The Journey

Trace the path from dot to dot until you’ve made a line
Each dot is like a moment
Each segment a length of time
Without all the connectors to hold them all in place
The dots are bits of coal dust
Floating out in space
And without the dots the segments are just a pile of sticks
As lonely as the Maytag man
With nothing there to fix
But dots and segments hand in hand lead to my abode
And past it–on to future homes, further down the road.

@dr3n@1in3 5i^^i13 (Adrenaline is like you can’t even read)

Adrenaline is like your porch light is a lightning bolt
Adrenaline is like your front door is a wind tunnel
Adrenaline is like your hall is a moving walkway
Adrenaline is like your living room is a wave pool
Adrenaline is like your microwave is a toaster
Adrenaline is like your staircase was designed by Escher
Adrenaline is like your bathroom faucet is Horseshoe Falls
Adrenaline is like your bed is a meteor
Adrenaline is like your heart is a wasp’s nest
Adrenaline is like you’re Bruce Willis.


A breeze like water floats in the midnight air
As somethingness envelops: a tender care.
Breathe deep–the oxygen is thinning;
Peace like a cloud on the moon descending.

We’ve walked for miles and talked for a million more,
Yet still our legs press on and extend the tour–
Rock-solid walls but hesitations,
Silence a fuel for more conversation.

I Thought This Would Never Happen Again

Driving along on this miserable evening
The road meets the sky in a blanket of rain,
Pass mile marker 105 and get in the left lane.
The paint on one-oh-five-and-two-tenths is fading
And a towering pine shakes the sky near the bend.
Wake up to the impact of metal on metal;
Wake up to an airbag and mangled car frame:
The sign and the pine both sharp figmentation,
A wild dervish dance of happenstance imagination.
Wake up to a flood of deep muddying shame.


She’s the ace hiding up his sleeve,
The bank heist in progress,
A polar vortex
Screaming catch me if you can.
She’s a spinning top topless—
No she’s not—
She’s a stoplight
Blinking yellow forever,
Two ropes tied together,
A wicker nightstand,
A band with no drummer,
Some drying streambed,
A quick blow to the head.

January in June

The old tree’s shadow on the evening lawn
Grasped desperately at the soft-sprung grass,
Bare branches naked in the partlet sky
As jaded elms looked on at such display—
No pity in their limbs all burnished grey—
Until the coal night hid her all away.

I loved her then; I love her still today.

Consigned to Fate? (Worst day of the year)

My arms are briar patches, little scratches everywhere,
An eggshell kind of fracture, unnatural and rare.
Small rivulets of blood, little inlets running red,
A stinging sharp exaction that can’t distract my stare:

Move Along, Folks (The Lion’s Over There)

I’ve got the house arrest stress tonight,
These feathers all shed around me:
A freshly pinioned bird that fights for flight
Landing sprawled like a crash test dummy.

I’m the south side of the hill

I’m just a sugar rush, a placebo pill,
I’m a fly buzzing up against the window sill,
I’m a giddy crush and a sudden thrill,
I’m the sudden hush and the after still.

Heard it on the Radio

I’m walking down the avenue
And the only one I see is you
And baby you know it’s true
Because I love you

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Because Russ L asked

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