for the hell of it
for the weight of yourself on your knees
for the whispering sigh of your voice escaping
for the sourness of hypocrisy pickling your tongue
for the darkening thoughts pooling like sludge in your heart
for the tangled dreams that strangle your sleep
for the gods to suit up for the team
for something besides the news
not a cloud
in the sky
1. Underground they stay up late because the longest worm is the one that sleeps in.
2. Pulling yourself up by the bootstraps is a clear sign you need help.
3. If you have a rock garden, the greenness of your neighbor’s lawn is beyond compare.
4. In a secondhand bookstore, the first thing you should do is judge a book by its cover.
5. I’m happy to say that I don’t know if ignorance is bliss.
my heart on the back
of my hand
I take my heart out of its box, dust it off, and fluff it like a pillow. The musty smell of old dreams permeates the room. Later, the good wine gone, we feel the future expand, but our plans grow bigger until we can no longer imagine them.
I put my heart back in its box. It can’t take anymore.
(beat; licking a finger to make the glass sing)
As the ooze cooled, joints jutted between long, smooth slopes. An unforgiving fragility to climb.
a meadow sweats
til the avalanche
The biproducts of entropy and enthalpy. Spinning seasons. The frameworks of ecologies and orbits. Our dance and the many ways we speak.
fingertip living the curved hand galaxy
4pm, outside mcdonalds. school kids are beginning to gather. “oh my god there’s something seriously messed up about that new lad. he’ll probably be a murderer or something when he’s older.”
“he’s such a freak.”
the grubby pigeon
with strange markings –
prince of all birds
Up in the early hours to brew a coffee munch a chocolate bar. Feels a bit of a dare like midnight feasts of schooldays
dark of the pine
against dark of the sky
In an effort to become what you eat you consume seven tons of lobster. Six weeks of complaint filled days pass but no lobsterness in sight. And then on the seventh week, a Tuesday afternoon, if that matters, you notice a pincer growing behind one of your knees.
old fish market
a million dead fish
your hair colour