Of lost marbles

of lost marbles

that wash ashore

on rain swept ditches

of barren dirt roads

landlocked pearls among

the tiny glimmers

of broken glass and

smaller yet the shine

of grains of sands

washed away

the smaller yet

broken body of the earth

the dusty silt

pouring downhill into

creeks and rivers and tides

of lost marbles

collecting near nails

and other bits of rusty

fragments, teeth of the past

reveal their smile

in the ditches

of barren dirt roads

Waking eyes

I'm sure there were

landscapes of grandeur

and gardens of splendor

and exotic flora colored

in hues too vivid for

waking eyes

I'm sure there were

mansions of loftiness

and costumes of luxuriousness

and characters dressed

in personas too legendary

for waking eyes

I'm sure there were
stories of desire

and dialogues of fire

and moments saturated

in emotions too rich

for waking eyes

yet I will never know for sure

as my dog re-situated

his place at my feet on the bed

When geese were seen as rats

knew the road was wet

no obvious puddles

but the untrodden dirt

was dark with wet

the truck didn't care

and had no mind to stop

and the smooth road

was soon ruins

with ruts

swirling next to

fine green hairs

of the wheat field

in April

the geese hissed

at the disturbance

in passing

flapping and scuttling

until resolved to

nip at the green hairs

once again

their abundance was noted

doing too well

for themselves

like rats

In the cup

looking into my cup

of coffee this morning

reminds me of when

I, with my siblings

at a very early age,

stared into the abyss

of the world's largest

hand dug well

hoping we wouldn't

meet the same fate

of that baby that

was on television

this dark liquid with

its dark reflection

staring back at me

in its trepidation

for the next words

to spill from my mouth

for those drops the

color of abandoned

beer bottles to somehow

make it all go better

Sweet dreams

all those flirts in dreams

whose lives seem more

than the fleeting moments

they exist within

do they change their skins

after each performance

is the alarm clock

their falling curtain

are they the same actors

each and every night

simply with a different script

their words grow gray

as the sun moves through the day

but are the sweetest grapes

on their vines that twine through night

Falling

he felt himself falling through an abyss

as he sat and waited

these tugs had tugged on him

since he could remember

most noticeable when sitting

having little else at his attention

often after the tug

a feeling of lightness followed

and tarried for a bit

serving the ebb to the flow

yet this rule to the game

was broken this time

the abysmal descent continued

after a few seconds

turning the tug into a snare

and free-fall into fright

had these tugs before

been a gentle nudge

from the great severer itself

had they all been whispers

of the inescapable

and was this the moment

the slight slips would empty into

the final collapse of the soul

NO-vember

I'm saying no to November

no to the over eating

of hypocritical gratitude

no to judgmental dinners

with disapproving indigestion

no to the dismal days

tunneling their way

to even shorter, darker days

no to the beastly purchases

destined for some dusty closet shelf

and then the trash

I'm saying no this month

no to the first icy streets

when drivers forget how to

no to those first icy sheets

that pull your feet out from under you

no to lamenting the green

while snuggling up to the gray

no to you November

scram, piss off, GO AWAY!

Pent-up serpent

nervous spasm

his thumb twitching

pulling to his palm

as he waits behind the wheel

a serpent lying in wait

in the coils of his gut

hisses whisper

in the exhaust of the truck

a paper plan

sticks to his brain

a paper plan

that could be torn up

and thrown away

as the truck idles

with the serpent

Dim skies

in dim skies
the shattered must fall
and carried low
in earthen bowels
to an ultimate end
in flame and exhaust

those raven calls
carry the weary to the rest
in cold wooden beds
in cold stone houses
where worm work is delayed

those who stray
forgotten in decay
or sealed in ice
in some freezing device
who linger with little to say

October dream

strange to think

the old barn wood

mere planks the shell

between an inner sanctum

and an outer hell

but hidden behind the hay

we laid and shivered

fear the cold blanket

holding us in icy arms

for war it was

that flourished out there

beyond those planks

an unknown battle

plaguing an unknown land

as if tornadoes themselves

were playing chess

on a Sunday afternoon

the enemy could be glimpsed

through the spacing

of those mere planks

and it was through those spaces

a hand tore into

to grab my shoulder

to drag me near

to hold me against that shell

in a terrified ecstasy

in that place of hell