Coffee, pen, journal
I told the page a secret
Blotting out the sin
Categories
Tag: metaphor
Categories
Water Has Been Found
Ridges cleave open
Sun screens burn to smithereens
Mars? Arizona!
Categories
Lost Streak
Pond swells after rain
Cactus bitter at it all
Progress down the drain
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Don’t Answer
The moment he calls
I want to be by his side
Like how a leash works…
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Would Old Posts Die Out
Should beasts eat their tail!
Venom… years later, at will
Old posts… not yet dead
If love is a hotel…
And my love is on the top floor…
What gets me in the door?
To the front desk?
On the elevator?
With a key to the top floor? (Of course that floor is locked and guarded by fearsome goons.)
To the same room on the top floor?
And into his arms to save his life?
Categories
Alone In My Mind
With clanging whirlwinds
Still meditating—no breath—
My own voice unheard
Categories
Writer Who Does Not
Writer who does not:
Separate island, stale wind
No thought, words, sound, life…
Yip, yip!… yapping too…
Both good and evil doled out.
This can of worms I…
Categories
Love Then Lost
All the while we snooze
Sorrow billows, tears…. pillows
‘Tis better to have…
Clouds move, but don’t pass
Clung to me with “I need you”
Darkened day and night
Hot skin, cold air, bed.
Email—things spiral quickly.
Time to fight the day.
Categories
Precocious Indeed
“This isn’t too hard.”
Then she fell hard off the bike.
“And life moves on still!”
Categories
Such Is Love
Heart blooms toward him.
There is no safe place to love.
Heart blooms toward her.
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Haiku For You
Suppressed, I yearn still
Perfected a cheesecake too!
Cooled on window sill
Categories
The First Kill
Didn’t feel as dirty as I wanted it to. Just hunting the deer and understanding the death of the animal… I later on smell metal as I feel the air coming through the grill in the truck. The doe sprawled across the front of my truck is the bloodiest part of my life. All else is peaceful and full of life. The only death is what I hunt.
Categories
Let It Not Be
The chosen ones made idols.
Statues of gold and genies right below the present, True and Living God.
Stay far from gold.
Whatever you should decide to arrive in, let it not be gold.
Too oft does gold stimulate hungry pupils readied with greedy hearts waiting to make of you a statue and symbol of meaning in their eyes.
A symbol of something foreboding. Coated completely in matte armor.
Turning shiny in the sunlight
Then back to its lusterless base.
Categories
Fall Is…
Fall is a lanky hipster.
A lanky hipster with a Brooks seat on his bike and a fedora on his head.
A fedora on his head and an infinity scarf draped over a perfectly creased American Apparel collared shirt.
An American Apparel collared shirt not currently found on Amazon.
An original. Cared for and with pride.
Fall is that same hipster, gliding down the street made up of only bike lanes
Grateful for the social distance.
I melt right down to sticky glaze thinking those sweet cherubs had to be consoled of me. Seeing those faces in the yearbooks past, I wonder if I’ve done my job well enough.
Old friends I’ve tormented tell me it made them stronger — made the smiles afterward longer lasting.
Over the years, these dear little snots got softer around their edges.
Posters reading “you are beautiful” and “it gets better” went up.
The board said it warmed some certain groups of students.
“Which ones?” I spat.
“Well, all of them,” they declared. Setting up undue refuge from me.
As in wartime, the sour times do not simply cancel out the daydreams. On the contrary!
They’re complementary.
I alone embedded memories in them with the tools of emotion. Pathos my only lesson plan.
My methods remain tried and true!
Those little suckers pained and stretched and waxed greater.
The biting complements the saccharine.
My old friends, they tell me, “Everything in my life comes back to my times with you. What I wouldn’t give to taste the daze again –– sour, sweet, then gone.”
Monday May 11, 2020
Pearson Pivot 