Time, joy, and other myths

I threw out my squishy heart

and sucked in all the toxic developments,

exhaling into a blood-red sky.


I don’t see much beyond my toes,

but I know there’s more out there

than common genes and mislaid dreams.


The wise woman in the muumuu at Wal Mart

was right: days are long, years are short,

and we pass down suffering like fine china.



Heel-toe, boots in motion

stiff branches gently wave

flying scarves smack of treason

lashing faces upward gaze

Slowly shifting

silent planes

crossing visions

songless days

Flicking prayers

Monday’s heaving footballs

force the path to deepen as it narrows,

the air a heavy burden,

carrying yesterday’s disappointments

as though they were more precious

than the fool’s gold of sentiment

we use to barter with the gods.

We are legion in our confusion,

voicing theories and forming prayers

into mournful shapes on the tongue,

rolled between hands otherwise useless

but decorative as they flick the light

around us up and away.

Winter’s grip

Embracing a wrinkle in

the fabric of time, stretched

loosely and carelessly

as if we could hold onto

invincible youth forever.

I remember laughing

at winter’s chill before

it took the shape of me

and you in a still life of blue.

Maybe it was yesterday or

maybe it has yet to be,

but relief is in your hands.

May we be wise enough

to loosen our grip.