Beneath a sweat-stained couch there's shame, there's spare change.
Above is cocoa butter, tangled between
their legs. A love touched tongue and thigh, and Mom's chain
of gold and something better: a cross's gleam.
When wont I stare. Waists unburdened by jean lines.
Some spare change rattles in the pockets of mine.
Biting my tongue: my canker-sore-cheek teeth grind.
Knuckles popping to match sounds of supine spines.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
Gusts of wind whistle,
Spiraling by cracked windows,
Sprinkling rain on screens.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
This morning the horizon
was shortened with fog
and then it rained.
The trees are mulched in
without low branches
and mathematically
encircle a small stage.
Knee high boulders
are scattered about,
probably serving as seats.
The benches are accents.
If they were anywhere else
I could see moss growing
on these rocks.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
My room, painted pink
By filtered light and pollen
Breathes better than me.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 9:52 AM UTC
The grass is greening
Begins every Spring Haiku.
Daffodils bloom too.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
Dew and birdsong
are two of the words
that came to mind
when I woke up blind
to clouded sun
slivers through slits
of the parted shades
following fits
of fruitless sleep.
The wetly kissed paths
with lines of living
or withered grass
and robin cardinal
whistle, hopping
limb to branch
wondering if walking
isn't so bad though
I've never been on a plane.
I would have seen
the sunrise this morning
but clouds and trees
obscured my yawning
eyes and so did
the crows, staccatos
in skies that are really
pretty pretty anyway.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
On white walls washed primrose,
candy wrapper leaves crinkle
behind the cloying shadow sweets
left by a breeze almost too quiet to remember.
Look past the prairie,
now smoldering cornfield wastes
of salted soil sewn from our own brows;
the only prerequisite is wide-eyed naïvety
to catch a glimpse
of the shaky-handed painter's brushstroke of trees
on a river aptly named "Skunk.
In the space between closer to and closer than home,
cicada songs join an aspen’s fluttering percussion
to usher in the twilight
while flipping the switch
on a childish soapbox.
On white walls washed indigo,
the final murmur of a hair-raising breeze
ties and pulls the puppeteer's strings on spindly trees
in a dying evening’s darkening dance.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
Black squares pulled at the soles of my shoes.
Brick-red fake bricks
wrapped serpentine around cement beams
glazed and shimmering with epoxy and daylight
s
hone white on the left half a bedraggled face.
The other half smirked,
sitting cross-legged under a wall-less window
eating carrot sticks with chopsticks.
The dust in my eyes, in the blank between us
pervaded pore and nostril,
bourgeoning the ache of a flaying respite,
with the fire of a thousand minute needles
and the diaphragm-tugging grip of "come closer."
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
I'm praying for a day
when I can breathe in the black and white solace
of a scratchy, blurry landscape devoid of streetlights.
My eyes, filled with pollen,
are closing on the shadow of an arm casted out further than my reach,
towards a hawk's silhouette amongst the limbs of a dying birch.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
I remember as thought it were today, the morning we moved to Cedar Rapids. The funeral day was clear and dry: a frosty autumn morning. My mother was crying.
Behind my closed, damp eyelids, I faced a terrible, inexplicable heartache. I wanted to forget everything we did together. We used to spin pottery, him sitting behind me, guiding my childishly clumsy fingers.
I picture vividly, to the point of tasting, the cold, dry smell of wet clay, and the chalky scrape of an unglazed *** I kept one on my desk until we got settled.
I threw it into the ravine behind the new old house when I couldn't break the frosted ground for a burial. I cried, drinking in the beauty and stillness of the grey. My breath mingled with the fog.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC