Today, tempers rose like the winds
before a storm, but the birds got real quiet and
hushed the squirrels. The leaves shuttered
as if deep in a terrifying dream. Meanwhile,
all around, the world went along peacefully.
Never mind leaf-dreams,
they cannot see the future, only the present.
A storm passes without note; strike three and
I’m out in the fresh cut-lawn air, feeling
like there is nothing else to do, but there is.
Today, I feel like an insect, greedy
for the nectar, even when I smell the insecticide.
I resurrect myself in the goodbyes, the subtle
painless endings, like saying goodbye to the wind.
Today, I tried and tried to make sense
of something I wasn’t meant to understand, and when
I started writing it all down, all I got was black
lines in pasty silicon soup. Insight existed,
but I rushed by too quickly to pay
attention to the weight of the matter.
Today, I passed a tree and a giant branch fell,
while the air stood still. A girl passed on her bike,
the branch hit the ground as I fell into the wind.

Today, I hesitate, nothing new,
to write, but I write anyway because then,
I'm doing something. Or rather, looking
like I'm doing something. All
caught up in the identity because it feels
better to have one around these people.
Today, the sun sifts through layers of
silky haze built by pleasant laughter,
over-told stories, and aged brick-work.
I feel like choking on its thickness.
Moving through these thoughts feels more
like swimming blind.
Today, I remember when I thought poetry
ought to be funny.

Today felt like a clandestine speakeasy,
smoke in the air warmed spirits
as we pour glasses of burgundy wine
and dance with our arms around each other,
our noses touch occasionally to celebrate
the occasion.
Today, emotions trickled up to the eyes
like a fountain of some sort
wondering if it’s love
or if it’s pain. And instead of tears I hear
laughter and sad jokes.
Tinges of red and brown around the edges;
coffee stains that remind me
of a me that never will be.

Today, clouds were like oases
filled with unoriginal metaphors;
cliche dreams of falling through
endless sky, building puzzles
on top of skyscrapers, but
never really getting enough shade
because the sun is just too **** bright.
Today, the mind wore shoes
without socks, and walked up
and down the same tired hallway
again and again
not sure what
to say
or if saying anything is
what really matters.
Saying seems to beget
assumed meanings in between
white, vacant, empty lines.
And so today is a happy day
because, like the sky,
it is empty;
free from bad things
and good things.
I think I'll sit here awhile
and forget any of this ever happened.

tulips rise early
wind, like ice-shards to nose-hairs
future could be bleak

Today, heels dug in to dirt like cleats,
while hands, blistered from tension, pulled
and fought, in a tug
of war.
A tug of absolute, insurmountable certainty
that only the future could possess.
A tug, like the final pull of the starter
cord before the engine bursts forth
with new life; animating lost spirits
like breath to dying coals.
Today, the cold wind beckoned sharp-edged shadows
and splintered lumber
to meet like secret lovers,
toes squishing in soft, frosty soil,
knocking dead limbs off trees, while
white curtains
dancing in the shade of the north-east
in the afternoon
looked out at the bland horizon
and saw birds coming home.

Miniature storms rolled by today
as trees, like dry forks,
stood in shock, frozen
by the universal constant.
Changing winds like hands at
a poker table asked the green
beneath to rise up once again,
like a steam awakening from a
dream, so that it may return
to mud footprints,
and shell-less beaches.
Questions, like red-pepper,
stung the opportunities
for hopeful promises and confident,
nonchalant retorts, the real poisons,
to arise; drawing the eye astray,
into doubt, regret, distrust,
truth.
Today, stories, drifting in and out of meaning,
wondered if meaning has meaning, if
meaning
is important.
Today
it isn't.
Today, the story is a memory,
an assumption, a supposition. It is
in fact, a misty vapor that compels the
heart forward, and the mind backward
until the body has become a storm.
Today, I laid in the grass as
the raindrops of my own personal
spring drenched me in green
and suddenly,
I felt change
rising beneath me.