Untitled summer / Serial#2

And if I stare comes the window rattle with the road
a seat springs metal and his hand, his grip on the wheel like mine holding this photo

Truck in the grass
the doors slam heavy and imperfect
cinnamon from the house as he boots up wood steps behind me and calls me kid

Rope rounds the tree branch
hanging on a swing
while he meals inside on the big table
it smells like water here, a washed breeze

These afternoons collect into one I can remember from the black and white where bright sun fades us in the foreground

Back on the road the outside whistles its way in as we go
wondering if my knuckles will ever be that hairy.

Awakened by a thinly veiled sun / Serial#1

It was the year of peace and parking lot runaways, I rode in the backseat with Dad fisting get a job and Mom muttering shrill to  stop.

Dad raised me on the no son of mine diet of don’ts. No son of mine cries but I did, and Dad flipped a loud newspaper while Mom snuck me coco.

They said he built it all himself,
a ground up guy
From nothing rose Dad
And when proud
his big block hands pat me
awkward on the head

Mom urged Dad to throw ball with me, but he stayed heavy in his chair, and she took to windy sighs in my direction whenever he was around.

Mom came home with a gypsy girl to feed. Dad read and I kept quiet because through her thin white shirt was the round of my first nipple.

Micropoem #107 – Commuter

There was a blind one, who pedaled rainbow light strings, and caned the train on colored fire.
A family of out of town smiles made out with two strands for two kids playing unruly lasso with the poles.
And we edged indifferent away from those interacting with the scenery.

Micropoem #106

We all talked a big runaway but only he did it, winding up roadside hypothermic. When he returned to school, we waved at him from afar.

published on Twitter 07/09/2009

Micropoem #105

And then the nurse moved to collect his belongings as I waited under the sea horse chime that jangled with the fan.

published on Twitter 07/08/2009

Micropoem #104

A great painter asked me how I felt about his color palette. At 6 I would have told him but at 40 I assume he is not really speaking to me.

published on Twitter 07/07/2009

Micropoem #103

He tried to hold onto his fear of the scarecrow that threw rocks at cars even though he clearly saw another kid run from behind the thing.

published on Twitter 07/06/2009

Micropoem #102

She collects birds to feel free and with their fallen feathers makes pens to fly words from her body waiting indoors for that moment to come.

published on Twitter 07/05/2009

Micropoem #101

With wheel squeeze he’ll get there, a man of destination, his foot pressuring on past a diner serving fresh pie.

published on Twitter 07/04/2009

Micropoem #100

Teeth-between corn on the cob, a charred smile. Happy Birthday with dogs on fire and fired up works warring pretty in the sky.

published on Twitter 07/03/2009