dirt on the welcome mat

Monthly Archives: February 2013

When I see the shy pink blossom of a tree,

I scoff at black-and-white photography.

 

We see the blush

But point-and-shoot

And kill

The colors we forgot we grew into.

We meant to

Shake the dried petals

Away from the binding,

But the blinding, aging sun-flash

Won’t stop reminding

Us of the shadows on the dial

We fade as we capture

We develop into masters

Our slaves’ blood the gray ink

Glossed in our history book portrait.

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Under feathers

Huddle all the dark,

Sharp things of the world.

 

The bird womb breeds

Beaked fury that scurries

On Swiss-army knives,

All blades bared.

 

Like sharp treasures

In pockets

Forgotten,

Their cries send needles

Through veins, trains

Whistle more subtly

Than the winged refrains

Of my flightless fear.


Our conversations

click around magnetic corners,

attract and oppose,

the horseshoe metal slides

your sounds

over my red thought blocks,

twists and flips

the silver tips until-

snap-

our heads fold to

the horizontal,

the poles quiver

as our souls

join the elliptical current,

the inseparable invisible,

the magnetistic

meeting of minds.


I am a fortune hunter.

My luck and your future

Are in my hands

If we go out to dinner.

I prefer Asian-

Chicken chow-mein,

A good stir-fry,

Or anything

Accompanied with

A little slip, a hint

Of golden cookie wealth,

Chinese blessings sent

To this fortune hunter.


an old wish

the fur, pieces of bone

that see-saw

in what the raccoon left

when the trees get the wind up

an old wish

the deserted dirt-daubers’

crusty pipe-organ home,

hushed and hard

and threatening

an old wish

the abandoned fort

that grew mossy

and wilder than we were