Words

day

day

wake. dress. coffee. commute. meditate. interview. home. imagine future. write letter. make tea. edit letter. lunch. send letter. call sister. organize files. ftp. play drums. ftp. drums. ftp. play vibes. ftp. vibes. ftp. more vibes. update web. troubleshoot web. imagine. troubleshoot again. find scarf. ride 

Post ID: 246

a dampened early walk to the bus just boots on frosty grass, night lifting slowly from ground a crocodile blinking its dewy eye in the still cold air before me at the corner is one car hinged on its side, another swept wide and sideways 

v.

v.

Our days stuffed, decision’s entitled palm a wind against our forward movement. Never tremory or apologetic but expectant, present like our own mirrored faces flipped. We answer most often without a hesitating thought, splitting seconds and significance with our guts. And those rare moments when 

Art saved.

Art saved.

Perfect equilibrium aloft in a tank expansive and ordinary basketball an urban outpost wrapped in physics and ritual. My orbiting matrona sieving sight from me most elegant liar to make me believe otherwise I want to watch you sleeping so shallowly in your watery hold 

Between the numerals

Between the numerals

Two is more than one, more so than forty five to forty four. We learn to count numbers in equal parts, one part plus one part equals two parts. Taught to do so even though the mind prefers parabolas.

strength of little things

strength of little things

At some point in the spring the house finches return all at once to the fifty foot fir in the yard. Familiarizing themselves again with the gray knobbled branches fluffing in the chill they stir and acknowledge chime and song, their place. Urban volumes increment 

chemical fortune teller

chemical fortune teller

I am boneless a widows arm a fault for falling. Uncovered a medic’s daughter centered in the quarry coughed up salt on her palm to take the future from her lips. Hitch the volt onto the stitch anchor the fold, sway the head close this 

The day I heard the bonus figures.

The day I heard the bonus figures.

Monday, cold. Dirty salt and beaten newsprint pressed into slick ice, an empty bottle of Budweiser unbroken and clean on the sidewalk lolling on its circumference in the wind. I am truly here today, standing among narrow rows of cast offs. Walking with a long-sleeve 

we weavers

we weavers

These steps, one placed in front of the other are as much a way to keep my feet clean as they are a slow, deliberate building of movement forward. Even as leaves start to brown and the first freeze withers the tender greens, I am