Style classic fomo

 Morning revisits thus bodies lift sheets
Check their heads and orientations
Some straighten and tuck clothes underneath 
Some look through mirrors and hum

They walk toward the city center
Disatisfied with how they are dressed
Mentally adjusting to becoming spenders
To kill the monday to friday stress

Shop lights pop behind dummies
Clerk girl turns with movement finess
A delicate hand adjusts mannequin dress
Pedestrians move closer to the window

I watch fake candlelight weaken behind glass
As first sunbeams boldly make demands
Clerk girl touches mannequin's hand
Her gesture catches the attention of the queue

By afternoon the line reaches the corner
She sees the same faces through the glass
Some smile but she looks away fast
Some lower their eyes and wait

With the inner knowing
They'll never be served

The chef that resigned

 I walked toward the entrance
A chef with knives and fire
My stomach had begun to yearn
The waiter came outside laughing
Asking if he could take another plate

I asked him to use his own discernment
I head out back shocked at the mess
Past bins filled with bones and paper
A dog was waiting beside the kitchen door
Sniffing through yesterday's acidic scraps

I crossed back through parking lot
leaving the waiters and cooking staff
The smell followed under my shirt
I opened my car and turned the engine
Waiting for my senses to forget the foulness

Then that beautiful hunger returned on my drive home
Slowly taking the place of the day's errors and stenches

The dreamless creature

 If you rise again stale
There is something of you waiting
To be collected
Your hands remember the shape of dreams
Your legs remember running through them
But no memory of the dream remains

When you refuse the easy road
Conjuring the lucid dream through your effort
You enter another agreement with sleep
No promise of true rest
You dance in an open eye hot and organic
Searching for abstract place to exist 

You push until your mind objects REM regular downfall
You push until permission becomes the only outcome
Every breath becomes part of a subconscious bargain
Every movement asks for the images, the emotions
And finally an awakening to a new understanding

When you finally wake and no sense sirs on the edge of the bed
There is no internal applause no resolution the way there used to be
Only your heart beating inside you and the coldness of morning
Knowing you went somewhere and forgetting
Simply a migrant with amnesia

Seeking your pillow when in fact...
When living entwined with the brutality of life
Proves too much

A port of no reply

 The port was somewhere ahead of them
Distance kept moving its position
The Hopeless looked back towards hills
Observing trees running rebelliously into rain

Water ran down their faces
Shoes filled with brackish
Someone laughed and nobody spoke
A gull followed, a floor board croaked

They passed houses with yellow wooden panels
Families eating comfortably behind curtains
Warmth was as foreign as they were
The hopeless and unwelcome

At port, ferry lights flinched and flashed offshore
Engines running somewhere in darkness above waves
They stood together without speaking to stay warm
Trying to remember where they were supposed to arrive

Hold your burden

 We lift them into trunk
One bag falls open
Fruit rolls beneath the car
Brace for the bend

Pick them up one by one
dark concrete reflecting
The overbearing will of the sun
Lighting up a play on stage called human scurry

Watching from inside the car
Waiting for us to finish
Hands resting upon wheel
Eyes fixed on comers and goers

We close all the doors
Climb inside beside our burdens
Air conditioning kicks in like a drug
But heat remains outside like a crowd

The road opens ahead a mouth
Weight in the trunk
Hunger in our stomachs
We carry everything with us

A piece of Jenny's mind

 I write, I cry
I listen to music, I breathe

I meditate, I lay on grass in my garden
and just be

I dig holes and pull weeds
I sing loudly in car

I turn music up loudly
and let bass
rumble through my chest

I give the day
a piece of my mind

usually behind closed doors
not as passive as people think

I walk thoughts become smaller
Leave myself somewhere behind me
and keep moving

I lift children
I sweat
I put things back where they belong

I cook something simple
wash plates
open a window

I make plans I may never follow
then follow one anyway
because sitting still catches up

I go outside seeking a reason
look at what is growing
remind myself
I remain

The half built life

 The walls are standing without a roof
Scaffolding around the places we abandoned
A staircase leading nowhere
Still I keep climbing

Workers have gone home
Tools left across the concrete
A window looking into another room
Nothing finished enough to leave

This is what we were given
A building with no final floor
Carry the pieces up
call it living

Sun overheats the inside
Rain fills it up like a swimming pool
All we are
are umbrellas floating on the surface