Gobble, gobble

wine and dine me:

big 'ole box of wine

orange buttermilk dinner rolls,

green bean casserole,

sweet potato pie -

Run, Turkey, run.

The Glory Hole

It is as if your mind is sharpened to the razor’s edge,

senses sharp, a fine point.

You can feel the crispness of autumn on your back,

at your peripheral is, mutually,

the blue sky and orange glow of the glory hole.

Your hand knows its path

(it should it’s followed it repetitively in practice),

and is working its way up slowly, slowly

to dislodge the plastic dinosaur from the sand.

Scattered around your knees

are the remnants of imprints

that came before the dinosaur:

Barbie’s head, a corroded piece of metal,

the slinky, a piece of bark.

Pieces to be forgotten, imprints to be filled

with molten glass, cooled, then on to bake in Super Freak.


This moment is not about what you have to do,

it is not about the next keystroke,

or what is to come -

It is about the sharpness of your senses and the steadiness of your hand.

time in coming

he'll write you love

letters from the attic
before he sneaks
down the steps
to catch a glimpse
of your world
the tween sketch comedy
absorption of days,
the deepset evening sky,

its thunderous doubt,
lightening strikes
absoluteness

you'll save love

letters composed of
song lyrics,
his kiss goodnight,
and in a moment of
weakness, you'll
retract, flush it all

but between your fingers,
folded in upon itself again,
read infinitely,
behind bold eyes
cross legged on the floor
in front of that old chest -

time in coming
will circle around
itself again