Tilt, then, gerbil wheel— I will put you right again ev’ry time you fall. Outside, car’s passenger seat finally clean—too late now.
Tag Archives: writing
Office Sonnet
Office Sonnet The filing cab’net’s sleek black sides’ dull gleam reflects the dim-blurred image of a foot all sandal-wrapped with unclipped nails that seem a cowry colored echo of a root exposed from underneath a fleshy soil. Softly sung to eyes, the image weighs as much as steam from cheeks too long embroiled or downyContinue reading “Office Sonnet”
Haiku, 30 March 2018
Christmas lights, hang on! Spring is twenty days away– hang on to your homes!
Drive-Thru Ballad
While driving through McDonald’s for the nineteenth time that week alone, he paused and stared at their menu sign. Little flecks of red and gold upon a field of white littered with black curving shapes, tiny strips of night. The world upon its axis slowed and time refused flower as the patron held those shapesContinue reading “Drive-Thru Ballad”
Typical Friday at High Noon
Typical Friday at High Noon Like an Easy-Bake Oven from hell, the sun stiffens mud and a lone worm screeches in his mother tongue as he’s slowly Han Soloed in the carbonite of home. That eagle over there isn’t all that eager to pry him out. In the distance, Vin Diesel high fives Poseidon. BuoysContinue reading “Typical Friday at High Noon”
The Loogork: A Nonsense Limerick
There once was a loogork named Darg who nightly camped out in my yard. I offered him fish and fresh pretzel sticks which he took as a trade for his log.
The Seventeen
The Seventeen like laughter-clatter, ArmaLite refuse echoes up the hall. A shrill metal bird has been paid to sing arson and lure us to fire. Riddled, we watch as others prod, fiddle with our holes, feel for the thin veil of prayer the dosh demands be woven –ever retroactively–into our skin. Let their fingers burn.Continue reading “The Seventeen”
364-58
364-58 The sky has called in sick. The clouds (grey) hesitate. Watch: they float, crawl, dawdle. Nearly as many NOs as DAYs.
Older
He milks the weeds of his home-town and pours the broth in a ceramic bowl, bitter, drop by drop , like harvesting syrup, that slow serenade of nearly-not-a-liquid, from the forests that spring up out of composting teddybears and trendy teen magazines ’bout music. His mind is a confetti of neon wristbands– concerts, clubs, conventions–andContinue reading “Older”
Headache
Athena, long-limbed and armor-clad, is curled up in the gashapon of my skull– kicking, unborn babe, I can feel her toes , the bone cracking (mine, not hers (her muscles are mightier ; mine shred and quiver me; I am the dragon-roar of her aegis; my face is laden with the bent brow of herContinue reading “Headache”
