Glancing along the bookshelf
Don Quixote stares back at me
And underneath him staggered sideways
There’s an infinite number
Watching back at me
Like hundreds of rectangular eyes
Hiding in the shadows of moons and suns
Finding respite in tollbooths and towers
Since the beginning
When red letters spilled onto delicate pages
Tenderly crafted so that even
The smallest rodent and elephants
Can drink from the same water
Until they finally come undone
The voyage ending
Returning to the roots
Alongside the stream
Perfection finds its place

“Woohooha, we’re monkey boys!”
We yelled.

Jumping up and
down
on the old tractor wagon.
Plucking banana shaped leaves
off the ancient tree out back.

The days were endless
in our magical ship
through the jungle.

Four years old and beaming
at our newly hoarded stash.

Then we became hungry,
racing inside for supper,
to escape the giant gorilla.

It’s been twelve days
Since you briskly exited the room
Walking through the ornately carved
Dark cherry coloured door,
A resounding click as the lever fell into place.
We could’ve had some great times—
Sip diner coffee at two in the morning,
Black, two sugars and free refills.
Cheer boisterously at baseball games,
You got so excited you spilled your soda.
Could’ve shared our writing,
My favorite was the one set in Boston—
If only I would have introduced myself.

Productivity
Is relative
To the amount
Of work
Being done
In the first place.
Perhaps to feel more
Productive
The least
Amount of work
Should be produced
In order
To feel more
Productive
So that
When any progress
Is made
I feel much more
Productive
Than I had been.

Relatively speaking.

The glass isn’t half full
It’s not half empty either
It’s completely, dried out
Utterly bare and empty
I’m spitting in it
Scraping pencil shavings on top
Churning it into a moist residue
Caking the bottom of the glass
Charcoal mixing with saliva
I have nothing left to articulate
Rinse and start over
Tomorrow’s another day
Maybe I’ll care then, maybe I won’t
But at least I’ll have forgotten that I should

A life.
Fleeting.
Something so genuine,
so unique, like a memory.
A flash, a thought.
A tick, a breeze.
Brief.
Something so trivial
so minor, like a breath
Gone.
In an instant, a second
a beat, a blink
And I am lost.
At a loss,
for words.

The earth spins on its axis
Dark wine, yellow ochre and blue
The spinster threads her needle
Through an endless spool of colors

Made in person and should by accompanied by
The presentation of this
Otherwise it cannot be removed without prior notification
Safekeeping is essential
Announcements should be immediate on discovery
As it has been agreed
By the regulations received upon conception.

The baby’s crying
No
It’s the phone ringing
His neck is rung
The clothes are out to dry
The river runs
A marathon in the desert
With a cherry on top
It’s a spinning carousel
With horses and ponies
But then she grew up
And we’ll find out
I’d rather be in
Hotel or motel
Models?
With bodies
Of water by the bank
There’s a hold up
I’m stuck
I’m only two feet away
There are two feet
Walking to the phone
Four now
I am a cat
The cat?
Who let the cat out?
Eight legs
A spider
Spinning my web
And wait
There is a slumbering giant
Not sleeping
Awake
He is hunting
I am hiding
In the mouse hole
They are fighting a holy war
The mousetrap kills them all
In the kitchen underneath
The sink
The waters running
I am running
I am drowning
I can fly
I’m a fly
Must get out the window
Did you say widow?
She’s watching television
And hears the phone ringing
The phone has my feet
I have no feet
It’s still too far away

Early in morning
I can’t wait to sit in a plastic chair
Sweating under the hot sun
While people give me nickels

I hereby expressly assume all risks
Upon my participation in this event
Including personal injury
And inevitable death.
I have read, understand,
And agree to the terms of this Agreement.

Nervous fidgeting
Changing channels
Passing peripheral glances
Mannerisms that unnerve
The tension that festers
Settles in, wraps its tail
Around and binds
Staring at the ceiling
Hoping to find respite
But only seeing darkness
Out the window
Dingy street lights
Faded by purple sky
Filled with thoughts
That bounce and bobble
Feeling no better
Falling asleep on the couch

Disguise your face or reach a similar end
Wandering brings no certainty
But the certainty of separation
The North Star still shines over the oceans
But the damage has arrived
The sea and sky become one
And nature wears out
Even the wittiest poet
No extravagant praise
Nor the felt tips of a thousand pens
Can restore her against herself
She talks while there is sleep
And bids permission to do so
Foolish are attempts, and so I am guilty
Of exchanging worthless for invaluable
It is the futility in trying to control
The pitch of thunder

A lecherous, slippery ambition
And too often with disparaging anger
No pacification will be brought about
But by chance in absolute destruction
Such inclinations will be dismissed

So scheme schemes to destroy
In Machiavellian fashion
Abandon your kitchens and bedrooms
Call to action the militaries
Toxic watered down dreams
To drink to the bottom
Of a big-belled glutton that we are
Rooted with precise balance
The figure head, a clock
To undo in the darkness
The argument of disorder
Feeding on hesitation
To live, to not be devoured by incapacity
Is to act as if nothing is known
But what use is a life
That has not sought to control the squall
Though it remains false thunder

The new carpet is multicolored
Splashed and sprawled out fabric
Stringy hues overlapping each other
Rainbows knitted together
Weaving and winding
Held captive by the walls
Crawling and climbing
Like a bag of gummy worms
Slithering beneath my feet