Hour 12


Skis never used, poles missing

Electric guitar used twice

Old love letters and postcards in a box

Shoes, some never worn

Graduation gown, used once

Full sexual identity

Pillow case, top sheet missing

Boomerang from Australia, thrown once

Scarf from Italy, team unknown

Earrings, dust covered, Heather’s?

Diplomas, framed, scratched slightly

Electrical cord, frayed

Hopes, written in journals, pages yellowed.


Hour 11

Of all the pills, candles, aphrodisiacs

That litter store shelves.

Healing crystals, special powders,

Gum, drinks, things found

In gas stations.

None have half the potency as

The one item that is both hard and soft,

Sweet yet salty, cool and warm

And a dazzling display of colors,

Loved by men and women

From all walks, easily enjoyed daily.

Humble taco, there for us

When our own natural feelings and

Functions fail us in our moment of need.


Hour 10

“What is love”

Misattributed quote says love

Is finding your weird partner and

Being weird with them.


Movies tell us love

Is recognizing our soul’s counterpoint

In another.


Books tell us love

Extends beyond class

And privilege.


Commercials tell us love

Is a diamond, a card, a

Bouquet of dead flowers.


Life tells us love

Is precious, rare, violent, painful,

Soul rending, necessary.


Hour 9

The tremors that hit the heart,

A drop in the bucket compared to

The many earthquakes and floods

And fires, shape it into something

We don’t recognize.

Red like a beet, but dimmer than

A lightbulb, it shocks our system

And short circuits our brains

And makes them just a car in

A carport, rather than the highways

We prefer. Without them

We are a dull husk, with them

A Frankenstein’s monster

Lumbering, lonely, but alive.


Hour 8

In the woods that is our hearts

There live the trees that whisper dark secrets,

The brambles and pumpkins that leer

And the paths shrouded in mist.

Priests and teachers try leading us away,

But crows and skeletons of our past

Dance and grin and hide in shadow and

Lead ghosts to torment us in our sleep.

Those not dragged to their lairs only visit,

The way the Church corrupted the Pagans,

Pretending, dressing, asking for treats,

As though the demons were their idea all along.



Hour 7

In the river inside me,

It flows in starts and stops,

And weaves around dams in my heart.

There are few passengers

In the river inside me,

Few wanting to brave its treacherous waters.

The riverbeds are drying, the water turns green, and soon the fish will finally die

In the river inside me.

Hour 6

The quest is long. Years that stretch

Into decades, bones that feel every mile.

You ride metal, and flesh, the sea and sky.

At the end your body no longer cares

To see what is at the edge of the world.

Your heart drinks in the answer when you

Peer over the side: not turtles all the way down,

No giant’s shoulders, no mountain top.

It is the lovers, the dreamers,

The romantics, the hopeful, and all

The fools who carry it on their heads

Precariously, not careful but dogged.

You leap in to help.


Hour 5

Another doll torn to rags, naked and

Disheveled, marked with strands of red and black.

The last had marker upon her face,

The one before that with head bent around.


The boys see another boy playing too rough,

It is always the boys who wreck the dolls,

Toss them across the room, twist them where they shouldn’t,

Burn them to see how the plastic melts.


The boys lie in wait for the mean boy,

Hope he screams or leaves something behind that

Will show his house where he has

Sleepovers with other mean boys.


The boys hope he has no more dolls,

Hope to stop the games he plays,

Put him in a playground where the teachers

Keep an eye on him.


Hour 4

Everything will change they say, half

Are doomed, ventures that end nowhere

Or bear fruit that turns poisonous.


Outdated, based on slavery, dominant

Wills that trade freedom and sex for

Comfort and banality.


To beat the odds then, to have rolled the

Dice without realizing you were in the casino,

Is to be thankful and pray the house doesn’t win.


Hour 3

The contours of architecture, of roads,

Of waterways and a good cooked meal

Mimic the beauty of that mysterious thing

That has baffled artists forever. Lines

That are smooth, crevices that promise

Paradise, eyes hidden behind a smile.

All of it stands apart, the Outsider watching

And wondering how a thing can exist

That wasn’t crafted by some Being.