I’m not frightened of the dark
or of the whispering wind as we fly high above the treetops
I have no fear of falling
or of giving up
I’m not afraid of pain real or imagined
in your arms
this night is full of magic
I only fear I will forget
these moments that seem to gilded to be true
moody ruing
it’s so easy, too easy
to share when it’s just words
but try to pry open my heart
you’ll find it’s a messy business
filled with unsolicited soliloquies
and moody ruing
corner store #1
there’s a cowboy at the corner store
a showgirl in his truck
he’s dusty from the trail
she’s covered in stale glitter
I can think of six stories
and two limericks
right away
but catching his sad eyes
and her vacuous gaze at the horizon
I reckon on leaving their story
just a picture in my mind
the press
falling somewhere between needing a winch or a ratchet
to get out of bed and hurl my thoughts to the ether
lining up the letters on the iron press
hands sticky and stained with ink
did Ben Franklin realize the eventual turn of publishing
would turn to posting inane chatter and horny thoughts
and silly pet pictures and pithy quotes
and where was I going with my hammer
what I really need is a shovel or a spade
to bury myself deep within you
and if hardware and tools aren’t sexy enough
next time I’ll try sugar and fairy dust
hazy memory
saying hello is even harder now
than saying goodbye was so long ago
can anything new be drawn
from the deep well
where I had stuffed all the mess
will everything look the same
as my hazy memory allows
or will it be like when I drove past
my childhood home
and felt no connection
no memory drawing me closer
to the familiar facade from yellowed pictures
The Word Rummager 