Playful sunboy, boisterous and rash,
do you think this is funny?

I’ve seen you snickering
swinging from the roof beams,
pecking at the taught strings
of us, your unwilling playthings.

You dangle comforts in front of our eyes,
long enough to want,
close enough to widen,
fleeting enough to waste away.

Who’s leg are you pulling?
Which ribs are you jabbing?

Playful sunboy, boisterous and rash,
your teasing is our torture.

There is a puddle
that reminds me of you.
I’ve become such a regular
that its mud has
memorized the contours of my shoes,
right wider than the left,
toes turned out.

I imagine my puddle
listen to me
calling it mine
waits for my eyes
to peek over the weeds
a sweet surprise
for a lonely morning.
I step inside and I smile
and my puddle smiles back.

I keep it company
until the sun sets
and it clings to me,
asking me to stay
a little longer
and I do
until water soaks through my shoes
and my soles begin to blister
and I have to say goodbye

When I sleep dry and clean
wrapped in fleece,
I shiver for your hands
around my sodden ankles
impatient to wake
and sink again.
Drown if I could.

But some mornings
are lonelier than others.
Some mornings,
I stand in the weeds,
because my puddle
waits for eyes
that aren’t mine.
I wonder if tomorrow
I’ll stand in footprints
two sizes bigger,
favoring their heels.

What professions could you aspire,
with your sky-wide hands—a mountain for hire?

A stepper, a stomper, a mammoth barbarian?
Surely there’s something—must you be a librarian?

Look at your size! It doesn’t make sense!
You sat just now on the library fence!

The ‘brary doors open ‘low even your knees
The shelves at your toes! The people like fleas!

You could never succeed as a little librarian.
No less than a lion could eat vegetarian!

I told him all that. Fact, I told him twice!
But a dream is no more a gift than a vice.

For my giant had dreamt of a future so long
filled with books-upon-books, snug where they belong.

He’s clung too far n’ too fast to simply comprise,
‘for he’ll give up his dream, he’ll alter his size!

Thus he searches the land for the littlest books,
hoping each tiny page will change how he looks

One day, he imagines, he’ll fit through those doors.
He’ll walk through the stacks—how a dream can endure!

With thousands of little books scooped up in his arms,
the giant starts reading ‘til he’s learned every word.

But a thousand, a million, no number of verses
could shrink down that giant to the size of a person.

Closing the cover, his dreams ‘gan to fade
the shelves and the stacks—the future he’d made.

‘til a comforting voice squeaked all of a sudden
What a wonderful book! Could I check out this one?

The giant looked downward, right under his nose
at a thousand odd books shelved right in his toes

I warned and I cautioned, now I must carry-in,
no ‘brary keeps books like the giant librarian!

Chew me, will you?
Chew me, won't you?
Wedge me 'tween two
wine-stained yahoos.
Soak my core through
scaly beast, You!

Look at me.

I've become so theatrical, lying here, drowning in oddments and drool. How long now have I rotted in the eves I've missed, ****** away paths and pavements creeping like mold over my timber skin.

To think, I could have been a Great American Novel, a Wonder, a Classic. My torso might have melted the hearts of millions, the fingers of my web might have crawled carefully down their backs, spinning - oh so suddenly - a twist into their spines, while they themselves press loving, thrilling craters into mine.

I might have swept up her posthumous time machine and his mad spiral from the clouds in the booming wood and brass of one tender-fingered soldier's Trojan triumph over death and his countrymen.

But here I am, a Janitor, an Afterthought. Sweating in my splintered coat, stabbing at wet hunks of lamb that shamelessly remind me of how Wasteful I am.

‘Side my castle of creation
queries ‘trench their tangled teeth
‘to the skin of ideations
left by my kindly hearth to sleep.

Barbaric! Fixing little ones,
woken from their tender dreams,
as trophies ‘top their flags of war,
proud to wave their silent screams.

Drag me, ruthless, from my chamber!
Throw me, forceful, ‘pon the ground!
Show me, lifeless, cased in embers!
Pour me, endless, blood to drown!

Look, they shout, amongst the ashes!
N' ****** my face into the bones.  
Cradled in their kind-less caskets,
ugly truths I’d always known.  

Now ‘lone I sit in contemplation,
scared on stony perch to find,
‘side this castle of creation,
hope to ease my loveless mind.

Beware the Gyac’tus!
Oh you monster, oh beast!
Found crawling over mountainsides
on such uneven feet!

Watch the way it’s hobblin’
o’er rocks and hills alike.
**** now, foulest creature! Rid that-
hobblin’ from my sight!

Gone isn’t far enough,
he stoops within my head.
No hamlet could survive like this,
let’s burn him in his bed!

Forks n’ brands, fires too,
pierce heavy evening air.
Storm straight, we do, his wretched mount
to find him sleeping bare.

Be gone, oh Gyac'tus!
I howl atop its shape
A whimper leaks from his lips ‘fore
I carve across its nape.

Fear no more! Fear is dead!
Echoes proudly out the cave,
thus we flounder up the mountain,
thought victors, found us slaves.

But the mount is unkind,
spilling forks in twos, threes,
soon a crowd becomes a party,
a party ‘comes a leash,

‘til the fire burning
on the crest stands alone,
yet the only thought I think,
thunk of wine slugged at home.

Drunken dreams expose me
the vengeful mount beneath,
my careless kneecap crumbling
like cornbread at my feast.

Tumble down the mountain
rolling head, feet n’ all
'til sprawling on the ground beside
the spoils of my war.

Glimpsing 'cross its body
held down by shorter heft
I find myself an iron cast
fast ‘round his shorter left.

Donning the clever craft,
my fate turns a corner!
I crawl, on such uneven feet,
homeward in a fervor.

Triumphant from the hills,
hunger tempting Bacchus,
my hobblin’ culls an awful tune,
Beware the Gyac'tus!

An old man waddles n' hobbles, snickers n' snackers up the beaten path to the back door, bony fingers beating on my splintered shield.

A snail chasing me into a shallow grave.

Run to die? Die to run?
Run to die? Die to run?

I'll spend a lifetime making up my mind.

I’m sleeping
mud seeping
crawlies on
my chapel creeping

A sunk-in well
from where I fell
I’ll never go
and never tell

Real the ropes
Pack your smokes
Chew your verses
Swallow your jokes

This mutineer
Dares to steer
Lost not lost,
a-lone premier.

Two flapping wings deliver me
nowhere until my wits release,
white-knuckled, oh so desperately,
from you, my only masterpiece.

Each morn, I sow
a quest-in mind,
resolved to find,
a handsome home,
‘low golden glow,
or wood entwined,
one springs to mind.
What place I’ll go
in morning throes
to bury blind
this heart of mine,
I never know.

Fancies calcify in waiting,
under floodlights, Seconds crawl,
while the ancient belfry crumbles,
crack a cold one, watch the fall.

A Jiffy and a Nothing-flat
argue ‘round their fell remains.
Jiffy visions stories flying, high-
rises surging from the flames.

A motley crew of Moments,
fitted blind to rhapsodize,
scaffold fickle aspirations.
“Venture higher!” Jiffy cries.

Cresting ‘bove the clouds
ol’ Jiffy pipes a story more
‘til that whisk of wiser wheezing,
downs the tower, floor-by-floor

Collapsing ‘to a shower,
Moments dance in reckless spiral,
share the balmy hands of vision,
kiss the lips of sweet denial.

Delusions topple in a breath
under floodlights, Seconds crawl,
while the idle spire shatters.
Crack a cold one. Watch the fall.

Unsatisfied
and waiting
much too long,
my stomach growling
much too loud
for a belly full of something.
I'd tell you what if I knew,
but I don't.
I imagine if I did,
I'd be sitting around
wasting my time
with that,
instead of sitting around
wasting my time
with this.

You left another mess.  
Third this week.
Don’t you ever-

Ignore me.
It’s nothing.
I’ll take care of it.

Again.

What’s in a name?

A cold reminder
of mistakes, choking
each time a name
slithers off a tongue.

A stark reminder
that you, owner
of a timeless name,
will never own another

A boundary separating
who you are,
who you aren’t,
who you couldn’t be.

A repetitious word
lost in the crowd,
hay in a haystack,
worthless in totality.

So birth and nurse it
raise it as your own
or bury it deep
where none can find it.

But alive or dead,
don't mistake it,
in sound and silence
a name will always

Be yours.

Buried inside—we blameless pets
rove mollified through worlds of kind.
Rough n’ tumbles polish curtsies
for a tempered pair, spotless n' blind.

Never to slip, never to falter,
ever, we pets, sturdy in hollow.
Leap in rhyme, step with reason
‘to splitting morrow—grit n' swallow.

Can sea monks breathe in spirits?
Liquor keeps their pundits young,
fit to cackle at my stammer,
hazing in their seaward tongues.

Hoist a body from a barstool
and they imitate my shuffle,
nudge my toes in each direction,
once a floor becomes a puzzle.

And soon I fall headlong
between a bitter belch and blur
to the sea monks' hoots and hollers,
spitting sauce up on their fur.

But those chirping monk-men
when they've had their bit of fun,
whisk me off my splinter bed
and rouse me, one by one.

Can sea monks breathe in spirits?
Liquor keeps their pundits young,
fit to walk me through the morning
singing folk-tunes with the sun.

Afraid of her waves,
I steer into the trees,
fashion my nest
From the oars and leaves.
Teach oldies to the birds,
mice, the harmonies,
squander afternoons
waiting for the breeze.

Afraid of her waves,
I fly toward the heavens
to roam with pilgrims
crying rivers and oceans.
I listen to their stories
of ruin and misfortune.
And discover boats can be
both frightened and broken.

Afraid of her waves,
I crash into the moon,
bug the man inside,
a bit of a recluse,
with questions rounding
How the ocean moves.
He bellies of an ache,
But I know it's just a bruise.

Afraid of her waves,
I spin off seven rings
slingshot out this galaxy
on black and speckled wings,
tumble through a universe
where no and everything
look so eerily the same
that my boat begins to sink.

Afraid of her waves,
I row anywhere else
until walls crumble down
until oars row themselves.
When I scale her summits,
gobbled by her swell,
I peek over my shoulder
where the sea, she's ever still.

Dearest of Steam, your breath falls less
from static breast on limping arms
and clouded ears, in-sane aggress.
Go now confess your false alarms,
through seven storms my port undressed,
yet in this chest, your chaplet burns,
my heart returns, in letters blessed,
in scores distressed with lessons learned,
the cries I heard, I can’t forget.

You gave me quite a gift-here.
All these years, I’d gotten real distracted.
Better skies are full of clouds.
Your sunshine never should’ve lasted.

Afraid of her waves,
I steer into the trees,
fashion a humble nest
of shattered oars n’ leaves.
Teach oldies to the birds,
the mice, the harmonies,
and squander afternoons
hiding from the breeze.

Afraid of her waves,
I fly toward the heavens
to roam with pilgrims
crying rivers and oceans.
I listen to their stories
of ruin n’ misfortune.
to discover gods can be
both frightened n’ broken.

Afraid of her waves,
I crash into the moon,
bug the man who lives inside—
he’s a bit of a recluse—
with questions surrounding
how the ocean moves.
He bellies, how my head aches!
But I know it's just a bruise.

Afraid of her waves,
I spin off seven rings,
sling-shot out this galaxy
on black n’ speckled wings,
tumble through a universe
where no n’ every-thing
look so eerily the same,
my little boat begins to sing.

Afraid of her waves,
I row straight into Hell,
where waves crumble down,
where boats sail themselves.
At long last, I scale her,
nearly gobbled by her swell!
Proudly peek over my shoulder,
and find the sea stands ever still.

Initial here.
Pen your name
as they did,
as I did.

Now, sit still
and stay quiet.  
Focus on a point
if it helps,
hands buried
in your lap,
legs crossed
at your ankles,
mouth sewn
across your lips.
Let the plaster
steal your skin.

Shhh.
Don’t breathe
so loud.
Inside voices please.
Play by the rules.
Can’t you see
where we are?
Our garden of statues
deceives you.
Our garden of statues
has open ears.

Despite me, you speak,
you laugh, you sing
and pierce their stony skin
They hear you.
Everyone hears you.
Our garden of statues
slips away.

Screams smash
their balled fists
against their teeth,
against my teeth,
in our toxic wasteland.
Are you happy?
You’ve ruined it.
You’ve ruined me.

Now I hide my face
Cowering from thoughts
I pretend to know
And muttered curses
I pretend to hear
Why oh why
couldn’t you
stay your tongue?

We were happier in silence.

Some drown
in the shallow pool
left after a punch-
line, before its verdict
sound or silence
the world is watching
swing the gavel already

Others lie awake
on a mattress that
squeaks on one side
untouched on the other.
They stuff their ears
full with neon lumps
but the quiet is lonelier.

I stand on a tower
staring at the view
staring back at me
no shade to hide under
I’m much too pale
and I’m burning
and its precarious
far too precarious
at any moment
I could stumble
and
stay up here
forever.

Gasping in your western shadow, sweet one,
I scribble to you a testimony
for catacombs unfurling at your feet,
where bodies dream of you—my only.

One fallen egg, swept up by the wind,
upon you now confers a splattered pearl,
once nestled kindly ‘fore the setting sun
‘**** your arms, my fast n’ skyward girl.

One cherry hornet, stripped of prideful airs
by such unyielding singularity,
begs his broken limbs and shattered wings
to snap an unrequited symphony.

Calm in clay but shake-n spirit, one boy
wilts in waiting for your leaden lips
to part and welcome ‘nother fool’s parade,
to swoon lovelorn with every breath you strip.

They’re mad, those fools! Oh, to imagine you would!
But you might temper the thought—won’t you?

Gasping
In your shadow,
To you, I scribble
In this little book.

Of a hornet
Whose glass wings
were shattered
by your skin
Watch him squander
atop your ivory toes,
pleading
you might hear
the clattering
of his gaunt limbs
as they crumple
and snap.

Of a vacant egg
after half its body
was swept up
by the wind
now festering
in the dried remains
of its splattered pearl.
How many dusks
And dawns
did this fledgling
spend snuggled
in your skyward arms
to wind up
a meager stain
on your chin?

Of a wilting boy
calm in clay
shaken in spirit
who wasted
too many years
praying for
your stony eyes
to fall
as his have.
Suffocating, he offers
dying souls
a fool’s paradise
that you,
Sweet Basilica,
will part your leaden lips
and breath each
And every breath
you take.

Silly, I know,
but for him
he imagines
you will.

Won't you?

In the back-alleys o’ the Baker’s house, past the boatyard in Balley Streets,
the town’s only iron-boy sang farewell to the town’s only creaky-feet.

Since Chicken Feet was but a rusty coupling, those lanky chatterboxes
have stirred up whispers, whines, and more than their fair share of problems.

They leaked such an unbearable racket, the sea-folk of the Balley Streets
dubbed dear, unfinished Chicken Feet—the carrier of creaks

For he did. Everywhere he went.  

But on that foggy morning, the iron lad stumbled ‘pon a touch of fortune.
A magic-man—an honest fellow by Chicken’s careful estimation

Wandered ‘to the Balley Streets. And, boy, did he have jus’ the thing!
From out his bag o’ opportunity, a pair o’ human feet would spring!

Snapping up those lanky lookers for all the coins in his pockets,
Chicken rushed to empty those noisy devils from his sockets.

At last! At last! Daydreams bounced around Chicken’s iron bean.
The carrier of creaks would finally have his handsome feet!

Though dressing in those fondest forelegs would prove quite a twister.
Joints fell loose. Buckles stuck. Casings cracked between his fingers.

He forced-n-frowned, frowned-n-forced, until his lookers had enough.
The patient pair had played their part, but Chicken’s madness grew too much.

Thus, the handsome human feet leapt on their softest soles.
They danced past Chicken’s grabbing hands and skipped right out the door.

Surely, there’s still time! Chicken shouted with-all his heart,
for the blindest hope was pumping steady through his iron parts

His future ‘scaping by the minute, he reached down to the floor,
pawing for those squawking crutches he wore so thoughtlessly before.

But the walking, talking migraines were nowhere to be found.
Somewhere ‘long the way, the creaks had tottered outside on their own.

Too legless for the chase. Too legless now to stand.
From that day forth, Chicken Feet carries creaks on his hands.

One can lose
their conscience
as quickly and carelessly
as a name or a key.

I live
I creep
on tiptoes.

I'm the dogs barking
at the end of your street
the cars honking
outside your window
the fly buzzing
behind your ear
I'm all the sounds
you mistake for silence.

On tiptoes
I peer through the window
and watch wide eyes
straight backs
crisp collars
check their watches
and wonder where I've gone
and wonder why I've gone.

I think if
I step softly enough
on tiptoes
I could see everything
I could be everything
without leaving behind anything
not a sound
not a footprint.

Flapping wings
will deliver me
nowhere
until my toes
release their
white-knuckles
from the dirt.

Do you want to hear a riddle?
No?
I’ll tell you anyway.
Here’s a hint:
Don’t overthink it.

You have seven baby teeth on your ninth birthday.
You have five baby teeth on your tenth birthday.
You have three baby teeth on your eleventh birthday.
How many baby teeth do you have when you turn twelve?

None.
Only babies have baby teeth.

Or so I’ve been told.

Some will drown in a shallow sound
When the gavel swings for silence
Some will lie in the lost and found
They’re hoping for some guidance.

Walk them down to a quiet town
and give the streets their conscience
find them a door, their hearts to pour
these moments stained with violence.

They stand up tall, don’t slouch too long
when a wary world is watching
they march in the band and they follow the plan
but I find I'm always falling.

Forever on high let me fly through my time
Can't a feather fall much faster?
Forever on high with this fire inside
take my dime, oh hide the answers.

They’re raising a flag, while I’m packing a bag
‘fore I case my life in amber
Climbing the stairs, you could take them in pairs
but I think myself a gambler.

I stand up wrong, and I slouch too long
when a wary world is watching
I ran back the band, out a plot or a plan
Oh this train shows no signs of stopping

Forever on high let me fly through my time
Can't a feather fall much faster?
Forever on high with this fire inside
take my dime, oh hide the answers.

Please give me a twist ‘cause I’ve gotten the gist,
another pack of expectations
You call and you climb ‘til you’ve paid for your crimes
In this petty game of aspirations

Can I stand, can I slouch from my grave, from my couch
when the weaker world is heaving
Break up the band, play the drums with your hands
Oh I’m dying to see when I’m leaving

Forever on high let me fly through my time
Can't a feather fall much faster?
Forever on high with this fire inside
take my dime, oh hide the answers.

The floor is wet with scarlet pools, huddling around shards of glass and self and faith you left behind.

Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.

Again.

Chew me, will you?
Chew me, won't you?
Wedge me 'tween two
wine-stained yahoos.
Soak my core through
scaly beast, You!

Look at me,
more theatre than figure—lying here,
sinking deeper still in oddments and drool.

How long now,
have I withered in the moments I've missed?
Paths n’ pavements, once denounced, now creeping
like mold each night over my timber skin.

Oh to think,  
A wonder. A classic. A household name.
Might I earn such praise from heeding masses?
Could my story sneak like an ice cube down
their backs, spin stranger twists into their spines?
Relish, I would, their tales of joy n’ thrill
etched lovingly into mine. Into mine.

‘Stead I lie,
A janitor. A waste. An afterthought.
sweating in my splintered coat, stabbing at
wet hunks of lamb that shamelessly remind
me how truly ordinary I am.

Such is life,
for a toothpick.

Once there was a boy who couldn’t start talking
who stood on the corner each morning,
advertising all the words he knew,
but never selling one.

Who took his sorrow home,
night after night, complaining
of the stories he didn’t sell,
of the words he didn’t say.

Who dared, one morning,
to open his mouth
without a dollar in his hand
and forgot how to close it.

Who talked through the sunrise
through the morning rush,
through the whispers and the foot traffic,
through the sirens and the rotten weather.

And there were shadows who couldn’t stop listening
who opened their ears,
with dollars in their pockets,
and called him interesting.

Who found something extraordinary
who claimed they would listen forever,
but the longer they listened
the less remarkable he seemed.

There was a boy who couldn’t stop talking
who rambled so long
the stories out his mouth
had spun themselves in circles.

Who jabbered until
they had heard all the words he knew,
and the shadows couldn’t stop leaving
and he lost his his voice

There was a boy who couldn’t keep talking
who stood on the corner each morning,
without a dollar in his hand,
out of words to sell, out of words to say.

There’s one train in Cherrywood
a heaving, hooving hound
limping down its wild tracks
hacking blackened clouds

There’s one train in Cherrywood
the only in, the only out
a traveler of lands and time
wrought with smoky lungs and gout

There’s one train in Cherrywood
stuffed with heavy-headed spirits
sleeping off a dozen generations
of hiding from their dreams

There’s one train in Cherrywood
somewhere I have a ticket
buried in these crowded pockets
lost but farthest from forgotten

On route from Maryhook to Widows-end
Hard notes echo ‘round the bend
To find a mutt, a mason it seems
Singing to a cottage with stalks in its beams
Built from supple bark and ****** blooms
Hidden safely under berry-shrooms

He pipes his tune of hearth and home
Til spotting us, “Where did you come from!?”
“That’s not my home It’s just a dream,”
He clarifies of the cottage with stalks in its beams.
“That’s not my home. It couldn’t be!
How could such a sight belong to me?”

Hadn’t he noticed the walls of crusted rind
Around his toes – does it come to mind?
And the castles built into his palms,
Above chasm-dwelling catacombs
Where foreign bodies suffer and sleep
In clumsy coffins wrought with debris

Yet his wide and wanting eyes
Swelling planets in disguise
Ignorant and out of mind
Can’t see it’s not one-of-a kind?
Not three-of-a-kind or even four
Twenty-of-a-kind, maybe more.

“Oh, I do wish this home were mine.”
He cooes, plucking weeds and vines
While his pockets sink into his knees
With a hundred-one forgotten keys
His smile bathes in drizzled sweat
For another home he’ll surely forget.

I envy the bugs,
I envy the weeds,
trampled by stampedes
of furious beasts,
bodies crushed,
spirits broken,
all at once
by a storm
of violent hooves,
while I lay here,
trampled by you,
one step,
one breathe,
one at a time.

If a sky full of jagged teeth mashed
leeches drowning in their dinner,
towering trees without roots,
palaces wrapped in locked doors,
sages howling over squandered wine,
finches who hop in fear of their wings,
mice instructing owls how to wind theirs necks,
apparitions beaten by trembling fingertips,
and every other detestable thing
into clumps of negligible plaque,
Tell me,
what would I complain about then?

There’s a puddle that reminds me of you.
I’ve become such a regular,
its mud has memorized the contours of my shoes,
right wider than the left, toes turned out.

I imagine my puddle—listen to me, calling it mine—
waits for my eyes to peek over the weeds,
a sweet surprise for a lonely morning.
I step inside. I smile. It smiles back.

I keep it company until the sun runs behind the weeds.
It clings to me in the dark, asking me to stay a little longer.
Long enough for its kisses to soak through my shoes,
to remember how a sole can blister in devotion.

It’s getting late now, my body is cold, my legs are weak.
In a word, we cap another bottle,
A lovely message to nothing and no one,
What’s our valediction but a kiss dying ‘fore my lips?

When I sleep, wrapped in fleece,
my spirit shivers for its touch,
impatient to wake and sink my feet again,
impatient to drown, if I could.

But some mornings are lonelier than others.
Some mornings, I stand dry in the weeds,
watching my puddle smile like it does
for eyes that aren’t mine.

I wonder if tomorrow
my puddle will smile for me again,
while I stand in footprints
two sizes bigger, favoring their heels.