white plains
level planes
white noise
rushing veins
the toys we play with
when urges become too great
to express beyond a biting
snarling exchange
of unnecessary pleasantries
a twisting of extremities
willing to stay
in white space
moving back
white lines
fallen slack

A year ago, it was all bananas
and he called me Pandora
because my box
still held mystery.
An amazing grace
comprised of glazed
nuts and ribald banter
made for a perfect day
– and I relive it over and over
in hopes of achieving
full enlightened monty.
New angles and dangling bits
grow longer with late day
shadows. I am a shadow.

Trench-coat
broad, absent-minded
trembling tenor,
an aftertaste of swiss on rye.
Cut across the back
stippled in shade
– shhh, it’ll fade,
atop a green hill
in ever-present sun.
Hidden in
forced nostalgia
with a side of
saddle shoes and fries.
Wailing window
speeding to the tune
of good ol’ daddios
replete with backup dancers
and a cigarette left to burn.
Trouble
in the form of
thrown slippers knocking breath
against teeth, a reckoning.

Crumbling rock
is easy on the eyes,
the same way moss calls me
to rest my limbs

My spirit is restless;
there’s no Valhalla
I’ve yet touched
I imagine it’s a cozy grey

Rest is a trial
but I’m a success
in that I can breathe
over and over again

They want to discard me
because fixing is too hard
and there’s relative ease
in anonymous landfills

I soar when no one’s looking
but I try to kiss
every cracked rock
and mossy patch I see