A soft christening of strings:
the crinkled promises of Gods and Kings.

Smells of pine a-mist frozen rivers.
Dark blue nights wrapped up silent shivers.

Times forgotten shine like stars
above a crystal white blanket, spread far.

Inside, the color red spills into wooden creaks
casting tasty ribbons across pink cheeks.

Candies and sweet drinks and itchy warmth
fill up small bellies beside simple hearths.

While those at the table have mingled thoughts
of goals gained and memories lost.

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Honey Bee


Flo brings me decaf
with a plastic-sweet smile

The likable owner smiles,
his cheeks pink
scratched by their bushy neighbor in between
heated by the clink of ceramic in the kitchen.

Furrowed brows and weathered feet
float lifelong perms
around in light blue and white aprons

flip, flip, flip, lick the finger, flip, flip
There's your ticket, Dear.
take it to the counter

wrists of steel turn lunch plates into paper napkins
then into cranes
flapping away in the bacon-fumed wind.
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She throws her weight around
with absent entitlement,
flops furry paws to the ground
with an exhalation.
Practiced indifference.

Delicately her haunches rest
as she bats through the glass
promising to retrieve her prey
if only given the chance.

She licks her teeth
out of habit, not need
and twitches her ear at nothing.

Ignorantly content to pretend
the Queen is unaware of her dependence
on the safety of the paned, framed cage.

She knows and controls all,
except for what she doesn’t.

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Hot air blows hard enough to unfasten
rusty lids
pain reopens worlds to me

stuttered and broken and childishly unable
forever caught in the rush of regret
and the bitter loss of the stable

paradoxes! abound in blurred visions
of constructive depressions
and healing lesions

faint, unwanted promises drift by - tomorrow!
look towards tomorrow!

Sure - I can try.
Can someone give me a body to borrow? 
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Genie in a Lamp

Twisting doubt sinks through the cracks
filtering its liquid
through the grout of verbal attacks.

Time is confused in you -
in the wavering olfactory tones
echoing about dusty memoric tombs.

Vaguely vivid, unforgotten brands
burning underneath my skin
Tattoos -
never to be removed.

The sphere’s corners poke hard
and you press -
against me.

I believe in you
the same way a six year old
knows his genie wishes.
– yet it’s possible -
– hasn’t been disproven -

Sweet irony. Maybe you were the genie’s answer.
Soft! Damocles’s bliss.

One day I’ll get to you
until then, I’ll miss.

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Journeys are mountains climbed
Earth’s center, carried on the winds of metal dreams
We bring together the oceans’ kiss.

This season, will you bury
your realities deep, and let my compromises shine.
Marry me, with your words.

Be direct, and after,
maybe there will be time for passive sighs
and controlled lies.

Now, we will be fine.
We’ll pretend there is no crying
Leaves will fall on our traces.

Here and there will connect
through intertwined eyes
and our savory skies.

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Mats line the hallway
pushed up against aging white walls
Inside the outside corridor

The school belongs to the people,
all the children, bright and shiny.
Beggars without a voice.

Dark faces run through doorways,
voices echoing as teachers corral bodies
- the ground shakes -

A bomb drops and fires spread
the school becomes a hospital, a fortress,
more than children run through halls

More than learning is tended to
Radios appear out of thin air, and brows
grow permanently furrowed

Another day, perhaps,
and the bodies will leave
children will run again

the school will return
someone far away will say it's all for
Peace, Independence, Growth

but right now
the mats are pushed up against the old walls
staining them with red 
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