Ambulance

 

Fez beacon:
siren peal.
I collapse in startled gritty fear:
one hand upon the wet concrete
one tearing into my jacket
as the beat fades
with the doppler cry
of someone else’s mercy angel
reaping.

 
 

Arachne Reflection

 

Standing drentched reflecting
prostrate in the shower I
cast my gaze up and catch
a glimpse of a frightening
cornered speck causing me
pause.
 
Such a potent visitor for its
relative size, whether or not
it has an ant’s giant strength.
Though it must, ’cause i’ve
seen the two tangle before
and the latter surely wasn’t
ever the victor.
 
I try to ignore the unwelcome
presence and go about my empty
daily chore, but realize it a
futile forgetting.
 
Why can’t she let me alone
to my solitary moment.
 
And I pray a little wish to the
ancients that seem so strange
to have ever been believed in.
And wonder in passing how they
became gods.
 
I pray to that Athena that she
may take back her curse, so I may
worry about something more worthwhile,
like why there’s a beautiful
seamstress in my tub.

 
 

Behind these Mirrored Rims,

 

I watch.

Hoping against what I know isn’t true
that they will elude
reflection upon my reflection
by shining back only a
warped reality of what

I watch.

A reality possibly not
too far different
from what I perceive
or just hope to be
what I am seeing when

I watch.

But I fail, because
all I desire is to
communicate myself in unison,
to stand up and say
“I am watching,” to whom

I watch

to make the passive eye,
or rather me, an active
I, or rather voice,
but behind these one-way
reality filters, all I can do is

watch.

 
 

Leaving

 

why are your nevers so
different from others?
why do I feel that
mine are so different
from yours? i miss you,
my heart. how it hurts
that these goodbyes are
real goodbyes and that
these moments are
decisively last ones.

 
 

Snowcone

 

I went to the fair because I sought the crowd
Not the rides, the food, or the sticky-stickies
I went to find the missing piece of this hole.
Now I stand here in dumfounded awe that I was wrong.
All of those times I peered through to the physics
of the experience, I was missing the simple aspect.
Now I know to allow the power of the moment to meander
its own course and cherish the gifts it brings.
To enjoy this snowcone melting so quickly in my hand.

 
 

The Spear Fisherman

 

With enticed entrancement, he stalks
the ridged shafts, gleaming
within the shadowy grasses and stone.
Schools of bleached and speckled forms
undulate in the tidal winds
as he poises to make swift contact:
goring ones cottony innards
through its paper-thin skin,
with his invasive barb.
Raising the catch,
he casts it aside, with no reflection
into the pouch at his side,
and goes about his interminable duty,
clearing the vast quadrangle
of its scattered debris:
the multitudes of cigarette corpses.

 
 

The Mating of Letters

 

A ligature of thoughts.
A concatenation of symbiotic figures
scattered, nestled around words.
 
Flowing over pages,
those lost moments that
apprehension allows pass by.
 
The structured gentle blindness
that envelops our perception
as a hope that we desire
floats by us.
 
A wish to look through
a window that isn’t there
anymore.

 
 

Lyme

 

tic, tic, toc of the parasitic tick.
toc, tic, tic he’s gonna make you sick.
clock, chitter, click:
                              chitinous pickpocket.

 
 

-ing

 

yes, do.
no, sit.
leave me to my me
and me to my thoughts
finding this answer
to question the thought
of personal bewilderment
mining for patterns
among gaps between neurons
that electrical pulse
of a sensational moment.
on and off
spark or not.
water am i
though my head is on fire
and the oxygen’s thick
around my pulsing skull
to get that getting
of what the what’s words are
to be wondering the wonder
that makes me me and
the telegraph wire between
us us resonate with the
beat beat of a thought.

 
 

Growl

 

Enzymatic Catalytic Grumblings
Chemical Physical Desirings
My mom always said
Never go to the supermarket
when you’re hungry.
Though I wish I was there now.

 
 

Fall

 

Death comes to the painted ones,
only now do they show their hues,
life slowly drained by cold’s harsh breath,
bringing the sky painters’ ominous death.

 
 

Greener Grass

 

A man once said, “I’ve heard stories
of people going out into the desert and disappearing.
I envy them.”
How envious I am of him
that he has forgotten,
how          l  o  n  e  l  y
it is to be out sitting
on these dunes tonight.

 
 

Tense

 

How proud I have been, that		perfect
you will be content, with		future
the image of yourself you are gaining, by		present
what you will have realized, you		future perfect
were leaving behind.		imperfect

 
 

Shadow

 

Every man’s, yet only to follow.
Dark of soul, yet inside hollow.
From the sun’s son, this being born,
yet never from it’s master torn
 
Darkness’s hide, but only in part.
Darkness’s son, its form such art.
Darkness’s child, this creature of day,
to twist, to turn, and then go away.
 
Hidden within its brother, Night.
Harmless, yet causes such a fright.
Shapeless, yet it shares its shape,
mimicking monsters, making mouths gape.
 
Pleasant company, this teller of time.
As tall as a mountain, but never a climb.
Always to ride close to the land,
always to lie, never to stand.

 
 

Pairing Fruit

 

sitting at a butcher’s block composing
a medley of taste and color.
Some for a portrait, some for juice,
all of it to probe a memory.
 
It’s difficult to hold all of that sensation in my head,
to know quite how it will blend.
I try and remember what has worked and failed before,
looking back to concoctions gone sour,
and alloys that weakly surrendered to my taste buds.
 
I’m looking for that good point of conflict.
No pulpy mess, rather a fullness of
seeing and tasting textures.
A subtle argument: shards of acidity,
buried inside a satiny sweetness.
 
A citrusian personality,
passionfruit discord,
paradoxically flavorful.
That is my goal,
enough counterpoint to make it interesting
without envoking an all out bloodbath.
 
Essences tapped and trapped:
Golden alchemy.
I complete my potion and hope
it will provide the desired metamorphosis.
Honing my awareness of my sedentary subject.
 
I take them in to vanquish my parched lips
and provide a biting sated dryness upon my throat.
The cold flowing metal, with it’s tart rust
and distinct razor edge cleave their way,
eliciting a contented outward breathy gasp.
 
I now work to conjour, placing the bold icons,
having decided upon the one of many invocations will stir
the profound still affect of my audience.
 
Quickly,
not to lose the fading moment of projectable flavor.
 
Complete, I cast
but a gaze,
towards my hostages.
 
Content.
I work to embrace my victims with the bold permanance
of other earthly essences.
Striving to emulate their screaming.
 
“Hear them,” I pray.
“Listen to their war stories,
the battles and tales you know from your innocent years.”
 
I’m searching for that sweet amalgam.
Who goes with my orange juice?

 
 

The Scattering of Light:

 

The horizon rises before my eyes,
its colored splendor stretched thin,
the clouds pulled from bound to bound
like taffy hanging sideways.
An inviting pink, their thin tops, the
undersides rosy with delight.
For the sun sets and the darkness creeps,
its arms bending to hold
the world from behind my stance,
flowing to touch my back.
A cool breath upon the nape of my awareness.
Its gliding presence like a stream
broken free of its dam:
appearing distant
               until it is upon you.
Its power, with abrupt silent thunder,
overtaking
all that stands in its path.
This sudden change of atmosphere
resonates through the skin
and my body reacts
with unrestrained reflex
to shield itself from
night’s embrace.
My arms rise as I turn
to look over my shoulder
at the illuminated treetops
painting the stars of the blackened sky.
 
Silently I depart that overlook
feeling the dew form under my footsteps
as I enter the new twilight.

 
 

Stump

 

Oh, stump of fallen oak tree,
remnants of the ancient sage
whisper tales of time to me,
wind be your voice, bark a page,
the story of rooted existence.
You, silent among the creatures,
watching the natural balance,
share what weathered your features.
Let me see better the way things exist.
But I look at your worn face,
I realize it hidden in time’s mist.
We both are fleeting in this space.
So as I contemplate, be my seat,
a place to rest my tired feet.