burning unfinished
furniture,
i watch nocturnals
flinch by
flame-
pale and shackled
to chatter
bared in costume
company
fresh from
zoo,
keepers free to
turn away-
free to lean
in too.
creative writing
unlearning, declining
expectations
of what seasonal
transitions
may
yield to the
scythe
splayed upon
table
for final family
meal
goes
undigested,
little
fondness
for who feels?
distaste bores
deep
in minefield rusty
with wheat
not ripe enough
to reap.
bending a fifth
string-
gushing sedimental
sentiment
in company of
critics
i seldom know
what not
to say,
deeply content with
incomplete-
despite fleeting need
to patch old
wrongs-
to wander where i
don’t belong.
mind grinder spits
molars-
am i proof the
venom’s
pure?
plunge thorny
palms
in inkblot
pond,
weeds grope
feet
a dead fish
kiss-
never meant to
notice.
worst offender’s
prayer
on two teabag
thursday,
talking dirty more
than we like
to party
favors
for accolade,
praise be
backroom guest
won’t perform upon
request.
headlights chasing
ride back
home,
half
surprised
screen guy survived the
lapse alone,
stripped steelwork
in ditches
rust
in eyes of
wild kids wanting-
wishing to feel
the shiver
of
what lasts beyond
attraction.
might i think
pretty
too
if mythically
moved?
from now
i rest
grass befits nest
to lifeless
spawn
can’t tell a sigh
from yawn.
ruptured glass and
greenery
ground between
thumb and
index-
boiled down to
our primal
essence
in
effort to suppress
gag reflex.
i’ve grown fond
of ebb
and
glow felt through
cemetery
snow,
no tear a waste on
face gone
stone
to face what’s
gone
before lilies
bask at
dawn.
fanning freakish
fashion
for
excesses
plotted too
intense
for zen of modern
moment,
reached too low
to feel my
toes
worm into
the wet.
hands in the garden 
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