherever it takes us 

East, south, inside out 

Up two flights of stairs 

To a place that matters 

To a man that matters 

In the hearts of those 

Even though we cannot see him 

From those who pilgrimage in the footsteps 

Of men with blackened hearts 

And women with broken souls 

We watch the steps 

Of a stumbling fool 

Given rides and answers  

To his calls for help 

Given chocolate cake 

And the family he needed 

Son and brothers all 

Together, a family forms 

Around a table at a diner 

Music playing off the rooftops 

Of the nearby peaks 

The distant ramblings 

Of unrest on the wind 

To the pitch of a fork against  

An empty plate 

And a gunshot, a bullet  

Through the window  

The shattering of glass 

Full of vodka and tomato juice 

Unceremoniously poured 

And swallowed to keep inner demons 

At bay against the rising tide 

Of unnatural forces 

Sit where you were before. 

By the end will we know 

Who the tulpas are  

Or who created them?  

Will we trust our family 

And all the early endings 

Or turn back to accountants 

With questions of ownership? 

Do we trust the dancer 

As she sways through the lights 

Do we trust our ears yet? 

Is that music playing backwards 

Or are we finally falling? 

Falling. 

The golden glow is the mark of death 

And light created by a desire for more 

Against floral wallpaper in a little town 

In the Pacific Northwest 

with a population of about as many of us 

As are willing to stay 

In a little town called Twin Peaks.