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10
golden sunrise
after the morning mist
a gilded path

reverse

a gilded path
after the morning mist
golden sunrise

#11
a squirrel’s hope
on a warm winter day
the hazelnut store

reverse

the hazelnut store
on a warm winter day
a squirrel’s hope
These two haiku pivot around the middle line and can be read in both directions.
Awake now
the bed's been made

with wrinkles
in the checkered spread
flattened out

no more calamity
the thunder and rain
gone

away

like magic if magic
was about

loss
Hanging

paper mache skulls
painted guitars
gaudy sombreros

black smoke rising
to blot out

the sun

red trucks
Departemento De Bomberos

no no no
no Policia

why

they might show up

wall nope

a thin line

if crossed
Papa will say
is South

of sanity
~
Listen for the sirens
I'm on a highway
Along the perpendicular streets

Having escaped my killer
There's blood on the windshield
There's blood on my thoughts

The rush of song
I've experienced it all
Yet this is only track four

The night wind slices through
A fracture in me
Two sides of me
Must push on and away from here

Is there something happening
Inside that causes it all to melt?
To stick to the sidewalk?

To form into a river of transfiguration?

~
Soft marches
spawn bravado
and cavalier soldier
He who scoffs
at distant gunfire
to meet its fury
Untested untried
untempered
his blade of little worth
As conflict preys
on the folly
— of the paper lion

(Dreamsleep: August, 2025)
August
but crisp with bite

cold white sun

I remember that day
the lake

so far away
for me and others

wanting
and not knowing

why
Slots buzz and ring
coins clatter

neon
splashes

like spilled paint

they say


New York
is the city that never sleeps


it's a caffeine-fueled insomnia

but in Reno
you're lucid dreaming

and frantically searching
for the door

the one that leads
back

to consciousness
How can we learn to be together without losing ourselves?
How can we avoid burning up in the heat of assurances
And fading away in the cold of a rainy autumn?
How can we keep our feelings from freezing like glassy ice,
Finding ourselves eagerly waiting for the spring thaw?

We build ourselves piece by piece,
Gathering dried leaves.
No longer you, no longer me,
No longer even us —
Only these branches that want so much
To come alive in late spring,

Longing for the soft kisses of warm wind,
Without violent storms that leave behind
Torn promises of a peaceful future
And thunderous, harsh words that burn into ash
Shaping a bleeding groove from within.

There will be no sweet stability,
Only these pieces of lightly blue,
When, after a long, lonely night
We open our arms shyly, thinking yes —
Even if only for a minute,
Endlessly repeated.
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