I don't like the crumbs,  
But I eat them anyway.  
I eat them like they're whole,  
As they are the best part to me.
They are always there.
Like a man who's instead  
Learned to fish
There's more
to be had,  
Saving the rest for later.

I take slow, small, deliberate
bites,  
Like a goldfish,  
Mostly inhaling water,  
Saving the bigger pieces
for you.

Although they're all mine,  
They taste better, knowing  
That I've shared them with you.  
No matter how far these crumbs  
Drift apart,  
Whether you eat them fast  
Or you eat them slow,  
There will always be something left  
To swim around
in your stomach.

I am afraid to close my eyes  
And miss the moment you  
Savor it all.  
I could tell you that I've saved  
The best part
for you,  
Knowing that it's all I have to give.  
My hands are only so big

the goldfish swim in circles
casting shadows on my skin
the ripples in the water refract the sun's rays
my eyes burn

i exhale
                                             up
                                         up
and bubbles of air float up

my hand drifts towards the surface
the cool air meets my fingertips
goosebumps kiss my skin

i twirl my hand and the water dances through my fingers
the goldfish disappear
like they always do
my hand begins to sink

i close my eyes

and release
one
final
breath

1.  Headlights glowed like cigarette ends in the twilight

2. As soon as they winked out in the warm, weedy field, and the harsh engine noise snapped into silence, I began to cry.

3. Father stepped quietly towards me and I sniffed as I smelled the earth I was digging, the sweat I was dripping, the carcasses I was covering.

4.  Beneath the distant moon Father paused, watching me sift dirt over the remains of two limp goldfish.

5. The morbid scene glittered as moonlight sparkled off my tears and the half-buried scaled.

6.  A small tribute to their salty home.

7.  As if on cue, the wind ruffled the tops of the grain in the neighboring unshorn field; the undulating stalks mimicked the ocean.

8.  Their grave remains unmarked.

This is the story of a tipped tree,
Some fish,
And two men who hit the streets.
They wanted to spread the word
About how to keep pets safe.
To speak up for those who could
Not be heard.
They'd knock on the door,
Say "hi! We're from PETA!
And just like that, they weren't
Invited to say anymore.
This happened again and again and again.
Finally, they agreed "one more. Then that will be the end."
They knocked on the door.
But this time, no one answered.
They knocked again, no answer.
They went to the window
And what did they see?
Baby goldfish in clear ***** of water
Hanging off the tree.
They looked at each other,  and both said "we need to act quick."
Luckily, the door was unlocked.
No lock to pick.
Handling them with care,
They got the fish to safety and got
Out of there. But before they left,
They kicked the tree down in anger.
And that's the story of how the tree was knocked over not by a cat,
But a stranger.

She was like a storm
               with no rain...

Just a tornado of destructive vocabulary.


Destroying every excuse
                               that I ever gave.

I was never a flood, never a river
               of ill equipped reasons.

Sometimes I just slipped on my
              own excuses.

I was the goldfish in her bowl
             of life..

And I had the memory of,
                yes darling ill do that.

But I shut the door and her wind
       became a breeze that never

dried in my thoughts..

My memory was a goldfish
        out of water only interested

In breathing.

But no matter what,she'll never
rain down.she'll just dry me off
         and sometime I remember,

and kisses are rained down instead
      of huricane vocabulary..

As I stargaze
I notice
Two perfect
Triangles in the sky
And goldfish
Jumping through them
Like a ring of fire.