The writer's license here is needed.
The Shoulder of a gun is resting,
always loaded in my head.
Emotion's water meassured, addled.
Tires spin like rosaries.
What you see and taste and feel
is exercising rites of passage
through the cavities of dreams.
The burnished brass of cadence here
is stained and smeared and then removed.
Tears can walk the beach at night
make a space on someone's couch.
What you see upon the page
is what attaches man to life
and mannerism of a bullet
waiting for the egg to open
just like Robins in a nest.

Art is imagistic tendons stretching
to relieve themselves.
The water's color crimson blood.
Freedom's feel is always risky.
Walking sticks I've painted white
to give me space from who I am.
Touching all the gruesome things
that might have gone and blinded me.
Words antithesizing anger.
Hoping just to leave a puddle
someone somehow someday reads.
Memories are swatted flies.
I turn around to face clichés.
The license here is needed, of course.
And I am urgent kidney stones.