More happens.

Ways worked up:
reasons are trivial.
--a strength

Never lingering
to consider an abuse of trust.

Step back.

Dislike takes effort.

Kill
do not listen
Request

All just fine.

Face me, rejected,
and let's shake hands.
The dew bursts
and saturates our feet.

I'm hearing you in the settling crackle of a flame.
The light touching the folds in our shirts, and the embers settling on our broad limbs.
If I could take the last breath, words rising through cold air to some nebula.
I would let us wrap ourselves together, blanketed in understanding.
The understanding which is hope, pulling all life into a carved ( Read more... )

That night was nothing but violence and packing.  A soft crushing spot upon her mattress and a detached view as she filled the suitcase up. Her anger and her clothing. A bra clutched like an accusation, "Don't say anything," and her eyes were in control as she shook disapprovingly at me. Lights from the driveway next door and the slats in her ( Read more... )

"I have fought to claim my emotions,"
the sky jets into an orange whirlpool,
her turning away and all the broken sticks
crumpled in a sweaty palm,
"but they have been refused me."

The subject of some downed novel
roiling in the heat of desperation,
fingers tipped in release play-acted for a trite.

It is a banded demon,
praying over you for redemption and oranges.

The birds winging into a watery sky
have caught you in the bushes.

The French Kicks        Oh Fine
TV on the Radio        Province
The White Stripes      We're Going to Be Friends
The Long Winters      Pushover
Blonde Redhead      Silently

Bubbling through melt,
handled by singed fingers,
tossed lightly and golden crusted,
I feel like sizzling beneath you.

Normal enough
to sit at the community pool
and wash sand from your eyes.
The sun is a companion
who takes your life,
merciful and clear.
Grass caught in spokes,
forever baking
sweet dead scents.
You throw a plastic bag
into the strangled air.
Waving silence,
the buzz of power lines
holds your life away.
Kicking up the dust
on a construction road,
sighting old, ( Read more... )

They are ending in gasoline stations,
and with simmering anger.

I remember Samuel spoke of time healing.
He sits forgotten upon a bench in New Mexico,
his binding frayed,
sand tucked inside his pages.

Steinbeck, how can you know my father?

Am I caught between the rocky greatness
and sandy bed manners?

Errors and stones,
found upon a doorstep
and dealt forward ( Read more... )