Tag Archives: creative writing

Subcommittees

My subconscious is a group project with many subcommittees.
Hopefully there are people much smarter than me
Making some of these decisions.

As it stands,
I have my hand in an oil can
While building a house from matches.
At night I fear silence so I whisper my anthems to God,
I spend the day trying to be a kite-
And then burning every kite in a 10 mile radius because I’m mad I failed.

The wind in the conifers beckons,
Yet the subcommittees have all voted no,
And I cry in my yard

and don’t understand why I do

Love Your Neighbor

A highway with a necklace of beer glass.
I too am hemmed in by glass,
By broken mirrors and dashed bottles of wine and my second sight glasses a finished suicide.
Trucks come so bright,
And taxi drivers look with pity
As I walk miles in the snow without gloves,
Trying to get my new space heater home and turned on.
Then a man quietly pulls up next to me
And offers a ride.
His taxi is a minivan and I see his meter up front.
I told him thank you, but I have no money.
He said he wanted to help. No charge.
That is what we mean when we say love your neighbor.

Green

In the morning there was green,
A cool, whispering green infecting the spruce and air.

Within the covetous morning
They harbor the dark –
The spruce and air in collaboration with
More green than I can understand.

My sight is green like the stem of a flower
Used to promote something more interesting.

Green is what I see alone in the canals
That swerve my needs.

Yet I dislike al l but the brightest, loudest of greens
Because they remind me of my perfect noon.

Dark Blue World

Dark blue world with

a turquoise brooch,

lend me cerulean serenity,

cobalt coal.

In a grunge sweat I awake

to my graying life,

see my watery windows blink,

your image like an oil painting,

then a satisfied sea,

next a poison frog.

Each blink my view of you morphs,

though your honorable navy

shades swear you have never changed.

You glide beyond the reach

of my clock,

ticking away as it tends

to do while the universe is unreachable.

In the vastness of your blue,

in your sapphire essence,

chewy caramel change is king.

9,19,29

Today I am 9, 19, 29.

I look out my window to the used days,

see saw toothed predators

hunting my small, oblivious

head in the long grass.

I am suffocated by the

fire and brimstone perfume

of my own being

as I tiptoe back and

forth between heaven and

hell each day.

I long to let my hair

cascade down my back,

to strip naked in the

unblinking square

and ask the strange things

with six rows of teeth

to take my shame from me

like an unwanted cloak.

Yesterday at dinner,

I was a vulture vivisecting

a yellow canvas,

my talons raw as milk.

Beautiful Machine

I am binary,

a code with so many zeroes,

and you are the one.

You have a thick, plush

user interface.

Use me for your gossamer

sweat purposes.

If you rewrite me,

make me a file.

Organize your unchained

thinking of me.

You are a prodigy of design,

pure energy in an age

of tarnished sleep.

Rifle through me,

incorporate whatever

spherical zeroes will make

you whole,

though you lack nothing,

transmit a rain-laced joy

like a virus.