- There are few things that grow in winter / Besides the children who gain a pound or two or grow an inch or three / Little grows in winter / Little grows besides me
- I gave all my anger to the rock / And tossed it out to sea
- Fragments tremble in the heart / Within the concaves they concave
- Ghosts were the result of what had been assumed to be a trick
- There are conversations worth having / And conversations worth letting go
- I love how the hat feels, but hate how it looks
- Has the future past / Or will it meet us here
- Sooth me like glass / Make me smooth again / And swoon again
- Take a shell and make it ring
- I don’t want your attention / I want you
- There is an unsettling feeling when goals are accomplished and you have not yet set new ones
- There was a thin layer of dust on me / Took a steel brush and feathered it from its perch / And I was red with some pale striations / Like a blood shot eye or a caramelized, volcanic eruption
- Maybe you should have been more careful
- Someone with a quiet disposition who says they are trying to be more outspoken
- We had a conversation about death / Whether it would be better to die by drowning or by fire
The road was lined by a sweeping forest. I felt paltry in what seemed like such a vast place. The brisk winds pushed me forward and the mountains before me pulled me in. A small herd of wapiti greeted me with dark iris and tentative ligament. My reflection was in their eyes and I saw my weakness.
Perhaps once I had been one of the wolves. Maybe my throat had been threatened by a cousins jaw and all the blood had been let loose from one of the veins in there. Or maybe I was hunted by a human, a tourist on the outskirts luring me with cow or sheep. I bet my bones are still calcified beneath the surface and laying near where foxes burrow deep.
There was nothing superficial about the valley. And if days could barricade me in noon I would have stood there forever. Dissecting the horizon intent on seeing those rigid backs as they saunter. They have not been seen in a few weeks someone my senior had said, and he had much better binoculars than me too. But I had just assumed the wolves sensed I was coming and took off.
Those geysers and springs were enchanting, and from far above, I realized why it was referred to as Old Faithful. With a slight haze above where it speaks to us, ruined by the bleachers situated on its outskirts, trapping it like an animal in a cage. And even though we were in the wild, I felt like the most wild thing out there. That wasn’t a howl, but a siren, a human tread, not a bears, a mans whistle, not a birds call. To escape from that, I had to.
Stripped of my strength, I was peeled down to the muscle. Nothing seemed to stick and everything quivered. I was a flimsy tree in the wind, weak like a wet bugs wings. Hot mist had seared the side of my eye and all I could see out of it was red. Wet draped and clung over everything. The flowers, soft, the logs, brittle, the fur, gleaming. It was an incubus of things drowning and I with it. The nights were wearisome as the cold took over, it especially liked the toes.
Upon my leaving the same herd of wapiti hesitated near the road. Behind them, yellow, red, and orange smeared the side of hills giving them a personality. Their coats shone like thirst, I wet my lips. The winds all around us just wanted to cuddle with the warmth of our blood. But I didn’t need that closeness, I was tired of that reflection in their eyes, I didn’t want to be wapiti anymore.
However much wapiti is in me, if an elk were to love a wolf, where would they live? What all will it take to absolve that part and become what preys on the wapiti?
- My lips were dry and he wet them
- Instead of ice cream I’d like a pile of sorrow
- In search of the beasts with matted fur and glowing eyes
- Your breakfast smile certainly beats mine
- If it is free then it must cost nothing…
- There were egg shells when I cored the apple
- People can change / But he ain’t people
- Not an open book, but open to anything
- Something as simple as a quiet exhale on the small of my back
- If it is late here then it is early somewhere
- The only sails I know are patched
- He didn’t offer so I won’t wince
- With one more hour here / Sixty thoughts betook my mind
- Let fire bleed you / Stoke it out as embers and give in when doused wet by rain
- There is no such thing as writers block / Only uninspired writers
- It better be harder not soft / From behind / With your hot breath just grazing the ear / And deep, guttural grunts each time you thrust