Sometimes I think the funniest thing about him is that I found him normal-
Getting pulled over, breaking down, breaking back in,
my bloody hand from climbing a fence to get to school and the mysterious sock
that we used to clot, and how that was God.
Rock walls tied to the truck while directing traffic on the interstate
so that ducks could pass- It was SMOOTH AS BUTTER! BOWL OF SUGAR! WHOO-Read More »
Sometimes life has those moments.
They’re the moments where you’re happy,
peaceful, joyful, free. And you’re not
alone. They’re the moments when you don’t even want
to jump out your window and run away
or make a cup of tea to cling to,
as though drinking it might keep you alive or sane.Read More »
At times, telling the truth requires
saying contradictory statements
until you are understood.Read More »
Sweet girl, eyes shining, endlessly dying
for attention she knows I can give-
what she shows with her lips
that she wants: Soft smile, chestRead More »
From snow, some strong leaves
would not fall. For new buds though,
the strongest will leap.
If you had asked the reason, I’d have said,
“Why, because!” for I did not know, but I was not
wrong. Surely the black sky with the city lights
in the grey towers were there, calling to me.
Where? Why, in Japan! I knew becauseRead More »
It’s not in the cliché way
you smile, say Dad and Mom “stayed home”.
It’s the picturesque shot of you
walking into church alone.Read More »
My crossroads were a metaphor,
because where was I when I realized the road before me forked?
In the reclining chair,
painting the epistemic situation in the distinctive shades
of sand, sun, and tumbleweeds- nothing but dust and wind on either
side as far as eye could see. And how was I to choose between,
and win or lose or even move?
But that’s the thing about crossroads. You never paint their metaphor
if you find sitting still an option.
It would be a third path, and you would plow on. So,
pressure. Tick, tock.
But my crossroads were a metaphor! I finally realized,Read More »
There’s a dip below the clavicle
that begs to cradle the zygoma.
The zygoma makes a sort of
symbiotic, constant cry.
The baby’s satisfied through her mother,
until mom gives her to a man.
Soon he hands her to their baby,
and it all begins again.
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?