Words by the Wordsmith

12

SHINY BLACK ADULT SHOES

6 O’clock and the black shoes are out.

Released from their pens, holding pens, pending a raise.

Decompression loosed with a quarter inch slip of the knot

On a noose

Tied everyday, the same way by the hangman in the mirror.

Ritual execution set on an autobiographical repeat.

Wash,

…….Rinse,

………….Repeat.

Keep clean cut and nest, to keep a cut above the rest.

Creases washed, starched and pressed.

In stripes pinning you down to your shiny black shoes.

The rooster cries out six times in this minute.

8 times since you left…

12 more will pass before it matters again,

and it’s time to put on your shiny black shoes.

LESS THINKING MEANS…

So sometimes you sit silently, slanted, slinging back notions of every kind of proportion. Right, wrong, write on, Wright, wrung the list could go on about the cacophony of subject matter currently placed upon the pedestal of thought, to be thought about thoroughly and throughout.

And while you sit there performing a mental balancing act resembling a Ringling Bros. production, your physical state is a mimic of that pensative statue we all relate to so well.

Of those thoughts caught within the head, embedded, dissected, then shredded and rejected.

Like a conveyer belt they flow, and are dealt with accordingly. During these times, if possible, we can pull ourselves back and witness the powers blessed upon us. To be able to use this tool of rationality to dissect and formulate, diagnose and calculate, to decipher and deduce.

How wonderous the mind state is; a constant.

We flood ourselves in thought;

caught;

mind over matter matters too much;

as such;

there is no way to end scene.

What does “less thinking mean?”

when we still think inside our dreams;

screams;

sometimes released, of thoughts of the deceased,

disease,

and all things like these.

I breathe, and give myself a second for just a minute;

and in it

we find the answer to ease the torrents, rivers and streams;

three words;

“Less thinking means…”

EXPECT ME WHEN THE LITTLE HAND TOUCHES THE THREE

I wake up before sunlight,

The worlds eyes open after mine.

Shed light on the dirty dishes I leave behind.

 

As I fly to make it in time,

Hands on a face race faster than legs from my spine.

Late as usual; Quarter after nine.

 

I can hear the Tick tock

Sick Mock-

… Ing Bird laughing at me.

Thick Socks

In the Winter gaining sweat as I flee.

Pick pock-

ets for a phone to tell me how late I’ll be.

Same as usual.

About 15.

About W.S. Rivera

Roberto Rivera is established, in the sense that he has both his feet planted firmly on the ground with his head suspended 40 feet in the air above his body.