eyeglasses nestled in the fluffy snow
frosted, with a single crack
bouncing winter sun off my tarnished window
a glint of hidden history from below
it sent me on a journey way, way back

a memory of reflected light
off a tree lined lake where i swam as a child
all day until the moon gave birth to night
and the sky was black with pinholes of white
a remembrance long ago filed

delivered back to me by a frozen emissary
whose lenses are no longer fit for eyes
whose rounded frames are a bit ordinary
but found one final way to be visionary
as a door unlocked by a cold, powdery sunrise

her purse had a large gold clasp
sweaty knuckles, she gripped it so tight
keeping the key to her heart's hasp
in a blackened place, away from the light

self-defense was her way of life
that no one else could really know
for emotion is the invisible knife
that can cut with the simplest "Hello".

i met a girl in the grocery store parking lot
i could tell she liked me an awful lot
i felt like a real winner
when she invited me for dinner
but now my toes are boiling in her ***

be assured:  the way
things are right now become the
way things were back then

saw a movie once where a submarine
went into a tunnel underneath a
glacier and surfaced in a tropical
paradise full of dinosaurs and cave
people, then a volcano erupted
and destroyed a bunch of stuff.  i thought to
myself, "this movie is really about
people's hearts", but i guess everything is.
sometimes the world speaks to you in weird ways.

sometimes you make a picture in your mind
of someone you knew or someone you lost
it's torn and the colors are faded but
sometimes a picture is all that you got

to be a star is
to be a lonely sparkle
crowded by darkness

breathe in the colors of the city and
exhale into a steel morning.  taste warm
sprinkles of sun dust on your tongue as dawn
plays a flaming concerto.  the shrieks of
winter like a newborn's howl sail
above the frosted sands of an empty
coast as a vision of blackbird sirens
in formation, rippling like ebony
keys on a player piano.  this is
what it feels like to start over as the
longest song's final notes brush past your ears.

he had a dignified stillness
that communicated confidence
and an air of quiet dominance

but the truth he long denied
for despite his surface pride
he was panicked on the inside

so as he walked to work in the rain
he looked up, and a thought splashed into his brain:
"even the tallest, strongest buildings sway"
and that calmed his soul, at least for the day.

i think i'm going for something that is:

generally personal
and
monochromatically colorful
but
unaffectedly pretentious
yet
apathetically emotional
plus
elegantly ******
or
tastefully gaudy
despite
     being
crudely delicate,
idealistically realistic,
and
revoltingly beautiful.

what do you want from that woman you want
do you want it all or just some of it
what's beneath all the want; is it a need
maybe it's a need to want and, that's life.

A dream box key
In the captain's desk

The piper's mutiny
A locked door

The lifeboats burn
Orange dots on black velvet

Listing
Listing

Pressure groan
He sits

Door bulge
Spray

In the drawer
In the drawer

Exploding torrent
The dream box opens

memory is a story.  it's not a
clean story.  it is a story without
a beginning, middle or end.  it has
many words and pictures that are unclear.
plot points can be revealed at awkward times.  
supporting characters become leads and
leads become extras.  the narrator can
be unreliable.  rising action
can build to an underwhelming ******.
quotes seem to appear from unknown sources.
it is full of story threads that don't go
anywhere, like romances that never
bloom and confrontations that won't happen.
many problems are never resolved and
there are stories within the story with
no discernible meaning.  the hero
confronts many obstacles, but it is
uncertain as to whether a goal was
achieved by doing so.  despite these flaws,
the story reveals a truth, like all good
stories do.  the reader is the author,
and the author the reader.  "and so on".

electronic screens
exploding news violence
tabloid fantasies

"what is it like to think of a poem?"

"it's like walking down an empty street at
midnight, listening to your footsteps, then
hearing a song way off in the distance,
somewhere around the corner, maybe from
an old radio in a windowsill
and you only hear certain words, certain
phrases, so you write them down and hope that
in some broken way they read like music."

Long table
Tired mouth

I feel your stare
My shoulders hunch

Loud and louder
Snow on the pane

Fumbled wine
Bleeding grip

Cries in the corridor
Wind in the parapet

Judgment knife rises
Your heart slows

Loud and louder
Snow on the pane

Red river
Red river
Red river flow

what's behind our eyes these days
is it memories
or dreams
of things yet unseen

what's behind them these days
history, hope, damage and pain
a cluster of neurons
igniting the brain

besieged by screens
with eyes of their own
that record and reflect
all they've been shown

are we any different
have our eyes turned to ice
milky and blank
a clean recording device

what's behind our eyes these days
is anything trapped and want to break free
the answer is very simple
open them and see

glassy black shoes
pinpoint tie
razor keen cuffs
and a sugary smile

he comes clickety-clack
heels eating blacktop
lies on his tongue
licking a black lollipop

one hand in his pocket
ready to make a deal
his eyes sparkle
your soul he can feel

if you want some advice
don't dare shake his hand
he's filling his library
with the hearts of the ******

A detective married a witch.
In a few years, he wanted a switch.

He slinked and slunk out every night,
and thought he kept his sins out of sight.

But one thing he could not hide from her nose,
the scent of strange perfumes on his clothes.

One night when the hour was late,
she conjured a fitting fate.

She cast a spell.
He fell down in a well.

So it came as no surprise,
no one ever got wise.

For the only man who could solve the case
was lying forever and ever, in a very dark place.

a walk in the dark
reveals the flowers that bloom
underneath the moon

always seeking the
exact words to marry for
the perfect haiku

tap, click, shuffle

"where are you, sister?"
echoes of the old house

old wood
hard cherry

the staircase unfurls
from the haze

the hallway recedes
out of focus

laughter
pitter-patter

up and down
round the corner

again
and again

white dresses streak
"don't look back, sister"

tap, click, shuffle

the stairs
hold our secrets

Zebra static screens
Solo chess

A fallout winter
Quiet ash

Empty cans
Jangle across cement

The image of you
Dissipated

Sealed up
The final request

I am a soldier

I was a soldier

the familiar creep
of night skeletons in dreams
toward infinity

red-and-white polka dots
float, twirl and fade across the floor
like glimpses of apples
through the falling snow

A cracked frame
Broken smiles

The ink runs
Down the alley

Red spills
Into the doorway

I glow

The invisible tattoo
A translucent flame

Rage detonator
Molten eyes

Violence in three steps
Two steps
One

I glow

"Who goes there?"
Cheerless and pitiful

A short cry
Then stillness

*I fade

colors come in waves
moonlight steel drum reflections
*** lips.  fade away

knowing you is as
easy as knowing the shape
of diving raindrops

plain bar, plain white dress
     turn, turn;  can i see your eyes?
anything but plain

i've fallen under.
my own. spell. i now see. all
that i want. to see.

looking in the mirror he thought
when he wore his checkered suit
he resembled an unfinished skyscraper.

after the disastrous meeting on the 61st floor
he skipped the elevator
and took the stairs all the way down
until he was huffing and puffing his way
onto the sidewalk.

he took off his gray checkered jacket
and let the rain sculpt his brow
and carve through his fingers.

thoughts grew lighter
with each slash of watery wind across his cheeks.

soaked on the curb,
he knew he must seem pathetic
to the sinking eyes of passersby,
but he was calm.

content to be
a soul

under construction.

it's a place i've only seen in pictures
a ruddy monument of sand and stone
with bold striations like ancient scriptures;
a history engraved upon a colossal throne.

The hunter spotted the lovers through the pines
as the sunset splashed orange over their arcing spines.

An abstract sculpture of flesh, a piece of accidental art;
a secret masterpiece that warmed the hunter's heart.

He walked away and thought of his own long lost youth
and how lucky he was to have witnessed a fleeting fragment
    of nature's elegant truth.

Jump in
Taste the brine

Art lives
Beyond the wall

Future love songs
Ride the swell

Your makeup runs
In the rain

Back street kisses
Well-rehearsed

Cracked vinyl piles
Like onyx shards
Like impressions
Like fantasies

Water beads
Slide along the grooves

Your spattered lipstick
Your chipped nails

It is cold here

Under the clouds

she said she didn't want to get old as
she danced in her red and white striped sweater.
i thought, "your eyes are young" as i looked down
and tried to keep the beat as the music
erased the seconds from our minds until
they passed like secret, unspoken whispers.

the dance hall smelled of chlorine and formaldehyde
as the corpses did the robot
and the music clattered around like
a drunk in the dark

i saw you and wondered why
you ignored me and then I remembered
it was me
who ignored you

then the dead shuffled around
and somebody broke a hip
and you left when I looked away
or because I looked away

but a zombie broke a hip and
who wouldn't look at that

She stood at the edge.  It was winter and
the lake was frozen.  Teenagers skated
in the distance.  They held hands and glided
in circles, laughing.  She wondered how they
missed the cracks.  The giant cracks.  Maybe they
saw them and just didn't care.  She closed her
eyes and breathed in, letting the cold air fill
her lungs.  Blades scraped and voices faded.  She
then opened her eyes and began to shout.

gloves, boots, eyes and breath
neon fingers grip the steam

time doesn't live here

clean light and sharp air
hills cloaked in brown, gold and rust
autumn in england

Projector rattle
Dusty light

Wallpaper cracks
Fluttering memory

Burning tin
Black timber

A face in the window
Melts

Calm air endures
Scentless

and so it remains:
a child's gift left at the fence
ignored, unopened

a "forbidden" fruit
that keeps the doctor away
what a conundrum

turn.  a sweep of curls, piano-key black.
wave me inside with forget-me-not eyes.

i see their faces
from my fortified tower

revolution brews

from the nothing place
spontaneous combustion
but was it random?

orange umbrella
lying open on the grass

or

sunset
over a green sea

everything's fiction
everything is non-fiction
everything's fiction

Bob thought a therapy of regression
would cure his nasty habit of aggression.

He unearthed many childhood traumas,
repressed memories of unsavory family dramas.

The therapy worked, to some degree.
His demeanor was more pleasant, most would agree.

But he was never sure if it was all true
and changed the reality he once knew.

So one day he could take no more.
He regressed into a puddle on the bathroom floor.

video stores, coffee shops, birkenstocks,
catherine keener.  i want to live there.

sand flows
between my toes

i bury them deep
and lie back

let
the surging surf
close around me

feel
the sun's caress

taste
the salt

breathe

i am new
again