Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Stream of Consciousness

I stood at your grave,
with fists full of change,
change in the form of words,
words I couldn't previously say,
due to tides of time,
ebbing and flowing in the form of
change, change in the form of words,
words I collect in a felt hat, as
I busk for saplings of change,
change in the form of words,
words written in ink, exchanged
between changing strangers,
in the rain, on the bus, in the
train station, as people change
hats and faces and trains,
trains in the form of thought,
thoughts I collect in a cup,
a cup I keep above my bed
with a straw, a straw in the form
of a speaker, a speaker moving
voices, holding song, above my bed,
talking about

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

A few servings of Haiku, in bed

This is not the end
We are despised, yes, but hey-
There's always the sea

I make no judgments.
But, sonic aesthetics? Well,
that... That doesn't count.

Of wild, elusive facets
You show none but one

"Lay Lady Lay" looped
As we made love until noon,
Wish this bed were brass

"I only have eyes
for you," he said, she pondered,
then gauged, whispered, "Thanks..."

I am constantly
Coming up with new ways to
Say I do not know


Slice onions with your shoulder blades
Pummel you blue
Made promises amid fits of laughter
You knew not to believe them
Didn't you?

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

¼ Haiku, ¾ Whimsy

There's something about
Cacti and fresh paints that gets
Me hot and bothered

Photograph not my intellectual property
courtesy of "Native Body Art" by Fiorella Podesta

Tuesday, March 9, 2010


I may turn this into a longer short story, flash fiction OR I may just let it stay a short-short. We will see. Regardless, please fling your criticism forth.

Growing up, my mother always worried about me. She would say things like, "Honey, you don't have to take the stairs. There is an elevator, and the chances of a fire occurring are far slimmer than the chances of you falling down those stairs and breaking all of your frail, little bones..." Her voice dripped with saccharine concern. I could tell that she prized me, and not in the typical motherly way, but in the same way that she prized the dozens of collectible figurines she kept in the glass case in the living room. One night, when I was fourteen, I crept out my bedroom window to catch a 10 p.m. showing of American Graffiti with my best friend. I could tell you that we were wholesome, angelic teenagers but then I would be lying. Innocence is mental and behavioral, and while my behavior was charmingly meek, my thoughts were crazed and wildly rebellious. Daydreams of mine consisted of intermittent bank robberies and hordes of hormone-crazed teenagers painting each other's bodies in layers upon layers of pheromones . . . real kinky Bonnie & Clyde shit. While watching American Graffiti, a sudden electrifying urge burst forth within me involving Richard Dreyfuss and copious amounts of leather. And I never was the same.

Prosetry I

That was the night in which I traversed several roads to get to one, the only one that welcomes me in the same, uniform way every time I cast my eyes upon that weathered, dual-decked vessel. After further mummifying my wrist, I scurried inside and could smell the holy dilapidation of something so loved that it’s destroyed. Even the surrounding sidewalks remain enamored with dirt and mud and muck.
Do not bother wiping the ugly remnants off your shoes
allow them to be danced
jumped off