Category: Poetry
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Three Counts
I cannot draw but I did my best to gild the functional canvas of his field-trip lunch sacks with apple trees and iron gates and atoms and books. (It was the only way I could be there and anyway PB&J is boring enough.) The truth wasn’t, though. Needed neither apples nor atoms to make it…
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Yes, But
Our fear of slippery slopes kills joy in its sleep, ties God’s hands behind our backs, rises from Satan’s coffee to curl about his face as he stands in his bathrobe watching a black dawn loom above the trees.
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Double Slit
God is love and light particle and wave the infinite entanglement that binds creation with laws we cannot touch but are touched by. We move as we are moved love collapsed into hands that once observed serve either others or ourselves.
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Crazy Cat Lady
I cradled him, fresh from a morning surveying his kingdom, into my face; smelled winter beneath his fur, flowerbeds behind his collar. Wondered at those who collect these haughty envoys, risking the ire of municipal codes and threadbare trope of crippling loneliness to surround themselves with smells of life, now, beyond their grasp.
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My Life As an Adverb
in the beginning was the Word; it has/will been/be, ever since/more. some (words) are more import- signific- relev- ant than others, without which the story is lost or meaning less. some ARE, some DO, while some ARE/DO both while never break- ing stride. the others, though, gild and embellish are clutter and noise, momentary- ily…
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Nimble
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Straws
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Have You Seen My Trowel?
I imagine archaeologists to be a rugged lot. Thick-soled boots like the treads of earth-movers, caked in ancient and illuminating grime. Wide brims and handkerchiefs and mirrored sunglasses to guard against a bully-sun cracking its knuckles. Scrapes and bruises; dehydration and sunburns; fingertips raw, knees creaking, eyes gritty and red. And pockets. Lots of pockets.…
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True Story
In memory of Anthony Lamar Smith. I. Patterns are important. They trained us to use stickers stuck to name tags to create stucked mosaics of remembering that I was they were we had been stuck together. The un-unstuckable promise of future stuckiness. II. I am the Friday Man the Story Man the Teller Man with…
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To My Neighbor with the Belt Sander on a Lovely Evening When I’m Trying to Enjoy My Book after a Day of Meetings and Migraines
We fill the silence with ourselves. Afraid of absence of stillness of soundless. The truth we hear when nothing speaks.