Vandal

Nestled in the folds of the mountains,

I walk through a place reclaimed.

I am taken in by the sweeping curves of crude oil tanks,

and dilapidated walls of industry before me -

Riveting and soul-swelling as the snowy peaks that rise up behind them.

Graffiti is scrawled on every surface.

There are layers of images,

Paint on top of paint -

Thick extrusions from a concrete surface.

I can imagine the pilgrimage to this place.

A procession of figures,

carrying aluminum cans like sacrifices at the altar.

The crisp clear air filled with the reek of aerosol.

This place has a sense of sacredness, an ache of reverence.

If the human mind was tangible,

A place that could be wandered through,

it would be like this.

Our hopes, concerns, and experiences

imprinted and overlaid on walls that are crumbling down.

The relentless mind-chatter of the quotidian,

scrawled over our greatest insights,

obscuring them from remembrance.

A cartoon bear with his mouth wide open,

exclaiming “Set out and konquer!”

Bird-bones

I remember when I was all
Wire and feathers
Bird-boned and spry.

Hunger hollowed out my belly,
Sunk my in my cheeks,
Set deep brown eyes.

There was a grinding on my mind
From the time I woke up
Running hands down my
Horizontal frame
To the time I slipped back
Into the only sweet
Release I had,
Asleep.

Brittle hair
Swirling toward the drain.
so thin,
The wind could blow
Right through me,
Shivers.

Lifting up each spoonful
Leaden. Heavy.

Flood Watch

Hail came titter-tattering down after the rain.They told us it would hurt. They warned us. We ignored them– you and I. We went outside to run and twirl and feel. After, we sat shoulder to shoulder under the awning of the porch and watched that storm shudder.

Skin still shivering.  

Brother

When the hail comes down, it comes down with a vengeance - all the cutting force of a Nebraskan summer behind it. But a brother is someone who takes the brunt of the storm. Thin lean muscles, pull me up beside them. Close. And your back must hurt like hell. 

These Miles

These miles burn inside my thighs for days. When you see me, you might be deceived into thinking that I am so small - yourself a giant in comparison. But I have a secret – I am the sky open wide, wind rushing by with millions of miles on my skin.

To Kira

Toothpaste is foaming in your little mouth,
and the laughter sticks like toothpaste to the edge of our lips, just on the verge of dribbling.
It's a tooth-brushing party.

You'll be sleeping soon, little child,
but I don't want you ever to wash that laughter off your face.

S'mores Anyone?

Running, waiting, wishing to be done with these days when our silly little world lays burning at our feet. Mother always had the graham crackers, marshmallows and God forbid we forget chocolate. She would say: “On the upside, these flames are a perfect opportunity for s’mores. Would anyone like one?”