hawk claws clutching freeway wires
eighteen-wheeler speeds over the underpass
flying more than the raptor right now
wonder what the driver is thinking
traveling alone
heaving semi propped up on tires
trailing long, behind his Kenworth cap
burning a day’s rubber
friction not exclusive to the highway
is he fatigued
in need of sleep
in want of the broad bed where she lay
milk-curved skin and pink perfumed
the way he likes her to wait
shouldn’t have left like that
anxious for the heavy payload and burning light
regretting his exhausted voice
bellowed like his semi’s Kleinn Triple Horn
he soars again and again
cranking his hand to move the big lady into gear
her gentle touch lingers on his skin
honeysuckle air freshener and hand-rubbed leather
he’ll get the haul done
always does
this warrior of the asphalt
dreaming and moving lives
so he too, can lead one
that speeds him back to her
what story will this be
Backseat
Waiting
Quiet and low
Steel eyes trapped behind metal car door
Glass window mocking
No view to the street
A world crisscrossed with yes and no
violence and peace
He lies there
On his back
Silent
Thinking about his family, his life, his choices
Circling to this moment
In an unmarked car
Followed from the crime scene
An old-school mafia hit
From another time
Only one commonality
His heritage
The dark looks that placed him in harms way
Undercover
This moment
His wife, his children
Clinging to a backseat
A tale papa may one day tell his grandkids
His ears are his eyes
The men are closing in on the car
He steadies his service weapon
What story will this be
this is a work of factual fiction
thieves of humanity
Many years of life
How tall our shadows
How lifted our minds
Rising above their tiny shoulders
we watch over them
until the day their eyes meet ours
We savor surrealist skies for beauty’s sake
relishing in the sun-fire ebb and flow
But when fires of chaos burn their bodies
beauty dies in a charred hole
and there is only repulsiveness
Violence bears down
pressing away their childhood
squeezing out the right to a life filled with sunsets
Humanity is a selfless compulsion
its depth fills the soul, the heart, the mind, the spirit
For some, this form reduces into flat, discolored rage
These people are not the of keepers of innocence
These humans are the thieves of humanity
Every child is a musical instrument
take just one away and the harmony weakens
descending the stairs
Light enters the foyer, he hears me descend the stairs
All fourteen oak planks slammed by my humping feet
His morning routine proceeds uninterrupted
It is I who must accommodate him every morning
He yawns and returns to slumbering on the sofa
I make oatmeal the same way every day–
blueberries, pinch of peanut butter, water and a splash of almond milk
Occasionally, red strawberries
I ascend the stairs with my favorite bowl still warm from the microwave
Without fail, he follows me
He won’t make his own breakfast and I always share mine
I know he loves me
I must believe this
The urge-to-express forbids genuine rest
All who write or art would say the same
We descend the stairs daily
Make our work
Then push ourselves into the closed arms of others
If what we’ve made is enticing it will be swallowed, ingested, absorbed, eaten
A chance of being crapped out forever nipping at our heels
Still, this incredible urge compels us
If what we create each time is desirable–
they’ll climb the stairs, even fourteen oak planks, again and again
Wish I knew my writing and art were appreciated
as much as the damn dachshund loves my oatmeal
Homage Picasso/charcoal
a borrowed angel
Passerrines explode from a feather cannon–
an ominous burst more foreboding than a tempest
Endless bits of triangular blue make the sky an abstract puzzle–
coming together or falling apart
Their chattering blankets suffocate my precious morning peace
How do these frenetic creatures hear each other
Does it matter to their tiny process
The starlings remind of a biblical pestilence read about as a child–
invasive species, legged, winged and without conscience
Millions of flapping wings force the trees to sway
How black these birds with their beady little eyes–stolen magician’s opals seeding the sky
Ear-shattering thieves of brightness
To diffuse my peril, I unhook the waking senses
In the empty spaces of my blank, Helen arrives
A borrowed angel
eye-less
ear-less
Quiet now
See her
Hear her
Through dense feathered blinders, she manifests a brilliant blue sky
Flocks enter her sealed cave–
she hears one birdsong above the rest
The plague of starlings brushes low to the ground
Cerulean returns above
The screeching pestilence covers my property
her Speaking hands guide me
her Silent words teach me
to hear a single clear note above the din
to see an emerald ocean above the sea of feathered black
My borrowed angel is a spirit of imagination–
an artist of the senses
I have been both deaf and blind
She has not
Ra
dedicated to Helen Keller
change the shadow
A time to cleanse the white winter dust from our bones
See beyond the eyes we’ve settled into since birth
There will be bursts of newness now
Duplication is not possible in nature–
yet, we humans often manage repeating ourselves
There is a comfort in settled experiences–
solace in our familiar numbers
One’s own purpose lingers beyond the grassroots of life
As foundations burrow in, and the sun effortlessly alters shadows
there are tiny moments
The slightest current can lift a seed passed the tempting border of sameness
Convince, prod, cajole, plea, praise the mind
Allow your heart and body no choice–
but to follow
Robin’s Tree
a work of factual fiction
I’m worn out this evening
Not sure if it’s the life around me
or in me
It’s exhausting trying to guess all the people someone might be
The person, I can’t become
All this circular mystery
I get dizzy going in circles
Question marks hover around my soul-
fishhooks trying to bait the truth
That I can’t tell you
Not because I’m deceitful
Certainly, because I’m dishonest
Here, a thin sliver of me–
a fish scale on a dead seashell
I can’t stop thinking
This is not a flaw
Not a fact
It just is what it is
My mind wanders
Disconnects from other parts
I go places I shouldn’t
with people I shouldn’t go with
We do things, I’d never do
Except I would
if I were anyone else
This is a work of factual fiction
latent images
You press my eyelashes to my face, so I can sleep
You understand how latent images frighten me
Linger-ers of things no longer here
Specters of visions previously forgotten
My REM world has no room for ghosts,
when my daily world explodes with spiriting insanity
The floating muses who once fed me fire are burning away my soul
Half the time, I want to die
The other half, I need you
You hum my favorite song to me, even though you think a tune from,
Mr. Magoo’s: A Christmas Carol, is ridiculous
“…millions of grains of sand on the shore, why such a lonely beach…”
Taunting demons keep the headless roosters raving in my head
I badly need your sweet notes, like cotton clouds, to muffle these assaults
There is an empty slope on your side of the mattress
I smell your assuring body in the pillows–
beautiful lips in the sheets
Your undisturbed water glass has collected my tears
Singing silence, is a sound worse than death
Death, is a sound the earth hums when her children return home
I’ve sliced off my eyelashes
Shoved broken toothpicks against my sockets
Stare at the television without blinking
Click the remote
Latent creatures slither into my eyes
Crawl up the sides of my brain–
rip at the cracks of my skull
They whisper horrid things to the better part of me
I will dance with demons
I will romance angels
I will scream at the Holy Spirit
I will allow all manner of vindictive specter–
every hellacious image of the night to dwell within my soul
I will not desist until you rest beside me again
I am not supposed to be here without you
Barska
Deep inside the crocodile’s dank maw,
we hid our treasure, a currency to happiness–our recompense
A thick-legged serpent with its murder’s row of razor sharp stalacites,
was to keep all predators away
We tossed paper after paper into that steel creature
Spent a lifetime saving gold to travel around the Horn of Africa
Oh, the promises sworn upon our sweating bed
witnessed from above, by a blood red moon
We were to journey by tall sail and broad sea
A pair of golden, umber eyes just below the surface followed our wake
When her reptilian curves broke the wet plain, she leaped on top
The tribal shield slid away from your body
We were to journey by sunfish sail and night sea,
but we drowned in the murky fathoms
While I was dreaming of observing crocodiles in their native habitat,
you turned into a cold-blooded reptile
I am taking what is mine, regardless of your crocodile tears,
as soon as my trembling fingers can punch the Barska keypad code
Croc
toilet paper gown
A toilet paper gown has outlasted this fondant fairytale
Our dark lies gessoed white on white
Look at me leaping into a downpour
I’ve grown so very tired of ikea domesticity and Wayfair lighting–
dressage for mules in horse harness
These tissue sheaths spontaneously combusting, quiver my body
You once did this for me, do you even remember,
flesh-dancing with a blue fire no ocean could smother
I’ve become a zombie waltzing in a deluge
Alone
You and I suffocated in Egyptian cotton well before this pulp symbolism
Now my white paper gown disintegrates, I pray to the black prescient sky
Look up, nimbus clouds hide nothing-they never deceive
Dearest Love,
We doomed ourselves to this Pompeii,
the moment we under-appreciated the dark sky and caressed our monogrammed bath towels
