Once the travel mug tired of journeying at last
and couldn’t even stand to take the paved road home,
Dave lost the dear friend in all its specificities.
But stomp its foot and huff its breath all it wants,
I don’t think that it will stay stagnant long.
Things roll, people shove, and you never have much say
in where you end up, which is not all bad, because
wasn’t the travel mug made to sojourn?
And aren’t our crimes against ourselves along with the rest,
until our selves break or break out into light?

Clustered leaves form a nest for the cloud
as I lie below, the tree’s outstretched arms
strengthened and still, waiting for the sky crown
to up and flit away, as I sit upon the tree’s feet
like a second weight, fragile as a burden,
heavy as royalty.

Place me along the breast of the blue jay when it claps its wings,
that I too may turn concave,
blown back by its power’s rush,Read More »

It is with urgency that the crickets chirp in each other’s gaps.
The wind rushes through the reeds on repeat,
as a lapping wave, and the owls insist
on crying out their rhetoric. Would that I had doneRead More »

My head is blank
empty

vacant
up for grabs

up for sale
if you’re evilRead More »

I am in love enough with details
to be OCD, a poet, self-aware, far too engaged all the time
with every milliquiver of my fibers,

and I think I’m understood,
that my intentionality is seen,
that my terms and movements are known as technical.

But I’ve taught no soul my tongue;
if I do go noticed, I go labeled as odd,

and honestly, nobody cares! They are not in love with me.
And why would they be? I am captivated
by details. I am busy. Making good choices.

Read More »

Welcome back. I guess you never left, huh?
I didn’t invite you here.

This is my mind- the place you roam, though you’ll never know its streets.

It is daytime here, though you and I are star-blanketed.

All the underground thought-lings come out to play now.
You’re dragged along.

And I am played the brand-new season of a long-dead drama.Read More »

Oh mirage,
translucent ghost!
Tortoise barely ahead of the hare,

child of the warm, lasting hugs from the golden age,
then child around whom I could never secure my arms-

Read More »

This, the point of the yellow-green crayon-
the grass of this light, not too bright clearing,
the trees circled ‘round like an audience
or perfect fence, this somehow bigger than recalled
but still small enough to cradle us,
place of our memories.

Still, with the hunch in my shoulders I sense
a peripheral silence. Sure enough,Read More »

Innocent,
adorable,
exactly like a lie,Read More »