Fear, has banded together all of my senses. Love, has been swept under the dog's rug. Hate, is stoking my wood burning stove. Lust, is the corrupter in all of my choices. Greed, is the factor behind all of my goals. Faith, is a harlot that I sleep with too often. Revenge, a trunk toting cousin staying for the weekend. Tomorrow, is a time that I choose not to remember. Yesterday, her pond reflection under my skipping stone. Family, is a picture held not by a squared frame. Possessions are labeled and boxed into storage. Alone, in this cabin with one bowl of porridge. Denial, the way that I dance to forget spin, but nothing was really that funny, now was it? Overpriced, I can’t catch up...<Easter> Trailing behind this marathon of madness...<Christmas> Organization, my only asset...<Fourth of July> Reflected fraying sanity...<Birthday> Fine spun, I must seem seem-less...<Halloween> Look again at this chasm crawl...<Memorial Day> I know this crater all too well...<Labor Day> How when wet, her sides do swell...<Palm Sunday> I felt her facets, and fissures within...<Thanksgiving> I named this pit Faith to forget why I made her...<Alzheimer's disease> <Next matins> <Diaphanous> {Big wheel-ride down Mt. Baldy} An azure cross bear/ing the face of Jesus. Riding on a scorp/ions tail. Top/ped with layers as if a cake. Prison is she/lter when shelter is free/dom. The artist creates the look. How free/dom is wicked to police with cop/per badges. Supreme work in folds divine impairs my out/look on world dec/line. Molten wet pennies from hea/ven. Stinging dry no moisture soothes. Pud/dles of spare change forms help/less for thieves. The paint has clogged my pores. I'm wait/ing in brick/clad buildings with concrete dry sleeves. I rub the wash/ing tubes. The stairway to plea/sure is not what it se/ems. Back and forth with my hands, but the filth acquired in days spe/nt staring has scrat/ched my orbs. Now I can't lo/ok while stuck in windows of glass shattered blame. Bli/nd, lost to problems, and clo/sed secure. Until the thin/ner has cleared the outcome. Lo/nely, way to quiet for yo/ur own good. Co/unt the dust in my wrinkles. Sketching pen wo/rks not for me. No one to blame which/road was traveled when/you/went insane. Dealing in slaves when money’s/the game. Face it, or just shut the fuck up proper. No more green men! On rooftops. Lately brown spots. On Spring grass! Is killing the Spring scene. One last ride on my Green Machine. Then I'll come inside. For real this time Grandma, I promise.