Poems and Micro-Stories

arm

I was the hair standing
up on end
and the disbelief when I kissed my own arm

My lips knew exactly how to lay out
to suck over
to last, hold
move lower, higher,

blocks

a worn-flat rug was spread out beneath

orange walls that smelled of the wool ponchos in the closet

and the friendly desert cabinet

over which

there is a suitcase of romances

that rolls with me,

follows me and my relationship with the broken bench in my front yard.

It asks too many questions.

untitled (summer 2013)

momsdad’s feet on uncle’s floor

are smooth-cold

puckering against skin still

slick with early morning.

peace be with those bloodless dream-fears

days feel like chapters

days feel like chapters

I. sit deep

and so comes the draft

the section speaks

on

more than what’s happening

pinocchio

The room of dusty posters and open drawers looked almost pretty

in the morning sun reaching through the holes in the drapes.

Long unfinished cigarettes grew out of wooden ashtrays

last goodbye (dear leo)

I am the last goodbye we never had

the first glance you take of a painting

the moment you fall asleep,

and the number of crickets outside your window.

clocks

If we are quieter

than the many hidden clocks,

if tonight we can talk slower

than the song playing at nine-o-clock,

ten-o-clock somewhere, we will be ok.