Diffuse streetlight glow
seeps into brisk night vapors—
We shiver, huddle.


Omelette and Hash Browns

The omelette casually stares back with crisped hash brown eyes.

I hesitantly reach for my fork, mortified that I would consider profaning such a delicate sunshine smile with burnished steel prongs. Yet the sizzling fragrance of slightly singed eggs swirls like cirrus wisps to my receptive nose and beckons invitingly at my salivating mouth. I waver a moment more before the rolling gurgle of my stomach forces my hand.

Demure saltiness flows like a creamy summer sun onto my yearning tongue. Gushing tomato slivers flood my mouth with effervescently sour murmurs. Sliced mushrooms peek like supple gray toques that explode into ebullient bubbles of flavor. Volatile trees of broccoli conjure blinding images of languorous summer days in feathery-dewed meadows, perturbed only by the gamboling of zephyrs mirthfully tickling and—

A glorious medley of epicurean bliss.


Right Before a Storm

I like to lie on the ground outside right before a storm…

…When shrill gusts spontaneously fling icy droplets into my stinging eyes…When skeletal branches howl and shriek from eviscerating gales…When the clouds glide along like a cotton ball slideshow against an angry sky…

This almost feels like flight.

Festive Cheer

Scratchy plastic spines sprout from wireframe branches.
Specks of multihued radiance slowly shift and fade.
Golden ornaments reflect a dim, distorted room.
It’s funny how festive cheer means staring morosely at the Christmas tree.



Its heavy fumes settle in the space between us. My breaths slowly strain, and I begin to count the seconds since our last words. Motionlessly suffocating, I mentally gasp as if for oxygen and grasp for something—anything—to shatter the cementing muzzle.

I frantically search my frazzled mind, but its cacophonous voices merely swell, urging and inciting, goading and pleading. Choking back a remark on the weather, I finally glance at your eyes.

Your eyes. The warmth emanating from their fluid depths slices like a fiery arrow through the cobwebs enmeshed between us. Your lips gracefully pirouette into a half-smile, and I melt.

It’s a comfortable silence.


The Longest Night of the Year

“Infatuation blinds,” I say to self,
“Like flashbulb spark or midday sun unleashed.
It scorches past untouched by care or stealth
And leaves remorse for souls to slowly piece.

If lacking fuel, it seems to vanish not,
But feeds on hope, on faith and arduous wish,
Which is, though deep, but only worldly thought
That drains away like any worldly dish.”

Yet I am deaf to all my self-reproach.
Its wisdom, logic, cold unbiased truth
Negates ere leaving mind’s cool reasoned touch.
I follow flights of fancy as in youth.

Though hazards plague each tender unformed link,
My heart hears only that which beats in sync.

Staring at the Sun

Reclined, with sunlight stroking
Soft skin. While all heat drains to
Chilled stone, my closed eyes view a
Blushed glow. They slyly peek at
Blue skies.


Not Long Before in Dreams I Leap

Threads frayed and worn, bed warm and deep,
Lips parched yet flushed from tongue’s light sweep.
All snuggled up: curled in a heap
In dreamy meadows half asleep.


Driving in Bleach

This morning I drove in the fog. Staring ahead at the hazy forms looming in the distance, I reflected upon the path to my own future. The charcoal cutouts of denuded trees provided little to look forward to, yet the bleached horizon created an ethereal—almost magical—blanket around the microcosm of my car. Shimmering spotlights of white pierced like eyes through the mist, coquettishly winking in the soft dawn glow. Yet all but the nearest objects were desaturated, drained of life’s essence.

“Where am I going?” I thought. “Am I just another anonymous driver journeying to another anonymous destination?”

Nothing but the purr of my engine replied.

But it was enough. This light rumble reminded me once again of the immediacy of life. That life waits not for uncertain futures, nor for fading pasts. That life takes the moment—the vivid, explosive moment—and crafts with it a vignette which no words can rival. And that “Carpe Diem”—the oft-repeated, seldom apt quip—means not the illumination of the gravel beneath my wheels but the fading of the road ahead and behind.


This Dewdrop

In this dewdrop I see no permanence. In this dewdrop I see only the shattered gems of cavorting fairies, only the fog of Night’s breath. In this dewdrop I see no discerning quirk that eclipses its siblings, and in this dewdrop—this solitary orb of crystal—I see only the irrational dread of a blazing sun.

It captures the essence of only morning lulls. It captures the souls of only unwary ants. It captures the hearts of only lost Romantics, yet it has managed to capture my eye.

For as the radiant sunbeams streak across slumbering fields, this lonely dewdrop will consummate, in a winking pinprick of brilliance, the image of a perfect sunrise.


Holiday Lights

The neon glare reflecting from my windowsill casts a spectral glow upon the darkened ceiling. Each scarlet shaft cleaves chiaroscuro whorls into the high-relief paint.

Furtively tracing the threads in my blanket, my fingertips graze across stitched quilting. I playfully visualize each desaturated hue.

My home murmurs lazily, creaking on weary joints. The steadfast dripping from some distant pipe beckons to my sensitized ears.

Rolling over, I cover my head to shut out the world. Sleep, please abduct me from this. Dreams, please deliver me to bliss.


Mixed Media

The rain comes in gray colored pencil,
The clouds in spilled watercolor.
The puddles shimmer with oil paint,
But sunlight only takes paper.



The other end of the table lives in pantomime:

—Elbows on the table, laughing noiselessly and exuding conviviality.

Hands partially cupped over the mouth, whispering unheard to—

—One arm resting, the other outstretched to drink.

Leaning forward with chin resting in palms, glancing surreptitiously at—

The soft tinkle of laughter brings me back, back to my side of the social roulette wheel.



I gaze up at your soft clumps, enraptured and humbled
As you die sweetly on my lips, nose and tongue
My skin stings when you vanish, prickling and trembling.

Your flurries swerve and flicker, eddy and whirl
So I twirl in response, stumble and recover
We dance in tandem, you and me


Catching a Breath

As my overworn sneakers plunged into the oozing slush, a sharp gust whipped across my stinging eyes. The light patter of swift shoes behind me cued a redoubled effort to jog, and I strained my lungs in the frigid air. An unbidden cough, laden with the viscous mucus of exertion, burgeoned through my tiring frame.

With a last skid on the soppy turf, my stinging legs slowed to approach the ball. One, two, three strides—and a single foot extended backward. Abruptly, my figure twisted, slinging the soiled shoe ahead to smack bluntly against slippery plastic hexagons. The second set of feet drew near, and our eyes traced the soaring curve over the torn and tangled net.

A moment or two of turbulent huffing, then:

Our hoarse wheezing bubbled into punctuated laughter.


Tendrils of Rain

Strewn gently across yesterday’s placid sky were the lightest strands of cotton.
Stripes of white crayon smeared over a damp teal canvas.
A simple fractal extending to the dull horizon.
Tickles from tendrils of rain.
Numbed fingertips.


Sometimes life will take quirky detours.

It never admits to getting lost, but there are always signals—the end of this unpaved road, for one. Not that I am complaining: I find the brisk wind and frosty drizzle exhilarating (and I must admit that this tangent has not been unkind to me thus far).

Even so, I face quite a quandary right now. Do I retrace my footprints and discard their stippled sketches? Or do I continue forth, letting life blaze my trail as I abandon my original destination? Too much is occurring at this crux, and my identity must soon congeal. Frankly, backtracking no longer looks like a viable option.

I say this reluctantly—and the first steps will doubtless appear crude and uncertain in hindsight—but there can be no vacillation. I cannot act indecisively. Though my career will ultimately direct me elsewhere, I will not allow my newly kindled flame to sputter prematurely. I do not gamble, but life has forced my hand. In that sense, I suppose this path was inevitable.

If it suits your fancy, will you venture forward on this voyage with me?