I read some old poems. The ideas were the same, but the man in the words no more. The sorrows were cold yesterday, bygone the imagery today, the voice distant forever.

Queso Blanco Ingredients One 12 oz can evaporated milk 3 Tbsp evaporated milk (for corn starch slurry, taken from can) 2 tsp corn starch 8 oz white American cheese 1 ½ cups white cheddar cheese, shredded ¼ tsp cumin ⅛ tsp cayenne 3 medium to large jalapeños (optional) Instructions In a small bowl, whisk together 3 tablespoon evaporated milk and cornstarch to make a slurry. Make sure you do not have any clumps.

Image Source: Pixabay If I wash my hands with foaming apple scented soap strong yet subtle, wafting up, and rub my cheeks and stretch the curling hairs shaping my beard with scented hands will she smell the orchard?

Image Source: Wikimedia I’ve hung my portrait in a tower, from the height of the staggered stones, the reflection bends on the sea, waves of light erode that bastion. On the throne atop the tower I stare at the painted portrait: elongated brush strokes in refined oils deigned my features, the walnut frame contained a mirror captured by imagination. Though I add rich browns and velvet reds something is amiss; over my shoulder the tower bends on the sea.

Image Source: Flickr For Brother Chad. “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles…” -The Apostle Paul Scoffers ask: “What purpose is there in singing?” in a crowd our voices rang, the faucet shut, the veil shattered at his feet and I held him as he wept.

Image Source: Pixabay Only five minutes to find a parking spot Do I have my wallet? Ouch! A pebble in my shoe Oh! Good. How much… Block, shredded, or slices? do I have? What is this hole in my shoe? Which aisle is… Twenty dollars cash. Where did it come from? Seven. Huh, I don’t recall its arrival. What flavor do I want? My toes shouldn’t be so free, no, Not mozzarella.

Image Source: Wikimedia The rusty truck bed was empty, Our hourly work Finished. Grandpa’d say, “Get in.” Mom and that man rode away When I was Born, their son, they didn’t care, Didn’t call, except for our couple bucks. The truck’s tires roared and spun mud up. Trees were coursing by, All that wood, A whole river of the stuff, I’d puke holding an axe— I hate splitting wood.

Woe to humanity! Conversation is fallen! Mighty were its walls— as a storm smothers sunlight so the siege darkened our speech and mounted in gusting winds Woe to the dinner table! For I was young in my days when the army amassed on the seams of sky and land— in a rush and in a charge they surged with flashing, bright colors from an Ethernet port bombarding us with advertisers’ catchy jingles and snappy slogans!

Image Source: Pixabay See the salt-rotten posts resting The dock’s not level the east corner sank some time ago; the upheaved boards and nails rusted and crooked See how the posts were chewed away cracked with running splits, worn by fish needing toothpicks stained green by algae See the wading posts beaten by waves, The dock still stands, but when will someone come for repairs?

From lift off and burning thoughts Through the clouds the plane turned down the cabby weaved and rolled from the outskirts to hotels downtown The destination—its streets, its corners, its patrons, its vices, its affairs—seasoned the food and I wrestled to keep my dinner down The neons flashed: bleeping, burning tubes that great swarm danced, circling their doom bypassing street performers and beholder traps strolling up the side walks in strides, buzzing around the electrocutioner, watching the lights on and off and on and off and on and off I tossed and I turned, I looked— double take: one beer down, two beers down the next poured, and again Cherries and golden sevens stream around Twenty five dollars down The horse hooves pound round Cigars burning down Round the turn they come Across the finish line Twenty five dollars down Was it whiskey poured and downed while fruitless politics hammered away as the men lounged, boasting unchallenged complaints?

The brown barked woods in columns rose, covered in summer’s sheath the tired path had captured dust and pebble. With striding lips I sang a merry tune under the coming blue twilight— the dawn’s veil whose rivers bent and bowed across the sky’s depths. Slowing to a stand at a peculiar architecture, this chorus man’s tongue stuttered with my boot steps at this sight unseen during journeys before, pond’ring my soles shuffled, for neither sawdust nor stump waited to be remembered.

Image Source: Pixabay "Peter, we know full well of denial." –The Difficulty, “We Are Not” Two voices call to me, I’m caught between two lays of sweeping sand, hills behind call me back, away, and hills ahead urge me forward. “Wake, my Seedling, chosen to be. Gently contoured, lavished with dirt; Hear rain rap trickling caresses.” “Child World, come and dance, come and flee. Come, Child World, witness, play, believe.

Image Source: Wikimedia Gothnákh, you foul rat! Take your grimy hands away or else I will gore you out, just like this hole you will be cold and stone. You left me on heap of straw for bed while you ran off for war with the pale-skinned and sun-walkers— Coward! Gothnákh, for maggots you spat me out in this cavernous filth! I ought run you through for making me snaga to be slid over by slavering gangs with hunched jaws!

Image Source: Wikimedia I don’t have much to say about best friends, but when thrusting a shovel for treasures, a wooden handle feels like rubbing money. Real Estate prices are rising after all. I want to unbury the truth about my profession: the dirt is soft seeping around my fingers dripping into muddy rivers. In winter, it is thick frozen like rocks. My knuckles shiver. I prefer bare hands.

Image Source: Wikimedia March on men of war Bum… Bum… Bum… March on to the beat of the drums Bum… Bum… Bum… March on with the flag March onward to the battlefields March on to the thunder of the cannons Bum… Bum… Bum… March on o’er hills and through valleys Bum… Bum… Bum… March on! March on, heed to your King March on his hand gestures and command Bum… Bum… Bum… “March on!