The words that are not my own

The words that are not my own

We dressed ourselves in words,
someone elses threads of thought,
hanging in the air,
soon getting ready for plucking.
We weaved these together,
in (heartbreaking) hope,
that they would
become our very own.

But how can what is always others
still be ourselves?
Isn’t there some small part
that we all share….?
You know, that little something—called LIFE
or even just being alive.
(even that infamous chestpump of ours).
A-one, and a-two.
Most of us still know
how to listen (to others)
if only
a small part of what they say
is ever really heard
beyond these few words.

The curse (that was many times worse)

The curse (that was many times worse)

When an oath
and a promise,
had been turned
in reverse,
from faith and hope,
to curse and to cuss,
ways to cut up a word,
and make it all kinds of worse.
From the brightest of colors,
and of speech ever heard.
Shoveled over with gravedirt,
necrofied words,
always spoken, but never really meant,
but therefore—–
twice much as stronger,
as when they first had been heard.

‘Twas their original oath,
turning all over,
among blood
and unspeakable names.
Faith rolling over,
until they belieiving now in nothing,
(nothing) but death.

That’s what they all hoped:
to one day delay,
with just this one word.
The one sad
and whispered,
always there, on their lips.
For(n)ever spoken.
Pleasepleaseplease! take it back!
But we can never be so sure,
if any thing, is even too late,
to ever really reverse.
“For life moves
in only this one direction…”
That’s what they said.

“But it is never too late,
to become un-cursed…”
That’s what many had hoped.

So they took one bite
of that glorious apple,
and they prayed
to something darkly,
now, only in reverse.

Never sure, if it all would work,
how to un-curse
their own selves
from many things, even worse.
Than their own fall.

But someone made another
kind of curse,
to cover things over,
and made almost every word
into some kind of curse.

So, soon,
they could only hear
just one curse
when they were speaking and breathing
and every step that they took
had to be made in reverse.

When we forgot how to sing

When we forgot how to sing


No song seems to do it.

There is always just one little step. left.

A key here… never really mentioned.

A stone…that was always somehow stuck.

Try to move, try (not) to rock.

We seem to be held up here on our own.

This boat aint no vagon.

There are no waves in the sand.

With our backs (slowly) turned

towards each other,

we speak only in tongues so exotic…

even to ourselves.

Where each and every lil’ movement and thought…

has to be traced back in reverse.

Remember that DeeJay,

with rocks and sand scratching records.

Well, that must’ve been us. (Don’t you think?)

We somehow forgot how to breathe

n when to spit.

The sand has made fine-trails

across our bones and our backs.


with just this one piece of an mountain,


forever in between us,

we spit it all back out in reverse.

As if words are just figures in a mirror,

that can only reflect or reject, (hands of silver)

but never really say,

what we had always hoped them to say.

I don’t know who made this fine-painted graveyard.

Was it our feet… or our heartbeats?

Everything… swirling and spinning…

through the twinfigured sandeye,

of our lives.


(Always looking ahead)

In reverse.