Into The Land Of Jealous

Where I salute its flag Crying into my cafeteria salad I know nobody but the cashier Only my face so familiar Friendly like a tourist My boots too new for dusting All the spider webs I see in corners Their little weavers small Bundles of laundry dried tears Histories dying to be spoken Taking so long to get there Not like on the map just a hop And I'll have nothing To cover myself my envy Behind cotton blends Once there it will be usual Quaint cabins to sit in Corridors for pacing Losing any measure starting As regular with a beat

New Thought, Old Day

Gaze into my mind and you will see rain and more oaks with Doug firs dripping dank and gloomy but the good kind of gloom, the cool sanctuary breathing.

Short Life, Long Dream

Above the town above the dreaming Am I dreaming further or just in a dream where I play a minor role? Patient. Killing spiders. Why Would they want to hang out Spending their lives In Architecture & Allied Arts To begin with. Plus all the pizza Boxes and drab entryways.

(Some Have) Imaginations

The story was clear to some, but not all. Sheer willpower helped her stay awake for work. Green tea with honey? That was supposed to be good for anything. Now she was about to commit a crime. It was only a leaky ceiling. And that season barely mentioned, but so obvious, well, she was asked if she wanted to buy bullets at the store, at the counter.

The Treacherous Wheat

My gaze hears mumbling in the wheated rounds and all of Grass Valley. What could cause this worry about--? Fill in the blank. What is changing? Was there really a summer? I remember extreme heat and the jay returning with its friend. But other than that--? This is another night of corridors. Hear them echoing the groaning of the cart.

Oma Mit Tante Fransiska

They were not killed by the bomb but are walking out of the dusty rubble. My eyes carrying them into the present where I watch them grow old and happy not young and killed. You know the story and how I can't let go of it and them and telling. Not like in real life where this is not possible.

Moonscape Children

I listened to hear what they were saying. I heard the voices of the moon children in all that silence. High scape and low scape. What struck me was not their time playing. That was in between. What struck me was nothing. Maybe a random volley ball. Actually, two softballs I failed to catch even though I was quite ready given all indications by readying my position with the mitt held straight in front of my face.