Followers

Sunday, December 2, 2012

if not for heaven and hell, what other choice do we have?

i touched your halo
with the edge of longing
that coddled like a child,
at our feet
and in our hearts.

careless,
ushered us closer.

white knuckles
braced in our teeth.

it was cold,
and comfort was still 

against the horizon.

a distant-
unaccountable,
companion. 

a soft(ly outnumbered) 
conformist.

a simple confrontation.

later,
i struggled to breathe,
my fingerprints
rusting on your halo.

Monday, November 26, 2012

black friday

punctuality
-the horror
of waiting
with empty stomachs-
ran paralleled
and unforgiving
(save for all the variables
that are time)
in and of itself,
reasoning.

not wholly unlike
a whole family-
victims of a hit and run.

casualties of nonchalance;
a snow globe
shaken in a desert prayer,

later sacrificed for water.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

in consequential order

"...inconsequential" she said,
"if shade is useless in the rain."

my mind had wandered off.

        (an aggressive sound,
        that should be reserved
        for the more colorful things:
        the sound of her car,
        [a commonplace,
        if left to her own devices]
        turning around;
        the sound of  autumn leaves,
        like her fingers,
        picking and peeling,
        powdering and posturing)

my mind snapped back
as she pulled the umbrella closer
and the difference in height,
made me have to crouch.

she was probably right,
-what ever it was-
it probably was
"inconsequential,
if shade is useless in the rain..."

...     ...     ...     ...

that night,
when the rain stopped
and the power
came back on,

it was already too late.

everything closes
so early around here...

she kicked me in her sleep

        (i pricked my finger
        on a loose nail
        when i pulled the covers
        tighter.)

and mumbled
something about hunger.


Friday, August 10, 2012

Lake County, Oregon


where every page
of our lives
(written
and writing;
hidden,
not hiding;
bound in flesh),

can be carried by the fistful
or buried by the wishful,
the truth
begins to blur.

the edges of arrogance
and ignorance
(startled in the open
by the deadpan stare of a needle
and the breath of a thread),
reach for the peripheral
in a maddening dash
for the past-

the first chapter-

the title page-

any
where

any
thing

but tomorrow.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

surcingle

inevitability
is a shallow pool
masking a perfect reflection
at the bottom of a deep well,
where the replacement
of head and hands
become the catalyst
(tired and fluorescent),
that is a single stone
falling...
trailed by the long exhale
of a ghost.

peach pits contain cyanide

killing time
  is bit,
      by bit,

the narrowing of space
between the present
      becoming the past,
and the future
      patiently waiting
in every graceful arc

that is the punctuation
      of a pendulum.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

coprolalia

both a part
and a place,
where the collaborative efforts
of a wish
and a need,
and a whisper of breath,
crawl from our mouths
in sluggish,
violent forth-comings.

so nonchalant,
that with a flick of the wrist,

a demand,
poverty,
and a vulgarity of breadth,
collide
to grow limbs,
and lungs,
and many eyes
with tongues,
that pierce
and carve little puzzle pieces
from paper thin shadows
that dance,
and clasp,
and multiply

to become fistfuls
of matchsticks.

Friday, January 20, 2012

if it's been a decade, it's been t(w/o)o.

    the years (r/a)ge(d)
    without reason,
                 concern
    (and/or) the (w/h)ands of a clock.

they've become...
the whole-
    to have
        and to hold,

folding reason
into little prayers
      -pieces of paper-
twisted into kindling

and carried by the fistful
to be washed,
         buried
         and later, exhumed

         in every attempt
         to attack forfeiture
         of memory,
         limb, and hunger.

the directions
to follow the ghosts
                     home,
           have blurred.