Deeds

Was out walking beside a field the other night
Whose field? Who knows?
But why should or would I say "whose"
As if land can belong, and yet
Doesn't it?

For the house in which I type this, contrive this
Concoct this
Has a mortgage to pay
Doesn't it?
And my house
(oh I say it was mine but really, well)
Had a rent I split
With a housemate
To a landlord--
Lord of the whole land--
A nice man with a nice yard he
Kept.

The field there reminded me
In its wild splaying reeds of
Winter-denying
Death-belying
Expansion of
A wider, gaping mouth
Whose teeth
Visible or otherwise
And grass-stained lips
Would be marked on some
Vaguely ancient parchment.
This parcel to delineate
Ownership
Has the name of
Deed
Not good not bad
But deed all the same,
Doesn't it?

In this state the States have stood
Erected as if to prove they could
From, let's be morbidly honest here
More than a drop of
Scarlet deception
Quite a whole lot more, in fact.
And we, who say
Whose is whose
And where belongs to whom
Make such fertile landfill
When all debts are paid
And the landlord comes back
For the rent,
Which starts to seems so steep,
Doesn't it?

nobody

nobodyleavesthelightson
'causenobody'scominghome
nobody'sinthebasement
playingguitarallalone
nobody'satthemovies
'causenobody'sonthescreen
andnobodyknowswherenobodygoes
'causenobody'severseen
nobody'soutthere

9 and 9

I'd like some closure if such a thing exists
I won't pull you any closer if you only resist
I will not force you to speak a word to me
Only reinforcing irresponsibility

If I hurt you I apologize
But why should I say "if"
We hurt each other, this I realize
Ain't it about time that we quit

I would only like to tell you that you mean the world to me
But the world just keeps on spinning and I've spun right underneath

And all your promises
Line my mind like newspaper round a glass cup
Chipped in places
Far too many to be saved yet for
Sentimentality

I am the foam of the ocean
You're the salt in the breeze
I can't stay outside the water
You're always outside of me

I'm the palm branch on an island
You're the signal fire home
I will give myself to light you
I will burn out all alone

The Weather Channel

Person A is hiking through the woods, and about five miles in the clouds roll in, thunder claps, and it just starts pouring down, like wall of blinding water right outta nowhere. The weather report that morning said nothing about rain, and the canopy above does next to nothing to prevent Person A from getting drenched. Thankfully, Person A remembers that there's a cave about a mile and a half back just off the side of the trail. Through the pounding rain and the ever more slippery ground, our hiker finally makes it that mile and a half to find a mostly dry respite inside the small inlet of rock.
Now, while Person A is attempting to catch some breath and wait out the storm, Person B happens to stroll by in full rain gear underneath a huge umbrella. Not a single drop of water has come anywhere near Person B, save the bottom of those top of the line designer multi-terrain boots.

"Hey!" yells Person B through the storm. "Get out of the cave."
"I'm only staying in here to keep dry," says Person A, "I'll leave as soon as the rain stops and be on my way."

"No way," says Person B. "I was prepared. I have all the gear and the coat and the umbrella. It's my cave. I deserve to get the cave because I only came out in the rain once I made sure none of it would get on me. You don't deserve to be dry because you weren't prepared and got soaking wet."

"Well," says Person A, "I'm only soaking wet because I didn't know it was going to rain today, but as soon as it started I got to the cave as fast as I could. I worked really hard to get here and now I'm almost all dry. Besides, if you'd like to come in, there's room for you too."

"You don't get it," says Person B. "Why should I suffer and have to share that cave with you when I was prepared? You might get me wet if I go stand in there next to you. Only dry people deserve to hide from the rain in the cave."

Later that day, the body of Person B was found at the top of the hill after a giant umbrella, now missing from the scene, was struck by lightning.

Mystery Fiction

My mind is half a serving of scrambled eggs
left cold near some toast on a bill-piled table
each marked overdue like the books of
philosophy and mystery short fiction
having assumed precious real estate
beside the dust outline of a black
alarm clock now
smashed to utter ruin
on the recently rain-drenched
underbrush of coffee-stained
carpet, they
remain marked at
pages 402 and
15, respectively,
each 365 pages from
their last word while
another last word
hangs poised
in the musky morning
air of an open window
and an early rain like
tears preceding
sorrow like
burning a corpse:
fever should generally
precede fatality.

lost in the mail

how do i end
this letter i can't send
i can't use "love," because i don't
i can't use "yours," because i'm not and i won't
use "sincerely," because clearly
it's not so serious, maybe i'm delirious
maybe it doesn't matter, maybe it's all the same
i'll just say "cheers" to settle my fears
because at least everyone here knows your name

from this distance
can you still remind me of how i’ve failed
insisting
that after all of these lies the truth will prevail
but i’ll stay up all night
with nothing left to write
to capture the complexities of that long goodbye
getting lost in the mail

how much for a phone call
how much for a text or
any kind of word at all
am i not worth the cost
or did your letter get lost

Gargoyle Eyes

Where pits of peaches fall and jumping needles crawl
And the whole wide world stretches out like dough before us
In a half asleep dream of memories and prospects
The hope of calloused hearts shaves off layers
To the fresh and tender flesh of recklessness
Scalded and racing the tempest for flight
With the passion of daylight circumnavigating the hallways
And in the distance the crackling of the river rocks
And the ticking of second-hand counter clocks
In dim reflection
And an itchy sweater's habit
Of gathering friends from
Nature's shed skin