Sparkle

I wasn’t sure I meant what I said,
so I let it sink in.
She spoke of sunshine,
pleaded with my smile.
Let her pride take hold and steer clear
of my direction.
But this time feels different,
(just like last time)
and I fear she means the worst
of what she’s said.
I’ll store our memories
in hollowed trees in hopes that
once the thaw is done, you’ll be
by my side.

Northern Exposure

You talked about bones
and I chewed a hole in my cheek,
bit my tongue in the process.
Yet I'm left to be
the one doing all the talking.
I won't lie to the kids.

The Weight

Yesterday's poems
and static.
Each word trapped the dark
in this empty cup
and you won't wait
for the sun.
Keep picturing it.
I want you to lose your nerve.

The Future (II)

Eventually:
concepts beyond our current reach.
We write letters never to be sent
and even reread, intrusive.
And we fail.
What little we have;
little we learn.
There isn't supposed to be an ending.
Even so, you did it wrong.


I failed.


The stars are quiet tonight.
You are the ringing in my ears.

The Future (I)

Right now


I have this
ache
between
my eyes


and


I think
(soon)
it will
be


empty.

Crookers

The pinkish hippos spouted on about
the elephants they used to be, back when
occupying barren corners held all the Appeal.
And the Fear of acquiring my own superfluities
nodded my head and made damnsure
my back was against every vacant crook.

Incognito

Lacking my better half, navigation has begun.
Admittedly, I take aim at any peril given
the circumstances I’ve conjured, however this
dragging tempo, half speed deemed as sufficient.
Temporarily faulty metro-tones hit
the back of my neck in time, snake tongue teases.
Even when alone there are Marlons, so I presupposed
interim exceptions and began hissing too.
Time played out as though canvas and every
story was told through an eye or two,
some more blurry than others.
Who’d have thought elevens would serve
as the dearest of friends tonight?

Kids

Manual labor;
planting dreams in barren fields.
Moving mouths to say what
you’re thinking, and realizing you
don’t like speaking your mind.
Here’s where you pick the dirt
from beneath your fingernails
and deny any semblance of effort.

No Shit, Sherlock

I’m not doing this right.

Autobot

Parched (read: starved for attention)
voice box fractures.
Prodding lights reveal early introversion,
eyes pick up the slack.