Ballerina Toes, Soirée

through a dark, dark forest.
There are diamond back snakes
in the trees.
Their sleuthing
carousel the branches;
I can feel a
rattled eyes
following me.
I’m pushing
through a narrow,
narrow alley.
brushing stone
wet with dew,
like thumb prints,
their mucus, clings
to bare shoulders
as I crouch
and squeeze
through the room.
I’m moving through
a silent,
with the wind
pirouetting my throat.
my chest with
she exeunt.

Burnt Out

I turned on the sink

when I went to take a shower.

Put a spoon in the microwave

for five seconds at full power.

As a child I had ambition, wide eyes and a fearless vision.
Now sitting in my kitchen as the microwave smokes I’m thinking maybe,

                                              I need a change of pace.

A walk instead of a run, sunglasses instead of sun.
Because somewhere, I forgot that we all get overdone.


a bird in a cage only desires one thing

a bird.
a bird in a cage
thrashing against the metal bars
losing feathers to the whistling wind wiping its wings,
and staminia breaking down with the brueses
along its fist sized body
i am a bird.
i am a bird in a cage
thrashing against the limits of my mind
tangled in lost feathers that float up in gusts of wind
and blind my sight from daylight peeking though the bars
casting shadows on my heart in the shape of
a bird.
a bird in a cage
thrashing against the metal bars
begging for its nature to be its only state.

to be set free, is all a battered bird desires.

Philosophy of Time

The hardest part of waiting
it watching the clock —tick, tick.

Strapped around my wrist,
in a world that’s rushing by,
I’m watching the sliver of gold slide —tick, tick.

The time is merely, relative to my existence,
without this piece of metal I’d have no regard
nor care even, for how many times the plate slides —tick, tick.

Though I note this little circle counts even paces,
with thoughts of you, when my heart races,
I can feel the weight of it, slowing —tick, tick.

I can lift my head and watch the whirling of the city fly,
not missing a pace, all those busy, rushed, lives.
While my wrist slowly pulses —tick, tick.

My heart beats fast and the highway hustles along.
But I’m always waiting, watching the clock, slowly drag along.
Time, is just an idea. It’s not real, and it doesn’t really matter.
I tell myself all this, waiting for the last tick, to leave my heart shattered.

Ash and Dust

And I read them as her words,
not mine.
Every time I see them I know.

But the feeling that follows swallows my heart and mind intertwined
in empathetic regret for the monster
I once was.

then I step back and remember
that this is that control,
this was let go.

Stepping through time with
Both eyes now wide
while she is blatantly blind
and I watch myself growing free.
I watch her fighting for me.

And while breaking my own decisions I’m choosing to forget the fiction in search of a clearer vision
through words.

I’ll search, until I can remember that my words were also hers.

Sleep Talk

She’s talking in her sleep again.

Around 4 am every night

I get up to close the blinds

while she talks to the wall

about the microwave.


I watch patterns behind my eyelids

dance a ballet composed in stress,

and I listen to conversations between characters

that question my own fabric of existence,

and the fabric of my pillow case.


Smooth, cool, a few days overdue for a wash,

and she reminds me the jello belongs in the freezer.

The microwave begins to pop.


She rolls over, I roll too,

And she asks me if I ever feel the taste of the color blue.

She says that most nights, the stars pull her away.

The city lights tease her tongue

while her mind sits atop buildings

and watches police lights play hide and seek

with her future.


The clock burns shrink-wrap over my eyes

and I wonder if my dreams will ever carry me

as far away as she is tonight.


The television timer cuts cold

and she asks if it’s in our room.


I can’t help

        but wonder if it’s me she’s talking to.