The stuff that comes out a bird's mouth.
let the lies
be truths
the ink blood
skin words
write yourself
write your grievances
on sheets
where the darkness
laid its head
and found
momentary peace
a single chord
works in all keys
your fingering’s right
but the string
still buzzes
frets are just headstones
hiding bones
let them find
momentary peace
i have momentarily
made peace
with weakness
cravenness a close ally
shrugging my shoulders
we are all monkeys screaming in trees
look out for the eagles
look out for the snakes
all fears are now equal
life, death, children, resources,
sex, power, violence,
not being able to sleep
without the tv on
and sleeping with the tv on
——
every poem should be a love poem
not because there’s so much to love
but because it may be the last poem
i’m not being fatalistic
this isn’t about the grim reaper
hovering behind us all
although, of course, he is
no, what if this is the last poem
what if the words dry up with
the next sunrise
what if it’s last tango for
the fingers and keyboard
it’s not as if i have anything
important to say, nothing that
anyone needs to hear or wants to hear
what if what if what if
the next words the next ink
the next electrons cluttering the
snow white screen make as much sense
as egyptian hieroglyphics to
an albino pet store parakeet
someone excavate the feeling out of this
obscure and amateurish babbling
it all comes down to my love
whatever it’s worth
that’s what these words are
that’s what these words roar
that’s what these poems are
sew on smiles with
threads of disenchantment
pulling up the corners tight
pin the grin on the donkey
in place
with sickly yellow pushpins
of dread
show your best have a great day
thank you for coming face
fingers trembling over the
cash register buttons
and behind your eyes
the sound of dentist drills
and chalkboard screeches
remember your time in the forest
with hawks big enough to
carry you off
you get to fly
if only for a moment
was it a fair trade
hearts carry no locks
because no keys exist
to open them
doors have locks
and require keys
and pianos have keys
and produce harmony
and harmony is made
into grits
–wait that’s wrong–
we were talking about hearts
but i got distracted
thinking about breakfast
and i’ve never actually
had grits
if i keep talking maybe
you won’t notice how
my rib cage closes in
on my heart
like prison bars
no locks just
bars
huddle closer to me
ask me to tell you
everything’s
going to be all right
i do
though i have doubts
of my own grabbing at my feet
though every step
is made on
shifting tectonic plates
each the size of my heart
each the size of my life
no physical clocks
in the house anymore
only digital trance mediums
monsters that communicate
silently with satellites
no ticking to mark the time
but still
the earth shifts
but still
the earth turns
i huddle closer to you
and tell you
i will be your
earthquake insurance
the dog, tense, drooling
eyes rolled back showing the whites
he fears the vacuum
——
Haiku Horizons
prompt “fear”
shackled to my ghosts
unable to free myself
–i’m the only one
——
AND
struck in the thigh
the warrior drops to his knees
tasting blood
in his mouth
mixed with bitterness
mixed with fear
mixed with defeat
mixed with regret
he remembers a sunny vineyard
where the dust rose
as he ran the among the rows of
bulging grapes
remembers a girl
with skin as brown as a chestnut
lips as sweet rose petals
and hair the color of
