Sunday Morning

The dandelions have gone to seed,
And the neighborhood has gone to hell,
Broken twigs litter the yard,
The post box is filled up to the brim with cards
The old man from down the street,
Lost his wife and thus his ride to church,
And our car still drives just fine,
But Sunday morning is our "sleep in" time,

College

Adventurous archetypes aligned in an arduous assemblage.

A bastion of bemoaned bedraggled yet becoming beatniks.

College

A deluge of desultory dalliances I dare not deign to disclose

Blue Skies

I went to the wild,

But it had been tamed,

I returned to my city,

But it's buildings were maimed,

I prayed to run fast,

But my left leg turned lame,

I waited for praise,

But I got all the blame,

I met a beautiful girl,
And I was never the same,
I thought I was the hunter,
But I was the game,
I searched the whole world,
But all the places were named.
I drempt of blue skies,

But they never came,

The Rain Fell Soft

She looked me dead in the eyes.
“I’ve always loved you,” she said.
The rain fell soft on the ground.
“No,” I said, “you never knew me,
And I’ll always regret you.”
She looked away.

A Psalm

You let me stand alone,
Like tall grass in the wind You let me blow about.
I am let to the whims of the wicked,
Victim of the judgments of they who would call themselves righteous.
Tell me again how You came to save me,
Save me from this plague that You let me into the world with.
This body is a cage,
And my wretched essence is no soul.
You have left me here to die,
You have left me to rot for the sins of my father’s father.
The men who claim to be Your sons,
Have given themselves to wickedness and hate.
You say that You will give me grace,
But I struggle to see Your gift as justice.
You are above all things,
But I have seen few things it is glorious to be above.
You say that You are love,
But I have not seen it displayed.
You have left me alone on a rock with a book,
That men tell me to read, and by men was writ.  

Chicken Soup

The truck rattles my house, the buckling sound as the bounce down the street crashes like thunder.  And I lie sick in bed thinking, "Chicken soup actually sounds pretty good right about now".

South For The Winter

I am the red eyes of a man in a photograph,

A square peg first introduced to a round hole.

I am abrasive like steel wool on dirty dishes,

The ottoman that Dick Van Dyke trips over,

A bear eating honey straight from the comb.

I am the sound of metal scraping against concrete,

A bowl of homemade guacamole with a hint of lime,

The place where conversation meets silence,

The brake drum from your first car.

I am the Eucalyptus tree that every koala bear hangs from,

Catching fireflies on warm August night.

I am afraid of what I may become,

Admiration mistook for mumbling.

I am the forgotten number twenty three,

The fireworks on Chinese New Year,

The itch on your back that you just can’t reach.

The Golden Retriever

The snow fell from the clouds in clumps as thick as popcorn.  It littered the ground so that only the tire tracks on the cobblestone road were visible.  Even the footprints leading into the house from the night before had all but faded from the walkway.  As he sat on his porch, shivering, he held his coffee close to his chest and took a drag from his cigarette.  He exhaled slowly and breath rose like a smoke signal to the clouds, his only response to the vast blanketed sky.  As the ash crept closer to his fingers, he gazed across the street. Perhaps it was just the wind on the back of his neck, but somehow the house across the street reminded him of an old childhood movie; The Brave Little Toaster.  The windows like eyes, the chimney a nose, and the blue van that hadn’t moved in weeks, the mustache, of that old air conditioner.   He paused and smiled for a moment.  Childhood.  At twenty two it already felt like an eternity ago; a term from some amnesiac past he could only call to mind flashes of.  Yet he wasn’t an adult, at least he wouldn’t say he was.  What did it even mean to be an adult?  To own a car with over 100,000 miles on it? To work a minimum wage job that just barely paid for your rent, groceries, beer and cigarettes? As he took another pull and ashed the burning cancer double agent into the glass tray, he watched his neighbor shovel her driveway.  Her trusty golden retriever frolicking through the yard, stopping only to shit in the snow as pure as the white of a virgin’s wedding dress.