Singled out speck,

Imperfections—

Bullied into boxes.

Locks placed with

Dancing keys then

Thrown away.

A blemish known,

Soiled.

All a lie—a truth!

Puzzle pieces perfect

On their own, no worry,

Untethered, and

Free!

He tires with certainty,
Locks himself away.
Turns into a ghost,
Disappearing for days.
A cup that is empty
Waits for time to heal all.
Surrounded by noise and
Feeling so small.
A buffer is the night with
A new given chance.
For him to recover
Then rejoin the dance.

Fingers like fiddleheads,

Weak knees like

One-thousand-year-old

Trees,

Justice in a life lived long—

Making the wear and tear

Worth it all.

A thick
Blue comforter
Is like
An inviting ocean,
Soft
And ready to
Sweep you away
To places
Beyond what your
Waking eyes
Allow.

There is a softness
In the words

That are whispered
Beyond the shouts

That fill our ears like
Cotton,

Stopping the truth from
Reaching hearts

That beg for
Forgiveness.

We must listen
As close as we can,

Just listen
To anything

That tries to dig
To our very center.

I know I will wait for
Any determined piece.

Achy bones,
Bend, grind, snap—

Yielding dust, bottled—added
To the crumbling sands,

Ground up bones
That had made bread

For a lifetime

Before being rinsed away
Like sawdust in rain.

There's a cabinet somewhere,
Stocked full of happiness—

Jars of sugar to make the bitter
Truth less harsh. This cabinet

Contains paper—recipes on how
To make a smile appear,

But it may fade later like the old ink.

This cabinet

Has mental canisters cradling
Candy but it may leave you with

A mouthful of holes.

When life flies by

We can always catch up

With wings of our own.

Just care for the feathers

And let their colors

Grant ambition.

Life won't be able

To escape us then.

Ten minutes to the end—
What do you do? What would
You do if in ten minutes you
Would churn away, to dust,
With Death's hand on the crank?

She awaits your ashes to sprinkle
In her garden but you may
Not be ready. There's plenty to do
In ten minutes I suppose—though
I think most of us would

Hold our breaths until the churning
Started—hoping that Death would
Be merciful and give us something
For the pain.

I will not heed the laughing rain

As it bankrupts the solid ground
Beneath my shadow.

I can write in my mind that I am
Autonomous

And able to sling from my boots
The mud
It's attempting to entomb me in.

The chortles are nothing more
Than a sickly breath.

I am done listening to complaints
As it attempts to dissolve me.

I will not heed the desperate rain.

What lives in finite time?
A bird's nest invaded, eggs
Squashed and eaten.
Sands wash out and crumble,
Churning to the blackest ocean.

What lives in finite time?
Bloated roadkill baking
In the detonating sun.
Moments that may last forever
In a liminal collective.

What lives in finite time?
A glass jar, buried miles in gray
Hardened clay.
Letters written but not sent
And stuffed in junk drawers.

What lives in finite time?
The flickering of a bulb
Tightrope walking until its
Breath gasps, giving way.
A cliffside always found.

Cat eye like an orange,
Squeezed—pulp dripping
With lives unseen
By human sight; unable
To know
Where the fruitful cat
May go.

Wine glass—
Sediment dusted,
Pieces cast scornful nights,
Red-stained carpet soaked,
Collecting damage
That waits to shock the future.
A wineless stain, for the
Once white fibers do not
Matter. The gnawing crunch
Of the glass underfoot
Is at the bottom of the heart's
Black hole.

What do you do

When you have unaccomplished days—

Tasks are left on lists to fend

For themselves,

Errands are impatiently waiting

Just to find out their precious time

Has been rescheduled

At an unknown date, or if they're lucky,

Maybe tomorrow.

The only thing you are capable of

Getting done

Is making sure you're taking the time

To breathe—

So go ahead a breathe—

That's accomplishment enough.

A deer hears spring song—
Velvet antlers draped in moss.

Lake water drinks the rain,
Drizzling to dew.

She looks to the lilypads.

Home upon the rippled mirror.

Tadpoles rush their lives.

A happy lushness of fungi
Eats away at death.

Nests are packed with
Cattail cotton.

There's more work to be done.

I would rather have rainfall
Instead of snow.

The presence of snow
Reminds me of hard work
In the early morning.

My spine cannot take
The weight of heavy snowfall

But then again,

The rain makes it hard
To drive in the dark while cars
And streetlights send me their
Eye-cutting prismatic shards.

I think

I'd still rather be led astray
By the rain.

Fools with hearts
Underestimate pain
Until they are met with
Inconceivable rain.

It's easy to chew on
Melancholy time
Until they are met with
Something more kind.

After the smell of rain,
Tears may dry.

The candlelight
May flicker the past
Onto the wall—

A small show that never
Ends,

A strong show within
A storm,

A relief when the
Shadows melt

With the candle wax,
And the rain dims.

There's a crackle in my chest

When I breathe.

You have no cure—no one does,

Just the connectivity of

The earth will do—since this is

Not a sickness that can be fought

With anything prescribed,

Only eased—calmed for a while.

I stretch my arms up skyward

To give myself away,

But it's not yet time.

We have left orange peels
In places we do not want
Our cats to go.

If only they would stay off
The kitchen counters
And stop scratching at
The fragile bedroom door.

The orange peels help

But the curious boys
Are not the only ones who
Dislike the citrus smell.

We have a note from sheltered places,

Begging for us to retreat to the gratitude

Of a wood-burning stove and a *** of

Tea—peppermint—with relief smoldering

In the coals that hold our stare.

Seltzer tears

Bubble
Down,

Burning eyelids

Shut.

Fizziness stings

Like bandages

Ripped

From healing
Wounds.

Quiet popping

Reels in silence.

Time
Is slow.

An unexpected
Crater

Can devastate
Places

Once
Called home.

We can shape
A new life

Right in
The center.

Wake like a Rose of Jericho,
Bringing fortune to your lips.
Swinging life forth, green
And delicate, to a desolate day.

A scarecrow spits
Sunflower seeds

In hopes of meeting
New friends,

But they do not show—
Not for the scarecrow,

Not for the seeds,

And his tears cannot
Be wiped away—

The ropes are much
Too tight

And the crows desire
Hardier cords.

I am kept in a bottle,

A glass vial,
Within an unbroken void.

You may be too.

We are cast out—floating
Amongst Saturn's rings,

Encased in glass
Meant to keep our
Fragments from colliding.

Maybe they should,
Collide that is, and burst

Just like stars

But instead of dying,
We bring forth galaxies,

All starting from sealed
Bottles they thought

We could never open.

We are the fortunate—we have our blood
When we cannot grasp for pens in time.

We are unbothered when blisters form—
They swell and we are the ones who run.

When we cannot use our impassioned voices
We utilize the power of our salient eyes—

Staring into the depths that wish to haunt—
There is still time for idle pleasantries.

We are the armored monsters deemed
Too soft—when we are simply humanity.

I am an ant in a needle eye.
A spot taken, oh so small,
But filled with my eternity.
A passage blocked
By my being—content
With feeling whole.
A nook to fit daydreams;
Not grains of nightmares.
Insignificance unattached
From a speck worth a world.

Dark cherry rests
Upon the heart left to know

The realness of the world
Beyond open doors,

Beyond the softness of the
Light pouring through

Stained glass.

There is nothing and also
Everything out there

Beyond the familiarity
Of the tartness that sleeps

Within wounds.

There was something about the dreamer.
Paint in her hair, no care,
The world vast and empty but she fills
Voids with pastel static, words drip
From matte lipstick. Panic
Never takes air from her lungs,
She knows she belongs. A firefly in
A pillowed fog, not smog, but subtle
With tea latte sweetness, kept warm on
The mosaic countertop filled with
Broken glass, no longer shattered, together,
Making beauty out of severed past.
She will last through creation, motion
Lunging to brightened staircases.
She faces dilemmas by the dozen,
And will never be forgotten.

Tangled in the woods

Is a heart left cold,

But it thrives in the bark,

Feasts on the flora, and

Nourishes the worms

And the fungi that

Communicates change.

The heart is not alone,

It is the foundation

Of corners preserved.

Trapped in a birdhouse
With one way in and one
Way out.
Destined to return and
Make it home.
Unpainted wood walls,
The smell of sawdust.
Twigs and dead leaves
Line the bottom but
Will it be warm enough?
Nails rusting as the roof
Splits—swollen cedar;
Mold moves in, fallen
Feathers join the nest.

There could be a knock on the door
But I may not be home. It could be

That I'm out in hiking boots,
Getting lost in thought and on trails.

It could be that I am inside—

Maybe I'm too weak to let anyone in
And I sit in the dark, hearing the pleas
But I let the knocking continue
Until it stops and I'm left alone.

This could be what I want—an open
Door leading to the woods, away
From the struggle of knocking.

When the sky is a sea,
And planes are ships
Chasing clouds that act
Like whales

Pushing through the open air

And sending its waves
Crashing to the dry
Life below its stretching tail,

Are there islands we can
Land on?
Are there pools that will swallow
Us into nothing but the light
Of the cheering sun?

It's a sea where we will
Never be,
Much like the ocean below,
Mostly unexplored.

Why are there secrets hidden

Under the wallpaper—

Whispers

Under layers of

Distraction and movement

That have the urge

To drape a sense of stability

Upon eyes that cannot

View the mildew underneath—

When will it be time

To tear the peeling barriers

Away from rooms we need

To repaint—

No one wants

To see what lurks—

Their eyes are only drawn

To the surface-level patterns.

I am a visitor within myself.

Am I even real? Do I know what
My skin really feels like? What
It's like to stare into my own eyes—

Are they even mine? Or a loan
That I will give back one day
And the earth will gladly place
Them with the other returns.

Will our dust mix in the soil with
The worms? Will we learn from
Each other then, when we have
Infinity to understand one another
Because there's nothing left to do.

A body is a shield that rips apart
And mixes with the hourglass sand;
Pouring into the bottom we may be
Trapped in—or will we escape,
And become one with the stars that
Live and die too?

Will we have a chance to come back,
To experience the battered sorrow
Of existence once more—seeing if we
Can know love and get to find who
We are?

Will I feel whole within my
Skin the next time around before
It's too late again?

Maybe I can feel that now.

Are blueberry skies
Over strawberry fields
And what flavors rise
When they meet?

Do the clouds taste
A bit sour or do you
Suppose they're sweet?

Will you be there
When Mercury falls,
Stripping her of smiles.

Will you be there to
Bandage wounds, some
You may have caused.

Will you be there—
Will she see you—against
The world with her.

Will you be there to
Understand the meaning
Of it all?

With love, you'll grow tall,
Like the mountains that kiss clouds,
Like the flocks of geese that soar
For warmth away from dark days.

With love, your eyes will share secrets,
Like the passageways that vein
Through treasured homes,
Like the meanings in lyrics meant for
A single soul.