I watched as the dog waddles away with his feet wrapped in a soft leathery boot, the owner too focused on getting around the mounds of snow to notice the dog's discomfort.

A soft whistle escapes from the accordion sides of the streetcar while a groan escapes an elderly gentleman, pressed too close to the wall.

I stand embraced by crowded bodies, snug in the middle of the streetcar walkway.

These times of discomfort remind me that I am human.
Experiencing life.
Watching, listening, enjoying the discomfort of mortality.
cherishing the imperfections, the frivolousness of each individual.
A balladry of the mundane.

plastic,
seashells,
plants,
glass,

flowers,
feathers,
lead...
-h­ard pass.

I don't think I've have ever lived a more perfect October night.
                                          

I hope I'm not jinxing it.
Nothing has happened yet
I'm actually kind of bored.
All I've done is scoop cat ****
And take the trash to the curb.
I hope the wind carries the ashes off my porch.

was it your twisted time?
or was it just a figment of my mind?
I built my wall so high
it reached above the sky
you built your ego so bright
that I was even blinded in your sight

you made yourself so right,
so it seems.

i break my wall so briskly
never thought that it was all too risky.

i crashed,
I crashed,
I CRASHED.

I did not see the sign
I lost track of time
i-
I, would've thought that you were mine
but that was only a figment of my mind
a figment
of my mind

I did not pick up this pen
for you
only to repress my hand down all the way
and spill all this ink over my bleeding hands

but you,
wouldn't know it anyway
i burnt
behind you all the way.

I long to see me
As you do,
Entirely foreign and
Mundanely beautiful.
I wish to trace
The curves of my lettering,
Attempting to decode
A message I have already
Memorized.
I have already unraveled
All of my mysteries but you
Still startle at each creak
Of the floor, each squeak
Of the door.
Nevertheless,
That elsewise wonder
Is only reserved for
Strangers.

It wasn’t a river  
just a pool,
more of a hotub,
set off from the sanctuary—
and when I was eased
into  the water
I didn’t see God
in the streams above.

And I didn’t see her
lost in the thunder
of the racetrack
just beyond the church.

She was beyond
my line of sight,
soaking up congratulations
from the congregation.

The pastor gave me
a gentle pat on my back,
shook my hand, three times,
handed me a towel
and welcomed me to the flock.

I was just another sinner saved
and left to go his own way,
certain in the faith
that God will provide.

She said she would meet
me back at her place
after the potluck.

I wrang the towel
of every last drop
and  handed it
back to her.

I walked back to
my old white Civic,
turned it over
and felt the
cool Jesus breeze
of the A/C hit my face.

The voice inside
told me to do the
first thing I heard
on the radio.

I heard Ray Charles
in his blindness
croon to me:

“Hit the road Jack
and don't you come back
No more, no more, no more, no more.

Hit the road Jack
and don't you come back
No more.”

The words fall short
of their meaning
the one beyond the read

The lines weaken
and leave the reader
with a sense of boredom

The heartbeat
only in that cage
and fails to bleed
on pages

The papers
become satiated
with empty ink
lacking quality

The poet
loses him/her/them self/ves
in that limbo
between
head
and heart
running on a treadmill
trying to catch the fleeting muses

The poet dilutes
in reality
his/her/their greatest
fear
for that is
what they
try to escape
in every
poem