3:22 P.M., March 12 and
The messenger’s nearly here
With this year’s diagnosis.
The package will be gaily wrapped.
Sometimes they add balloons.
In the following procession
The addendums march in
Gilded with the newest rules
Tossing current practice
Like multi-colored confetti into the air.
Gentle reprisals in white lab coats
Complete the cortege with brooms in hand
To sweep up leftover instructions.
And with a grand huzzah
They toast their cleverness,
Present the gift,
And leave.
3:25 p.m., March 12 and
Nothing’s changed.

A wise man once said that endurance and pain
Sit on magic scales that always balance out.
That we are not given more than we can bear.
That we sacrifice only in proportion
To what we receive.
That the world is flat,
And the moon, green cheese.

Stripped of the guise of pretense,
I unfasten the sash of distrust
And let it fall softly at your feet.
Unencumbered by falseness,
Uncovered by deceit,
I am nothing more than I am
Standing here waiting for you.

Alone
In a blinding, bluish haze
That cries in the night.
Tears surrounding you
Belonging to
Someone else.

It was a thought that resembled an action.
A whisper that seemed like spoken word.
A reaction that imitated emotion.
A habit that looked like a bond.
It was a charade that vaguely resembled my life.

Pain and Alone

Read them both at Belle Reve Literary Journal

My friend the river never fit their mold, either.
He’d carry their barges and pleasure boats, then
Reclaim a field that once had been his or hold
A swimmer too close, not giving up what he took.

… Continue reading at Belle Reve Literary Journal