of PF flyers and a carport roof

staring down at scuffed sneakers,
shook off wood shavings
from a pinewood car,
blisters on my hand wrapped around
a crook handle of an umbrella
oft times sliced pieces of a child’s
stuck it on me like chewing gum
stuck to rubber soles;
my mom calls out, “what’ya doing
out there?”
her voice is a harsh sound in my
“nuthin,” i answer
my cat retreats quickly under vines 
that have captured part 
of carport two-by-fours
and shingles;
i look over at a tree with ‘our’ names
carved in bark,
an arrow once pointed the way,
i thought of chopping
down that oak
there i stood at the precipice,
valley floor below
as i imagined it;
on my way down i wholly relied
on one umbrella
to insure a safe landing, but
rather was punched
in my stomach by fear;
landed with a ‘thud’, PF’s
left a deep impression,
grass stains and scuff
marks on levi’s
brushed off remains of
dirt in an attempt
to fool my mom, but she
always knew
the minute she rifled through
my hamper,
“i thought i told you not to
throw your dirty
clothes in here!”
i swear, if i cut off my ears,
i’d hear her
through my nose;
took my Daisy following day
and pelted one umbrella
with BB round shot,
threw the bumbershoot in a 
lake where fish wearing 
rusted hooks in their mouths 
never seemed to shrug
off earthworms,
there, half-submerged, sits
alone a failed
attempt at air resistance, i
got grounded for a week.
Copyright © 05/25/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

the myths woven by us

reflect a splintered fragment like splintered glass 
in a mirrored rear-view
on a rusted car sitting in the woods abandoned
invented stories come out of our yawning abyss, 
from our minds, half asleep
the fluid movement of our words moves with 
unnerving ease, like wet 
paint dripping off a ‘wet paint’ sign
we get addicted to our thoughts like a drunk gets
addicted to an empty liquor bottle
we play out of tune like evaporated milk, 
yet we drink it
we play with others then toss them aside 
like glued labels on old sneakers,
to them, can’t have the pain without 
the pleasure
we look out of the corner of our eye 
like a blind cat looks around
a corner searching for blind dogs
we believe there is a light inside us 
surrounded by four stones,
the soul, the heart, passion, and belief,
yet we weave the myths 
with a needle  
and invisible thread,
but that’s like sewing a bullet into a revolver,
once the shot is fired, the damage is done
we have disclosed ourselves like 
water has disclosed 
itself to a crack in a dam
and then we try to put the water into 
a single cup and offer it 
to someone who’s drowned
we prey on other’s weaknesses 
like dust preys on a drought;
feathers once filled a small room,
paid a penalty for participating 
in child’s play
feathers float through stale air,
children grab as to catch,
much like myths woven
by them at 
some time in the future
when they realize their dreams can’t be touched,
much like the feathers
much like lost car keys to an abandoned, rusted car,
the wet paint no longer drips…
Copyright © 04/02/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®