dirt on the welcome mat

Monthly Archives: March 2011

He makes a steady sound inside

Like a million computers

Whirring in a

Concrete room.

His veins form a

Steel infrastructure


With pumping blood,

There’s no room anyway

For gray matter has invaded

Each cubicle of space

Oh so efficiently.

Riding in a locomotive,

Railway air submarine

At the bottom of the oxygen floor.

Smoky bubbles rise

To the top where they pop

Into white foamy clouds.

Barren tree branches

Stretch their seaweed limbs

Towards the mechanical intruder,

Barns and cars clustered

In colorful reefs

Leave riders gripping seat handles,

Wishing for nets to clutch

To capture brighter,

More fascinating worlds.

a silent space

hangs on a tightrope

between our chins.

it’s not empty,

just quiet

like the locked

medicine cabinet,

like the plastic storage bin

dusty in the attic,

like the black box

that survived the fire.

Grip your comic strip parachute

And float with me.

Let’s giggle down to home,

Naming cities after clouds,

Reflecting the sun in our smiles

Until the forecast

Makes the weathermen dance.

Running your fingers through his hair,

Those light strands

Curling like discarded crayon wrappers.

Can you see the color captions yet,

Or are you looking for

Descriptions of yourself?

Keep clawing at his scalp,

And a few dandruff compliments

Might slide under your fingernails.

You know he’d color you a masterpiece

If you’d stop fingering

Each thought.


Who knew hope flew
With jet black buzzard wings
Which took the sun’s glow
And trapped it in
A tinted sheen that hovers on
Thick swarms of flies
And overused, broken machines.


Fingers to pen, ink to page

These are the vital signs,

More than breath and blood,

Handwritten proof of humanity

In a scribbled stage name,

Undulating letters’

Loops and lines

Measure heartbeats

Around the world.