Cereal monogamy

On the front porch
Laughing and crying all at once
She has no idea the vodka belongs on the shelf
Orange juice beside the milk

It is the same front porch
That whispered baseball calls
To my bedroom window
As I peered down enticed

In time, now stumbling forward
Often infused by the same mixture
I recall her laughter was not quite right
And mine often sounds the same

From the front porch I forgive
As any good lesson I read
And now in her face reflected
The moment that I returned




p.s. in the never-ending battle to match wits.

Lost, at See.

Is it my words or merely their attribution?
If they fell from another, more absurd place
A less substantial weight to bear. And, I know
My bed is made and the window remains open
Allowing irony’s profit to be misplaced.

Words, my last few volumes broken, then
Apportioned fault by a guile fleet, far off
On the horizon, consider the last avowed
Rescued last year, and now netted
After the flood pushed everything out.

p.s. and everything from then on.

Echolocation

It was written from another’s perspective. A recollection of a conversation turned first person. Expensive, anti-climactic words ringing in my ears with an unrelenting need to, once again, find voice. In reverse, they became a bit of guilt unfurled to reveal how my selfish needs superseded best interest. Recall that I held on too long, to that room, to that moment.

“Just say it, say it already”

“I don’t.”

As painful as it may have been to hear it rephrased in that manner, I never meant to be cruel. And now, when the melody of the moment presents itself, I am reminded to never again make that mistake. Although ironically, it was only after repeated cost that it became my lesson. I hope it has become yours, as well.


p.s. volumes like breadcrumbs lead back.

There's a word for that.

It is everything built to borrow
made of a moment or two of sorrow
with a roof pitched of tar and nicotine
and everything good that is in between
that has taken three hundred days
sometimes filtered through a painted haze
while holding breath without suffocation
there is love and hate, anguish and elation