-Hunger Gaze-
I am staring at a squirrel tail that does not move. She squats on the branch five minutes looking the same uninteresting direction. Like she was trying to remember if stream beds have sheets. I think they do, but only at night when the lamps are on and you can see current smoothing out creases and groping in the dark for an afghan. Maybe squirrel is reliving that one time when Sherri was over and dropped half her bagel. Her plastic plate had divots all around the edge, but they weren’t for stopping gravity on baked goods. The squirrel jerked more then, and was crumb eager. Now squirrel is drawing an analogue with the facial muscles of Keanu Reeves. There might be two expressions but this movie only has the first one. Eventually she resumes, like a paused DVD...
Read More-Coiled-
Like the field-of-vew wobble you get by rotating a coke bottle. But not blurry. Just tinted and gyrating. It is a beginning of the day smell that tugs well past 4pm. And the trees just opened a box of doughnuts. The sprinkles cross-pollinated with the frosted and jelly-filled. The lid got all mashy. Someone has powdered sugar stuck on their fingers. And there is a three year old twisting. Ready to fly as soon as enough tension builds in her mother’s arm. Maybe that’s what they mean by Spring. That uncomfortable, almost let go already. While mom is still tisking and settle down will ya? We have to cross the street. But it is the not-crossed street that is the problem. It’s before coffee, and thus too soon. At the same time, coffee already brewed, burning in the...
Read More-Lunches Passing in the Afternoon-
Jen paced. She had windows, and a scrunch holding her hair in appropriate tension. No she didn’t. It was that friz. And I think she was in more of a desk-to-hall yoga pose. I couldn’t decide if her pants-suit was a metaphor or if the yellow broach pinned it. Like a mustard stain I was trying to rub out of my poem. Tiny pieces of napkin rolling themselves joints by her face. What I’m trying to say, she wasn’t. And I just ate my sandwich. Egg salad, oregano, tiny olive oil. We make our order and someone wraps it in wax. Like all lunches should pupate. Their too-neon peppers drop off, metamorphose olives. And there’s Jen. Half a loaf, with Asiago cheese. She flaps. The office lights refuse to yield. Somewhere a stack of papers sloughs off; makes an unappreciated...
Read More-Purposeful Nimbus Musing-
She lampposts a jig. The street is sheen and plastic; her hat a marionette. It should be raining. But maybe she is too much slatch anyway. Like she prefers it to be wrong and sunny. That way she can babble and be her own puddles. Fog is she, but something more denude. I get the idea she would have a rummy face in photographs. Always a little tilted like Picasso’s drunken selfies. Then she passes. 00 Be the 1st to vote.Share...
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