Friday, February 25, 2011

Weekly Worded

Empty Tanka

Like the price of gas,
my love for you increases.
If destiny says

we’ll always be together,
why don’t we just take your car.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Weekly Worded

My Life As An Impressionist

If I could stand back far enough
the whole point of life
might come into focus.
From the ceiling above my bed
I’d watch myself wake
and not have to guess at the day
through the lidded folds of my blankets.
Or better, watch from the roof
as I slam the door and understand
why I can’t help being late.
If a hawk on its limb
sees its hunger, how much quicker
from my perch will I strike
at my smallest fears.

Up close, it all looks
like brush stokes,
every gesture articulated,
every variation of blue layered
so tightly against the other
the horizon collapses
into a flat line
instead of quivering
like the lip of infinity.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Weekly Worded

Road Prayer

Dusk obscures this motel’s flaws
so that its badly weathered paint
glows like a halo.  Heavenly oasis
of the desert tucked into the armpit

of an exit ramp, I know better
than to stop here, but tonight I am
bone weary from driving.  I hope
more than two cars are parked

like ratty couches outside the rooms.
I pray a counter exists where both
money and keys can be exchanged
instead of through a slot in the wall

below a smudged pane of glass.  I want
healthy flowers growing in the planters,
pliant springs supporting my bed.
Let the shower be named for a geyser,

may the toilet eddy and flush.
After I lie down, permit the vacancy sign
like a two-year old to stay up all night
and never quit saying “No”.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Weekly Worded

Two Feet Into Paradise

When I find a boot
to fit my crooked right toe
then the left boot’s loose.
The calloused heel
shines like a tin star,
and a bone spur aches when I stand.
Oh, unmatched feet, you plague me
like the metric system.
I swear I’ll cross Hell barefoot
if in this life I can find
a comfortable pair of shoes,
but these boats I’m sailing
come with either oars.
If I’m going down
let me not be burdened
with layers of orthotics
and the questionable ethics
of trimming mole skins.
Jimmy Hoffa, where did you
find those concrete overshoes?