Do

Hang scripture from your mind.

Hear

the Said

the Taught

the Written

Believe

Your words

Hang up forethought and wander.

The Smell of Smoke in Late Summer

Somewhere,

the where of some forest

into which

I have yet

to enter,

trees slowly burn

to charcoal.

Black

smudges the interior

of clouds.

The results of which

are peaks of stormy gray.

I am distant from these mountains,

but my lungs-

accustomed to air

heavy only with humidity-

strain.

The haze over the sun

builds thick

like bricks;

no one has shelter.

It’s later now,

and from the Southerly winds,

the smell of pine and dogwood

cloak the night.

It’s cloudless

and starless-

a phenomenon

not at all

an indicator of rain boots and umbrellas.

Tomorrow,

flurries of flip-flops

will flick up

a trillion descendants

of one instantaneous spark.

Loud children

will disrupt

the ashen coating,

but so too

shall gravity

dismantle their medieval castles

and uncanvased sketches

that decorate

the sidewalk.

Cumbersome,

each party is

to the other.

Fascination and amusement

trail alongside

all disaster.

Metropolis

What are these roots

which stretch metallically

beneath the concrete ground

sucking up

as much as is

eventually

forced down?

The bumps that

uneven the ground

beneath the step

of Man

are the triumphs

and the failures

of underground desires

springing forth to bear fruit.

Fruit of which

does not grow

to be pesticized

and picked by man

for his consumption.

Rather,

They are beings

that only wish to be looked upon

for inspiration

which try so earnestly

to grow upwards

through the pavement.

At the Vantage Point Between Here and There

Doubt expresses himself
in my ankles,
they wobble and waver
underneath my weight,
but I his worry
roll away
through the balls
of my feet.

clunk clunk clunk
clackity clack clack clack
I've never had
a light step.
Each time I start out,
my destinations
foretells
my arrival.

My heels,
striking first,
lead my arms
in their swing.
This rythmn turn clumsy,
but still I go
along
the wind
of this path.

Direction
Speed
Mentality
Purpose lies
in between
my desires.

Embroidery Thread

Though the rest of her body
moves in time with the flow of molasses,
Fran's fingers still strike quickly
with a needle and thick colored thread
through tautly pulled fabric.
Her skin is loose
compared to the cloth
through which
her needle pokes,
but her veins run through her body
just as the thread stretches
through the embellished
pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and tablecloths
that lay finished at her side.

When the light stops peering through
the double pained windows and the curtain lace
it is time that Fran
settles her fingers
for the evening.
Tenderly,
she begins to fold her wares
into perfect square parcels,
never to be unfolded or adored
until a customer examines it
herself.

Through table displays of wicker baskets-
formed by Frannie's deceased husband-
customers will rifle
for the song bird
whose presence will make their dinner parties
sing when served alongside these napkins.
Each discarded possibility
Fran folds
slowly and automatically
into a square piece of fabric
that displays
a corner of design
unabashed.

Once every article is ordered
into its rightful place,
Fran will retire
to her rough wooden chair
in the corner of her kitchen.
It is dark there,
having but one dim light bulb
nakedly protruding
from its socket,
but her eyes are tired
and accustomed to this soft atmosphere.
Pouring a can of soup
into a blue and white chipped bowl
and heating it in the microwave
is a daily ritual which
she could just as likely perform
in darkness.
The light rests her eyes and body.
It is not until
the steam stops rising
and the soup is once again cool
that Fran can,
with her now trembling hand,
pick up her spoon to eat.

Had the spoon been polished,
or even properly washed,
it's concave end
would reflect a healthy spoonful of a woman.
Instead,
the spoon is scratched beyond knowing
and only rinsed between uses.
The real reflection-
no matter the light-
is haunting.

She wears shoes
whose soles died ten year's prior-
about the same time
as the death of her husband.
Her socks,
woolen even in summer,
have holes through the toes and heels.
One day, there will be nothing,
but their dank aroma
for proof of their wear.
A wrinkled ankle-length
flowered skirt-
the pattern much like that of curtains-
pairs its dishevelment
with a pearl gray buttoned blouse-
white in another era.
Atop her head,
Fran's brush bristle hair
sits fitfully.
The gray mass
falls out of her bun,
but her hands do not bother
to rearrange the threads.

Grandfather

Arms,
stoic and solid,
lead to the golden brown
of hands
clenched tightly into fists.
The crooks of the elbows
and curves in the hands
are worn lighter
looking much like patches
of wooden yellow sun-spots.
The grooves along
this frame,
crooked with wise weights,
are permanently tattooed by shadows.
Time hasn't seeped
through the entire surface yet,
but it has reached
the core of this body.

Bronze tacks
are the sinew
that hold red velvet fabric
to a scratched but proud
wooden skeleton.
The metal is gray with age.
A swipe of furniture polish-
lemon scented for this purpose-
reveals an instant
of mirrors
which fades all too soon.
Such acts of deception
are common.
Watch as spots of white
worn into the velvet
blush red with a brush of the hand.
Feel the cushion's plush exterior
deplete upon your insistence.
Underneath,
bare bones introduce
their bare and brittle presence.

After seventy years of sitting,
there is little comfort left.
Let this body rest
in state,
until those who buried him-
through the fragility of memory-
forget their times spent looking up from the lap
of their father's sand-paper face
and grandfather's rosin-lit eyes.

Vines for Veins

My roots reach into the soil
and my blades tip toward the sky.
I am entangled
in my footsteps
and mixed in
with the underbrush.

I have foot holds
in these
granules of earth,
but I am not kept
from exploring.

Part of me
erodes with each storm,
free to follow
new desires.
Some of yours
washed onto me
taking the place
of rain's etchings.

I am changed
by more
than earth's rotations.
Thoughts of mine
rethink themselves-
sometimes with the shoots of others
giving reassurance
within their shade.

There is no limit to growth
when the sky
appears so infinite,
but my perception
is miscalculated.
Expansion pushes up
against the walls
of other gardens.
I don't always succeed,
but I am
as persistent as grass

creeping up the cracks

in a gray sidewalk.