Ring the champions bell, I think to myself through a storm that is swelling. I am a restless mind from a promise’s slow telling. I want to hear it. The clear, the sharp, the articulate yowling. Tickle my lungs. I imagine yellow hue painted thick on a triumphant blue.  I want to hear the bell, because I want to know if I will recognize the tune.
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a man walks past.
my page turns
in his wake.
gone before he can
own the moment,
and i think to myself.

i continue to read.
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Loving people well means allowing ourselves to be wounded deeply by them. Some of the people who have deeply wounded me are, in fact, the very ones I love the most. And it’s reciprocal. These words are theirs as well. Everyone holds both a shield and a sword.
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I walked the streets tonight.
Pulled by strings I cannot name.
I am a haunted soul,
one hundred years old,
maddened by voices. So many voices.
(but none that console)

I am seeing it now.
This is my problem.

I wished for world peace too
upon that penny you held up
that didn’t seem to make sense
to me or any one else at the time
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my hands, my hands
my bloody red hands
on the wall five
fingers and fans
spreading, spreading
there’s blood on my hands
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a nickel, I suppose
could find its way
down that dark slot sliver
or perhaps even a dime
could tread thinly through
and give me a return
a shiney blue gumball
or a pink swirly, sugary
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