Joy M.

I wish I could be you. I could see in your eyes and witness me and all the feelings that flee. Stop to think of me, so I can love. If you were my eyes, you'd marvel in that surprise. Can I love myself too much or want love at the touch? I wish to be you, can't I love you? Pause to reflect on this. You read about me, and how you feel me. Is self-love is a sin, or remembered as vanity, one of the many recollections of our minds? Together. Together I pull us, so I can be you. Say LOVE IS A SIN? Or just one of our mirrored feelings? Breathe me in, like a roll of sweet smelling smoke. Get higher off of me than a bird could see me, pointing from below. The bird looks at me; the image reflecting in the glasses I have for eyes. I WISH I COULD BE YOU. . . J.M.

I have become so lonely that only the word is free enough and large enough to take my      mind off      the world going day      by day over the brink       used up but unused. . . A. R. Ammons the snow poems, 1977

Three guys are drinking in a bar when a drunk comes in, staggers up to the counter, and points at the guy in the middle, shouting, "Your mom's the best sex in town!" Everyone expect a fight, but the guy ignores him, so the drunk wanders off and bellies up to the bar at the far end. Ten minutes later, the drunk comes back, points at the same guy, and says, "I just did your mom, and it was sw-eeeet!" Again, the guy refuses to take the bait, and the drunk goes back to the far end of the bar. Ten minutes later, he comes back and announces, "Your mom liked it!" Finally, the guy interrupts, "Go home, dad, you're drunk!"

I sat. Staring. Not caring. The mental images flaring. As, if they could consume what's misunderstood. The lines of your face. Tears erased. Times honored and faults laid. This is my fate. To be hated, uncelebrated, annoyed and forever instigated. Just see and be infuriated. J.M.

You open your front door and look at your hand. Yes! Today you start off a nice optimism blue. The song playing for your mood is a nice little ditty about living in paradise. You get inside your car and the radio is playing the DJs mood. You frown, not knowing their music. It's a brown day for the morning host who is obviously having an off day, not matching yours but it gets worst. In the car beside you at the stoplight is a man in a suit who's cursing at his ring while heavy death metal saturates the space between you. You shake your head, his red mood affecting your blue while the radios brown still making you wonder what has the host so unsettled. Then something happens to you. Your ring turns a kaleidoscope of colors. What is this? The music you emit drowns out all others. The man in the car stops his emotions for a few seconds to marvel at yours. It's a symphony of pandemonium but you smile. This is a mood all of its own. Beautiful and all yours. Don't worry ab...

I hate you like the sky that makes you blue on a seemingly cloudless day I loathe you like a virgin planning on staying that way but raped before her wedding day I imagine you dead strangled ran over or delicately torn apart piece by piece by things you never saw coming Why do I feel THIS way? Why must you think THAT why? Call me the taskmistress of petty wistful ideas  and let me lick the runny bloody tears of your pain forever more you silly silly boy. J.M.