the race

a sub compact pulls away from the curb, angling into the empty street. it saunters as well as any nearly double decade toyota can and eases over the small hill between itself and the first stoplight on this stretch of asphalt. the driver is somewhat distracted as exhibited by the cars slight sway down the avenue. suddenly it jerks for real. the driver's incredulous gaze is directed out of the passengers side window captivated by their new running mate. the baby throws it's hands into the air, the adrenaline of all that wind in it's face revealed by the fleshy gums bared in toothless smile. it's traveling at speed with the car. the driver remembers time and reacts, hitting the brakes just as the front wheels of the carriage hit the slope of a driveway leading to the street. it's stopped by an outstretched hand and a parent's face, wide with shock, comes into the window's frame. the baby is equally taken aback and it's arms drop like lead as it looks around quizzically. the bent over parent straightens to wave at the driver and the driver is relieved. removing their hand from their heart they wave back and hear the fears begin to quiet themselves and their left hand releasing it's death grip on the steering wheel. oh god, they sigh and think, oh good, i thought i might have to spend the afternoon figuring out who that baby belonged to. the end.


mr. no mister

a cat comes to cross the room, 
back stretched,
paws out, ignoring me; 

he is sleek, he is regal,
and he is the one 

that pays me no attention.
it’s the other one 

who cuddles up to me, no prefix, 
leaving strongly scented presents,
alongside the pillow i’ve learned 
to keep from him. the one 
who became an outside cat 
when fortune, the gods and
the wheels of that minivan stole 

his continence away in the night. oh! 
imagine the vanity and self-control
trailing behind the bumper 

under the sticker proclaiming:
yes we did! 

he has learned to give and accept 
love, bearing wisdom in his limp, 
knowing, his own differentiated image, 
soft, in his hips where scar tissue 
accentuates the weighty tomes his body holds.

this is why i share with him, 
my home, my heart,
but not my bed, never my bed,
momma didn't raise no fool

That Day upon the Plains- Revisited

stand out
in my hands
making skin
a stained glass window

connective metal’s
holding sand
pressured into clay
the alchemy of materials
time and heat
color and beauty
shine in

i seek

hiding scars
stories which decorate
my skin
cracks and tears
time has worn in
all history
pain and love
set me free

contained within
the fire
of a neuron
the composition
of a cell
sources below
singing well

springs of intuition
tinged with recognition
of something


if i can
then why,
a lack? why,

can’t you?


facebook made me a murderer

i just killed a fleshy little bit inside;
each tap and click the pounding of nails
into heart’s squirming surface.
flashing past albums with names like:
bachelorette 5, smooch smooch 11, makes me want to vomit.
a churning of industry
pooping pin-up profile pics made to sell eggos,
the sweet airy delight of wasted mornings passing by
the oldest transmission known to man,
mouth to mouth, turning wall to wall,
and something that could kill us all:
a disease spreading,
infiltrating the network
of what-not’s, doo-dads and so & so’s.
dismantling the matrices,
lines and angles we clearly crowd around
to create virtual images deflecting worn reality,
the virtual leading our hearts eye
toward annihilation at the vertex
of this strung out interweb thingy.
cypher’s space destroyed
by cyber space droids
redirecting the unimagined self

la serena

sarah may have said
love is watching someone die
what of piecemeal destruction?
a limb sliced from shoulder's blade,
groaning glass, metal and rocks;
nevermore relaxing in traffic's gentle swing,
i would wave goodbye to those bygone days
but i'd feel rude, i passed pre-k and know
not to flaunt what others don't have

ten years after

she tells me
and now i know:
it wasn't what i thought,
[more cliche please!]
no commitment,
all the moments i felt to be buildings
crumble to earth in a mad array of ideas once made concrete,
a future we might walk towards
on sunny cold autumn mornings,
the changing of the leaves reflecting the changing of our faces;
the years had flown by with the ease of butterfly wings
looping, then folding, eloping with the air around it
carrying matter and bodies
over lands across the sea,
then the rhyme scheme enters
speaking words called you and me,
and i hate the smooth transition.
in the this landscape of ever changing hues
have you heard the news?

modern love and warfare

a play of plexi-glass eyes,
surprise! none left but us chickens
home to roost,
the coops lie still
witching the hours
till dawn with dreams
of dust and dew
and colonels that parade irony
across festival red and white
windows. what eats what
the bacteria in our gut
might have something to say about it
if our throats weren't clogged
by the passage of the artificial