for got ten
there’s a part of my shoe that you will never know
and while a tomato paste stain lingers
hard on kitchen door cabinet
nearly belching with canned food
i hope to eat someday
i will remain the last step of counter leans
on an empty walking day.
before there was the eating noise of sunlight
i was dripping into an everything
that allowed for such bad behavior
and lost
i would hit back.


ask your darts
to a truthful aim
unwatering eyes
in the pouring rain
when riding through storms
legs under tables
arms air guitaring
Cruel To Be Kind
my corn hair ideas
drip off your hands
like bay ducks
and sweet and sour pink sauce
i am not getting all of this
or maybe the bulls eye
has already been dotted
smack dab
wham bam
i am all in the cake frosting
without an oven mitt
for protection
is it time?

the back street is slipping
toward black ice brakers
and everytime we swerve, i gasp.
we arrive
shaking in our shirts

there’s a wide grin
hiding under an eye watering stream
going through changes
and everytime the tide shifts
the moon blinks.
something holds the seasons.
something always breaks away.
it‘s when we’re dealing with the dust,
swirling after the kill,
that we stumble around
dealing with the fog.

I got up this morning
and drove into garlands of rain
there was a road
that ate it’s own tail
and at one point
i talked to peter jennings.
my dodge was a rare beast
and sang old christmas songs
from the backseat.
we tooled beside the lake
and took that sad old grey
all the way home.