Sanity

We all stand
on the same polka dotted mat.

You stomp the colored spots
like they’re disco-balls. You’re effortless,
the game’s commands flowing through
your veins. Your instinct: Graceful dance.

I start
with the center,
but one spot cannot hold two limbs!
So all that comes next
is a jumble-Read More »

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The Circle of Life

There’s a dip below the clavicle
that begs to cradle the zygoma.
The zygoma makes a sort of
symbiotic, constant cry.

The baby’s satisfied through her mother,
until mom gives her to a man.
Soon he hands her to their baby,
and it all begins again.

On the Possibility of Crossing Paths with a Distant, Lost Mug

Once the travel mug tired of journeying at last
and couldn’t even stand to take the paved road home,
Dave lost the dear friend in all its specificities.
But stomp its foot and huff its breath all it wants,
I don’t think that it will stay stagnant long.
Things roll, people shove, and you never have much say
in where you end up, which is not all bad, because
wasn’t the travel mug made to sojourn?
And aren’t our crimes against ourselves along with the rest,
until our selves break or break out into light?

Winter Night

If the sky is navy and the sun gives off
a lingering bumblebee glow-
If the snow dares to fall but is too shy to stay,
and you start to sense that you’re alone-

If the village is distant and you’re in the desert-

I see how you feel in my soul,
but what do you hear, and what do you cry?
What secrets do you know?