Right now
in your kitchen
on the bottom rack of the dishwasher
resides a secret;
a dark spot on your soul –
a malignant little horror
that threatens to destroy
your sense of self worth.

Maybe it’s a butter knife
with an in-congruent rust spot
on one side of the blade…
Maybe it’s a random salad fork,
the final piece remaining
from a long forgotten flatware set,
with a fossilized chunk of radicchio
lodged between the third and fourth tines.

Probably it’s the fork.

There it has sat
without being moved;
without being touched;
just existing as the metaphor that it is
for 8 straight wash cycles.
The result has never varied.
The dirt remains.

Soon will come a ninth wash cycle.
You hope that things will change.
You know that they will not.
Despite this unwavering conviction
that the fork will always be *****,
the next time you run the cycle,
open the dishwasher door,
peer through the gauzy veil
of lemon scented fog
and see the small bit of filth
you will still feel disappointed.
You will grow a little bitterer.
You will be a little more contemptuous.
The world will be a deeper shade of gray.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

You can go
right now
into the kitchen
to the bottom rack of the dishwasher and
reach down
with a trembling hand
to grasp destiny.

You are bigger than this fork.
You are bigger than this fork.

You
are bigger
than this fork.

With a sense of control firmly clasped between your fingers
take that 15 uncomfortable seconds
to scrape away the debris with your thumbnail
and then be free.

BE FREE

Deep and resounding will be
the sigh of relief;
the utter completion;
the contentment absolute
that you experience
when you place that clean salad fork
back in the drawer.

It will never match
the new silver
that your In-Laws gave you last Christmas, but
at least it will be clean and
in its home
safely ensconced
in that wire organizer.

Right now
in your kitchen
on the bottom rack of the dishwasher
is a chance for redemption.

Pleiades,
hot blue and extremely luminous.
From across the blackest ocean
seven sisters call, but
just three are putting out and
only one loves me.
That's okay...
She's been my favorite
since she said,
"It takes a mighty rocket
to pierce the night sky and
****** into space."
******* right.
I write my atheist gospels
using only the letters of her name.
I collect the relics
of long dead nova clusters
to construct The Grand Heart Emoji.
And if I never make it back to space
maybe one day
we can hold hands
in San Diego.

the bass voice singes the air
the woman counters with her
lullabye
the strumming guitarist plucks
the air with moss and gravel
the singers sing of breath
unravel the mysteries in the dark
there amidst the gathering crowd
the footbeats
the feeling begins
half of the world stops
the rest keeps on spinning
tapping round the
clouds so clear the mystery unwoven
just feel
and heart and air and earth

i have seen thousands of lights in all the bright places
and i still think the only light that matters
is the one within you

The old heads sell distraction

Different prints and different licks

Concrete beds display the newest fashion

Pick them hearty while declaring  dysfunction

Beam another bystander towards  electro shock

Tastefully tenacious in it's rearranging

Bars for consumption

The eyes suggest cancellation

Now you declare this space fit for sanity

Now I crumble for chaos

Displaced for a momentary diplomacy

but lines blur inside a mind prone to wandering

Remnants gather for a pre shatter shindig

A bright glow illuminates conviction

How coy these means for destruction

a shell claiming stability

a vessel containing absurdity

Crack seat sofa with the medical magazines

Wait on a number for my neutral reckoning  

Diagnostics come free

A proper requiem is not included

I remember what you told me about her after you broke up. All these terrible things. How she was crazy.  I wonder if you say things like that about me now.