The Sky

The sky seemed strange
still so large
eyelash dangled
between
orange-blue-orange
clouds

Coming As We Were

You’re soaked in bleach for a trend,
acid burning holes through jeans.
You flaunt faded tie-dye tees that
used to be more vibrant.
It stings your eyes to hide
that now forgotten shade of brown.

Insides burned like an exploding sun,
a boy’s haircut on a nine year old girl!
Curls chopped to the ears… Please,
turn away to laugh at that last line.
Some memories fade much faster than scars
from canning on our old dining room table.

Bleed Through

Does it bleed right through from me to you? Are my thoughts placed flat or running like a racing rat? Do you notice the absence of incense or the abscess of stress that grows in a knot in your gut? Does it bleed through a white shirt? Gory tie dye design, screaming circles of deepest red. Finally spiraling out, flickering off, going to bed.

Typist’s Lullaby

Key stricken papers sprawl,
technologically unsound clicks
ratchet by in  rhythmic bliss.

Type: setting, tone, soupy words
congealed in a spoon. Eyes the color
and size of black olives cast anxious
stares over shelves and shelves
of what we were taught to want.

We don’t just talk to ourselves, anymore!
We have entire conversations with bloody
alphabet shaped pieces, dripping sticky down

white sleeves. Return to the typewriter,
to leave an archaic ink stain.

Cast blame on marketing schemes
and little CHEF BOY ARE DEE’S dreams.