Your bony fingers caught moonlight
through the open bedroom window.
Your whole body glowed, or was
it sheer imagination racing me away
from my sticky flypaper perch.
With a wave of your rainbow hands
you freed me up -- my liberator –
vibrating colors that bled
onto the white bottom sheet,
pooling at gravity’s center.
Rust Belt Review #5
May 2020
I am at high alert, poised on an invisible perch
In a town near you. No need for panic. I watch
the skies nightly for evidence of attack, my eyes
peeled, my pupils black olive dark. I do not blink.
I take this obligation seriously. An implant in my
left arm releases sense vibrations to the mother of
machines back at headquarters. Think mood ring
principle. Thousands of tiny lights are blinking
in an otherwise clear sky. They were not there
a moment ago. They are directly above my head,
in slow descent. I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Fearless #68
May 2019
Early midnight startle
from behind the curtain.
I have surprised darkness –
and not for the first time.
My presence unannounced
peeks out with force
seldom found in humans
at this time of night
unless boosted by
artificial means.
I am clean.
I am startle itself.
I am the anti-dark.
Darkness will love me.
Fearless #68
May 2019
Standing on the rooftop, I am Juno, Ceres,
Victoria, Minerva, Hecate, Iris, Diana –
wind in my hair, sun rising to greet me.
I contemplate flight over a city awakening,
scoping out freshly mown territory –
looking for places to hide in plainest sight.
Simply clad in camouflage, blending in
with treetops, I am pleased with last year’s crops
but not content. Over and again, I rise victorious,
no ashes in sight, with wing expansion greater
than my own capacity for dreaming. Wise but
not without faults of jealousy, suspicion,
my body armor never leaves my sight completely.
I carry torches and threats to morph you into
other forms if you double-cross me. I may
surprise you, arriving when you’re least prepared –
with cryptic messages and leftover nectar dripping
from my fingertips. My eyes ablaze like silver moons,
and deadly as my aim is true, I do not suffer fools lightly.
Octopus Issue 8
August 2019
I shoot from the hip --
my tongue unwavering, direct.
Your words circle, left of center,
obfuscating
complicating --
chilly truth undressed.
Octopus #7
April 2019
The hol(e)y place
fools us all.
Krazy glue fails.
And here we are
like little Dutch boys
with missing fingers.
Octopus #7
April 2019
My throat constricts.
Irregular gasping
overworks my heart
rashly pummeled --
well on its way
to detonating.
I’ve been cautioned
not to voice
my hyperbolic
take on things.
Octopus #7
April 2019