Friday, August 26, 2016

Weekly Worded

Before Bed

I reach for a toothpick.
During the search for bits of food, 
I track down lost ideas between my teeth,
fragments of the morning and afternoon. 

I don’t know why I’m telling you this.

Maybe in the evening 
while poking around in my mouth,
I believe I'll find something tender
that doesn’t bleed.

Friday, August 19, 2016

Weekly Worded

Hold the Enlightenment

I ate the salad
without dressing,
swallowed the water

without ice,
refused the cake
frosted with chocolate,

then waved 
as Buddha entered the diner,
motioned him over to sit with me.

He noticed
but chose to focus  
on the waitress who served my meal.

She was thin in the right places
and round where it mattered.
She smiled

more sweetly than I’d ever seen,
as if enlightenment 
could replace a healthy diet.

Friday, August 12, 2016

Weekly Worded

All That’s Left

is chimney and hearth
heated by sun
glazed by moon
chilled by snow and ice
a rich diet of ore timber rock 

the old mill
gnawed to dust
every bit of structure
worn away
fallen into the creek’s gullet

except this pinnacle 
of rough hewn stone
like a lone tooth
with a cavity of soot
focus of its appetite 

Friday, August 5, 2016

Weekly Worded

                   Full Disclosure

The house is for sale.
Its roof and walls, 
windows and floors.
Each nail, each gap 
where a draft slips through.
The entire square footage
inside, and the universe 
unfolding around it.
Even the trees with 
or without leaves,
along with their roots
connecting earth to sky. 
Bugs, burrowing rodents, 
snakes and skunks.
Five shares of irrigation 
and a cloudburst of rain,
freezing hail and snow. 
The invasion of noxious weeds
along with the flowers.
The birds in the morning,
the spiders weaving their webs
on the satellite dish. 
The price includes everything,
more than I can mention,
             more than anyone cares to know.