You can sprint at the sun
for as long as you want,
but you'll never outrun
your shadows.

Wind whipping through naked limbs,
plastic bags like tumbleweeds.

Solace under an overcast sky.

Billows bellow out from the candied sunrise,
brief beauty unfolds in rippling hues
of taupe and ochre and violet.

I watch alone,
as the commuters argue over lanes.
As trucks trundle past.
I enjoy the parallax as
the chuffing dragon's breath
of their air brakes
grows, and then fades.

I watch alone as light begins to bathe all.
An upside-down ocean. A gorgeous abyss.

I watch alone, yet
I'd like someone
to share this morning with.

I feel so

compelled

to bash your head in
with my love.

When you're dead,
I'll fashion a paintbrush
from a lock of your hair.

I'll paint you on the ceiling
in violent shades of burgundy.

I'll lick the bristles clean.

I'll paint my taste buds
with the vibrant flavors

of your love.

I'll craft a cradle from your bones,
and wrap it taught with your dermis.

Your

marrow

will seep out,

like the

love

from my heart.

I'll keep you.
Forever.
A shrine.
A memento.
A collectable.

A macabre reminder
of my

love.

She bought this light green chair at an estate sale, with a red pillow as an accoutrement she smiled like a young child; proud of her find, all I could do was smile back, afraid to hurt her feelings, you hate it she said, I can tell-would it make you want it more if I told you it was from Ernest Hemingway's estate, such a find- I  was in a bidding war with another woman, I purchased it for you

its been a couple years hence, sitting in my light green chair, she knew it was the perfect chair, to do my writing, she would smile, if she could see me here, shades of the writer that I am

time to move on, all the memories left- I sold everything; never though, would I sell the light green chair with the red pillow, as it reminds me of her always


By Michael Perry

I am not my words.

I am my behavior,
I am my actions.
My decisions.

I am not these words.
The person I appear to be
to you, dear reader,
would be a complete stranger
to my family.

The me that is seen by a lover
would be an unknown to my friends.

I am not these words,
for there is no true me.
There are only the different shapes I take
to more effectively make
my way through life.

I change in the blink
of your eye.
Don't you recognize me?
Look again.
How about now?

Now and then, words fail me.
I can't find the right ones,
I stutter and mumble.
Expression is lost to me.

Yet late at night
I can communicate perfectly,
armed with nothing more
than a pair of headlights
and their high beam counterparts.

"Go ahead," I think to myself.
Ka-chk ka-chk ka-chk.
"Make your left turn, friend."
In return they then light up my little smile
with a quick and brilliant "thanks."