Strawberries
that tumble off grocery stands
of dusty wood-colored plastic
wiped clean with rank rags dripping ***** water
and a hint of bleach
to **** germs.
Covered in dripping red
gooey sweet syrup
that resembles sour sauce
of lo mein Chinese restaurants,
but encapsulates all feelings
to nerve tinglings
and lick chops to swallow drowned.
Atop a table
tuckered in the corner
next to borrowed chairs
that mismatch from three to one
and darkened grain and pale wheat
with a broken leg
that will one day topple to the floor.
Retching from inhalation
as breath stops short
lungs rejecting air
from the path of recycle-ment
like tossing used paper bowls
into foundations for isla de debris.
Enlightenment of the general mood
from stumbled laughter
into an inception loop
of spinning tops and trading card games
into a never ending bubble stream
like a train braking
and go to rest.
Dead like a corpse
as in sleep like the departed
where nothing can be bothered
except the alarm for tomorrow.

Because I am scared,
for the shadow of despair,
that will rise as a lion's roar,
to claim the title "king,"
and rain down sorrow,
before the lamed warrior can raise a piece,
or a scholar a pipe,
to ward away evil,
and purify with ceremonious smoke.

I remember when I flew.

The freshly cut grass glued its self to my bare feet, the blades wanted to fly too.
I took off.

A powerful start, rocketed off the damp visage of Mother Earth.
She had great power, gravity, is what they called it.
They said more than kryptonite was needed to stop it.
Gravity, only defeated by breaking the laws of Newton.
I didn't want to break any laws (jail would not be fitting for this hero who needed to be back in time for lunch).

But I kept going, if birds can fly ( and knowing they have much smaller brains ) then I could figure out how too.
I kept going, until my toes kissed the leaves of the oak tree.
Each time I touched the tree time would freeze.
In that moment I watched the wisps of hair flow back and the shadows cross my face.

Soon I was over the trees, doing backflips and summersaults in the air.
I was floating on my back.
The sun warming my face.
The harmonic hum of far off lawnmowers singing in the distance.
I arched my back further and further ready for another backflip.

On my back looking up.
What happened?
I blinked.
A permanent scar on the hero's back.
Sit up.
WHAM
It hit me, the loss of flight, the loss of that reality
and the reintroduction of the other.
It was all gone Mother Nature won again.
A life long battle.
But I'll try to never forget,
I flew

I used to talk about love
Like I knew what hell I was talking about
I had all the clichés mastered
My mind made sense of
Nonsensical things
Like, tackling a girl into the snow
and her liking it...
Because it seemed to make sense,
I did it - and it worked

Back when I talked about love like
I knew a thing or two
I would use Crayons to color my best
Staying inside the lines
But love has no lines
I knew so little that I didn’t catch on
A flawless drawing just means
It doesn't have character at all

Now that I talk about love like
a ******* fool
I step on your toes
I laugh a little too loud at
inappropriate things
I respond to your “I’m fine”
With a quiet hug

When you hear someone talking about love,
Like they think they know
What they're talking about
Just give it some time
Once you realize how little you know
You took the first step toward understanding

She steps into the dark swamp
where the long wait ends.

The secret slippery package
drops to the weeds.

She leans her long neck and tongues it
between breaths slack with exhaustion

and after a while it rises and becomes a creature
like her, but much smaller.

So now there are two. And they walk together
like a dream under the trees.

In early June, at the edge of a field
thick with pink and yellow flowers

I meet them.
I can only stare.

She is the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen.

Her child leaps among the flowers,
the blue of the sky falls over me

like silk, the flowers burn, and I want
to live my life all over again, to begin again,

to be utterly
wild.

I will fight the frigid frost,
to find what I have lost.
I will weather any storm,
my heart beat, strong and warm.

I will fight another day,
I will find another way,
to see you.

I will walk across the land,
just to hold your hand.
I will battle sweltering heat,
to feel your heart beat.

I will fight another day,
I will find another way,
to see you.

And when I finally reach you,
if I ever do,
the skies will open up,
and it will rain love.

And when I finally hold you,
in my arms,
I will show you the love,
I have been saving for you all along.

What happens to your name
After it is written down?

Does it fly to the dead and remind
Them of the beauty they have lost?
-or-
Does it travel the world slipping
Poison in to the cups of little tyrants?
-or-
Does it blow from town to city driping
Glue in to the eyes of racists?
-or-
Does it turn in to grass
Where grass is needed most?
-or-
Does it hang from a chain
In the shape of a cross?
-or-
Does it fall in to a poor mans dream
Sparkling like a stream of gold?
-or-
Does it sit by your side
Watching you grow old?

What happens to your name
After it is written down?

My days have forgotten the sunsets
They only remember the harsh, beaten sunrays
Pounding against the memories,
Heaving, in the background, like a sneeze
Hoping to congest my worried looks
The sun burnt my pale skin,
And I cried,
For the day had ended
But, with it came no golden rays,
Only fractured skin,
Crackling with the slightest touch,
My day had ended,
But not for me,
It ended for the one who scorns, you see.

As remnant snow fails to reach the ground,
promising sunlight through window
warms cold feet
placed there
by an eager
lover of summer

green locker
a new violin
barely fits


grass on knees sun too bright laugh


rush hour
crossing the street
she spills her coffee


discovery of a pond
she killed a frog
that fast

moving day—
children pick
at the curbside