Pass the time

The neighborhood dims, as I try to fill up the days,
Smoking on the porch, drinking off the cold,
Letting time pass, quite unsure what I’m doing it all for,
I keep hoping that once morning comes, I’ll wake feeling renewed,
But everything seems to disappear, blasted away from my frigid view,
Leaving me standing alone with nothing to hold onto,
Searching, screaming for the sunlight to return,
To dribble over my face, cure my ruined tongue,
And make this feeling pass — anything, please,
Come get me out of here.



Lightheaded with heat,
Air siphoned from lungs,
Absent, wandering attention,
Focus shifting to foreboding distances,
Dappling light and elusive stars,
Busy bees for eyes,
Brain kept occupied with thoughts,
Green stems, cobble paths, red tiled rooftops,
Dirty shoes, angry cars, gleaming puddles,
Filled and far,
Far away from you.


He watches her, enraptured.
Like she’s a slender shaft of light.
Deep underground where nothing,
but his demons are allowed.
Words spill, gliding,
unbidden from his lips
before he even realizes he’s spoken.
And when she turns to meet him,
Fire blooms in his chest.
All he can do is look on,
caught by the bright blaze
of the sun’s intensity,
of focus, unwavering.
Nothing more than an
ignorant child ensnared by
infatuation’s heat.

Wild Eyes

He steps forward.

A giant with a head and a half of excess.

Behind him, light flickers and wanes.

Wax drips, candles shush in a flash of peace.

The deafening silence between heaves of storm

Made more intimidating trapped in electric blue bottles

Sharp and mirthless


Its red.

The rolling shards of glass

Crunched under my hands

Aged twenty porcelain, torn in twos and fours and tens

Priced ink shattered at the seams

Koi’s bleed, giving flowers life

Not so permanent after all

Numbness spreads, disconnecting

And all I see, all that matters is—

Its red.

Word Prompt: speak

The air breaks. His vision blurs.

The world sharpens, then splits

from edge to edge until—

She speaks.

And the crash back into himself

is violent, but grounding.

Because he knows now.

This is a dream.

A deluded fantasy conjured from longing

for someone trapped behind wood and nails

six feet out of reach.