An idea
fosters questions.

And questions
raise ideas.

Picked like peaches,
pickled and peppered,

in sealed mason jars,
upon dusty wood shelf
buried in a garage that smells
of gasoline, and summer.

Where as kids playing nerf
we never raised such questions

not having any idea
of the hungry beast out there

waiting, sharpening its claws
using our parents as dental floss,

grooming its teeth, and ready
for the day

it too, could devour our peaches.


fears of men

The fears of men

are as trivial as

children, picking children in gym,

they never change

they just get bigger.

honest fiction

Fill me with whiskey,

I’ll spill some truth.

Fill me with time and no one,

and I have filled pages with reason.

Reason enough to explain the lies

I tried to convince myself true.

My most honest fiction, in truth

is all that I can do.

be here now

I look at his wrist
it reads:

be. here. now.

and for a second dwell,
what a way to be.

Laughing loudly over stranger conversation, we shoot whiskey then wash them down with pickle juice.

Later I gaze at my face in the mirror
it reads:

be. here. now.

but I do not dwell.
Finally, I am here.

the scenic route!

People always look confused when they ask what I am doing. So I look confused back, smiling, and say, I’m taking the scenic route!

People are more like their God than they think, always looking down at everyone else, wondering what it’s like to live.

I’ll pray for you, they say sometimes. Creation is a messy thing. What’s the difference between prayer and prey?

For now, I guess I’ll be their prey to tell the difference. And when my time comes, confused I will not look, knowing I’ve seen the light.

A light which does not shine but rather illuminates the lonesome weathered Rockies, or Cutlers bountiful Coast, and all those miles of wheat fields traveled upon a harvest moon.