Undividual Poet

spiced orange

the drink

warm and slightly citrus,
sweet and mildly spiced,
a mocha diva
in love with country ballads
picked from a large tree
in an open field near Senatobia
and given immortality,
being turned into a drink

but how sweet was she
in her former life?
there was a smokey tinge:
did she roll her own cigars?
was her father a coal miner?
left with the same questions
as a kid too hungry
to fully enjoy the film
her friend’s mom took her to;
too modest to do anything
but eat when she gets home



skyline sunrise

so i

wished upon a star

told it all my dreams

everything i ever wanted

when it was all over

the lights came on

and the day was upon us

with no desire to wait

no time to waste

on a boy looking up



they gave you a paper diadem

with crayon colored jewels

called you queen

hoping you would swallow

how sweet a thought could be

even ignore the worth of several

for one penny

or less

it wasn’t many


i made you my sweetie

with hands held and poetry

hard conversations

diet changes

i gave you hope and headwraps

headaches and foot massages

reasons to love again


two little boys

ran through the city’s back roads

chasing the moon all night

stomping hard into puddles

hoping to break the giant pearl

with ripples through its reflections

crush status

on an empty street downtown

early enough to be the only two

seated on separate benches

under one canopy

she smiled at him often

an inner sun fully risen

it shone up through her eyes

he looked down each time

keeping joy a secret

between his face and chest

untitled energy

untitled energy
untitled energy



our noses so close together
we trade air all night
i wonder how often a man
looks at his wife
studying love
wishing more than anything
that she would live forever

never taste the fear
of passing hopeful tomorrows
to the restless hands of doubters
leaving cares with
second rate lovers
joining unborn dreams
in the air where
skinless touch is felt most
and one can only be seen
with the power of belief


Art by Victor Hugo Qisso

our son

laid across the sofa

and told me that ideas

are bulletproof

i marveled at his conception

age eleven

never a glimpse at hardknockery

learning hard truth

keeping a soft heart

over things he hasn’t been through

or shit creeks he’s never been to

i gotta make his skin tough

and leave the light in his eyes

so he can beast

and yeast

set west

go east

and rise

heavenly blu


often i wonder

how much sense it makes

i’m not my best in the

day’s early minutes

but i love long mornings

having every second the

slow fading stars can spare

to make coffee i don’t really need

fry enough eggs for today’s

and tomorrow’s breakfast

sit by the window

listening to the earth turn

feeling like i did my part

getting our sun up into the sky

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