a place well known

Ink flows on the paper
  as the pen knows what to write
each stroke a new character
  the broken lines filling with tight
script that tells stories
  hip tales of heroes, their actions
throes of pain and glories
  I have no need for names or thought
for the pen knows all
  about their battles fought
My hand is but the vessel
  giving voice to the caper

Jimmy and Jeb

Jimmy and Jeb lived in a loft

Jimmy never paid attention to what things cost

Poor Jeb paid it all

Until he took a fall

and Jimmy’s saprophytic existence was lost

Chip (hour 12)

chip- one little movement
chip- one little moment
chip- one little minute
Like a game of Jenga
Life crashes around me

Dear Me

I wrestle with words,
 create the perfect advice,
I know I won't take

being with you

The fir wood is barely discernible through the fog,
as we sit sipping coffee on the dock.
There is a hush settling around us, but for the frogs,
as, slowly, a moonbeam breaks through.
It trips across the unbroken surface of the lake,
dancing on the mirrored aspect now view able.
I wriggle a little, attempting to shake the numbness
from the concrete shelf we rest upon.
You whisper a soft "Damn." when tipping the canteen
to refill my mug, shows evidence of its emptiness. 
As a sadness settles heavily on to the scene,
you assist me to standing, and we start for home.

Beware the Glitterers

iridescent flitters just to the corner of my eye
close enough to touch, but outside of capture

small creatures swiping at the web of dreams
a visual siren's song to come play away from safety

bejeweled wings whirring in motion designed to entrance
figments of illusion persuading unsuspecting sleepers to yield

beings of fantasy from days of magic and unicorns
lay siege on the one's who left them behind


The empty classroom echoed,

books boxed, papers filed, shelves clean,

awaiting the new year.

The busy classroom echoed,

papers shared, problems discussed, bodies in motion,

energized by the new day.

I yearn for both.


I have a small gripe

It’s not much

Just a little snipe.

It is not a matter of

Pota-TOE vs Po-TAH-to

that’s just a bunch of clatter

Music is personal

there is emotion attached

its connections are special

It is ironic sometimes

that the ones playing it the loudest

are the first to whine

So, play whatever you want to

but turn it down, wear plugs,

I don’t hear music the same as you



The mud pulled on my Keds,

each step stretching tired muscles.


Moisture began skipping up my jeans;

the cuffs slowly becoming bricks of clay.


The septic marsh was winning.

My legs no longer willing to even try.


Strong arms tug me twice and

I leave behind a beloved red shoe…


The price paid for a journey attempted.



Stairs leading up…

no wait, down…

OH! sideways.

a door to …

a door to…

a window?

tendrils of song

undulating salsa

capitulate through hookah fog

specters swim close..

touch and slide away

Calliope murmurs pronouncements

tempered in undertone

meanings only suggested

through collusion of imagery

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