Looking At Fields Across The Country

What good is a green garden if the sun never shines? Nobody goes outside these days. The ground is cold. The air is cold. The sun is captive behind an expansive gray fortress. What good is walking barefoot if you spend your life indoors?

Stranded, Like James Caan In The Movie Adaptation of “Misery”

When will winter end. When will winter end. When will winter end. I’ve been trapped in this lodge for centuries. I’ve been caught up in snowstorms for millennia. Plow the streets. Melt the ice. Make it warm. Make it summer. Make it last.

Excuse Me, Who’s Animal Is This?

Woof. Woof. Why are you feeding me lies, anonymous?

First To Lashed

Rainforest candlelit by itchy natives. Trance victim mimics influential yearling. Awoken by hummingbird blistering and free. Fatigued harpooner vanished in the swell. Funeral drums are grandiose static percussive and methodical.

Jack-O’-Lanterns

We are smiling in the dark. No one is around, not for miles. You’re asking how much longer it will take for our eyes to adjust, and I can’t help but wonder…is it foolish to whisper when nary an ear can discern our voices?

To End Conversation

I asked if she had any final words before I departed.

“Knob, marshmallow, classic, ephemera, bell, method, phone, elephant, consternation, buck, yodel,” she replied.

Hook For A Hand For A Hook

Not sure what you thought you saw, but it wasn’t what you thought. It was a figment of your imagination, a manifestation of your higher brain. No wonder it is difficult to breathe when air is full of foul smelling secrets. If you did not want them exposed you should have learned to keep them safe.

It Is There, In The Distance

I have made this climb before. Beyond the path overgrown with dense weeds and hanging vines, past waterfalls and Idiot fruit, there is a clearing. See the reflection of the sky. See the peaks of nearby isles. The arduous trek is not for the faint of heart.

What’s Stuck Is Unstuck

That weekend, a funeral in the morning, a childbirth in the evening, relations with a stranger in the sleeping car on a train bound for the coast. His pages were as empty as his wallet. His mind was as fried as his father’s. No one arrives at this train station anymore. Just what is it you think you’re waiting for?

Kicked-In Bulbs Still Flash

You move more often than roaming dust, than colonial settlers, than clock hands. The fear of staying stagnant manifests itself in broken capillaries and bruised egos (”Sorry, suitors!” you exclaim). Years fry before the decision to reinvent a once-successful recipe you discarded. Hey there, dreamer, you can’t fight what you can’t see.