Sent My Mail


The cold
rakes against my decision,
flattening the process,
making mail of me
to slip under your doorway;
What have I found
that can’t be enveloped,
sent packing – am I to be shipped?

Finding heat, locating the stamp,
peeling underneath
like holiday flesh.
Rejuvenated by tendencies ,
seasons to stick together,
rarely making changes.
Postage location: delivered.

Expanding magic childhood toy,
emerging from papered jail,
give me rain, not too cold,
and I will grow in Tennessee. 

Breakfast Table


and there it was.
Dropping every ounce of me
into glassy gesture,
liquid in the mainframe,
filaments blown out,
reality sunken in.
When does one learn to clean it up,
delineate the messes?

So unaware of the feeling fingers,
the privacy of unscrambled neuronal push.
The electronic fuzz from the square screen reached across
the shared space,
humming, taking notice,
knowing the emptiness, the
dividing the couched living arrangements
from the kitchen table,
electronic devices went entirely static.

Tuned back in –
grasped for a solution.
Paper towels like bandages,
sucking up the over-pour.
Catered wrists can’t handle
these motions, nothing without
generating swells from the neck.
Breakfast was serving me. 
My first epiphanic gesture
was born from misbehavior
in this body, without case
in cause.

and there it was.
and there it began.


The crunch of leaves bind,
forming a marching band clamouring,
trying to take center stage regardless
of their inability to play. Breezes point
to the east, and west, north and south,
indecisive enough to seem busy.
Oaks gently bow, ready for rest,
removing themselves from the stage,
striking the cloak, exhausted.
Skies stretching out with brush in hand,
accidentally stroking color streams
without proper direction.
Autumn is boundless.


I bring fear out.
I pull it from the darkness and make it apparent.
To make it apparent is to face it to some degree.
Face your fear and, in all actuality, face yourself.
Fear is primal, the most primal of emotion.
Find the core to which you function, find purity
in the anguish that guided you.


I have a tongue
loosely haloed
over obedience,
making lashings
that are more playful
than imposing.
I cannot swallow
my pride as wastefully
as I once did.
I make a point to feel validation
with language of the lips,
perhaps posing from a pen.
So, when did it become true
that nightmarish speeches vanish
and paper seems untouchable,
words seem much more of a
pained mouthful
than they used to be.