Dancing on an orange rind

picking bits of zest out from

between the toes

Flicking them off starboard

What’s happened to the flesh

is anybody’s guess

It may have been eaten

in a citrus-y mess

I am out of ideas

but keep dancing I do

to create the illusion

that I am not plagued by

constant confusion



I’m mere feet from home,

but that doesn’t make me safe.

I think before I act,

but that doesn’t make me wise.

I’m far beneath the sky,

but that doesn’t make me grounded.

I don’t always tell the truth,

but that doesn’t make them lies.

Hung up

via Daily Prompt: Maybe

Maybe they’re not obstacles,

but mere extra steps

Forcing me to think the thoughts

I hung up to dry

but that I could never quite get



Maybe I am set to be

the minnow to your stream

Wriggling away from

near-certain death

beneath prepubescent heels

And though I may cheat demise

a couple dozen times

Who’s to say I won’t swim

into the mouth

of my most famed predator?

Or be hung up myself?

It very well

may come to be


Stone fruit

An acre of opportunity 

A field of pears and plums 

I put my hands to the soil

Felt you nipping at my thumbs 

Where’ve you been, my little friend?

You said, “digging in the dirt. 

I was searching for my promises 

But I broke them and got hurt.”

Seems you got a little too excited 

To trample undiscovered ground 

Happiness isn’t free, you know 

But I think they sell it by the pound 

Darkly Burnt Toast

I used to think the world of you

but now I only think the desert.


and barren;

cracked in the most vital


Your once venerable motherhood-

struck down by

your own fruition.

These years:

Spread like brie in front

of us,

as clockwork.

Ticking biologically with




You don’t cry at even hours

because the ducts

are but dust in the sockets,

and you’ve lost


over darkly burnt toast

at mid-morning.


Your reflection

in the boutique window

told me that you got

onto the sidewalk


But I turned to look,

and you were sunbathing

in the turning lane:

eyes wider

than the jaws

of the passers by.

Red never suited you.

Morning Coffee

The bark
On the tree
Outside my kitchen window
Glares unforgivingly
At me
As I cozen
My brother’s creamer
To liven up my morning coffee

Umbrella Terms

Soon it will be daylight
and I will have barely slept
My eyes are heavily weighed open
from the salty overtones that laced
the hours I’d wept

the thought has slowly crept
That my daily routine will
become an antagonizing puzzle
of great depth
The more that I falter and the less
that I’m adept
Because I’ve found that with little rest
I’m less rooted and
more inept
Especially in areas of my life which
are more like buffed out hardwood
and less like floors
I’ve merely swept

These monologues I’ve cached
carry such influence, they
harbor such heft
And the external colors are so noisy
that I’m practically deaf
But they’ve disguised themselves
as promises that I’ve been
too weary to have kept
So I categorize this series
of sleepless weeks
as a phase I must accept
Since most months I am boundless
when the bounds are
purely precepts

I fixate on the paths that interject
Because I’m but a spore
in the midday sky
without much left

Unto Me

If you hold my hand
just a little tighter

It will provide me the sense
of security
I need to feel like
I can do anything

Without it,
I am a wandering limb,
reaching to grab at any old
blank stare
that will turn its gaze
unto me


The buses run every hour
I haven’t had my coffee, yet
but the sugar is nowhere
to be found

I’ll cap my overactive imagination
into a thermos,
grab my rationale from off
the coat rack,
and be on my way

I might miss it by some
few seconds,
but it’s a clear sky, and
I’ve got time to walk