STARVED HOUSES

The groundwork has been laid;
the drywall, the mortar, the pestle.
The frame is sound. It will stand.
It will give us this day, minus the bread,
and forgive us the trespasses
we make against ourselves.
We are less than whole
within these walls, we lay
down and expect the leveling.
We are the wasp’s thirst, dry as rain
that doesn’t know another drop exists,
we are stronger than the storm
that hasn’t come yet.

Dying DVR
clicks and whirrs like ghost crickets
how new is that sound?

VISION QUEST-PAK

How many times have I gone so far away
I couldn’t find my way back, and relied
on the bread crumbs of strangers to
both sustain myself and establish
a reliable GPS perimeter?

How many times have I closed
the tunnel door to the past
and declared this dungeon
a baggage free zone?

How many times have I felt lighter
than air, but cooked the molecules
till they’re lighter than that,
just to watch them burst and scatter
like soap bubbles, and know that even
less than that is what holds me here…

blind white rock of moon
fall foliage blazes red
a beautiful death

I gather my thoughts
like gutted animal skins
drying in the wind

I’m bending toward sleep
crickets sound like cracking backs
fall sway the weary

The brush of my breath
strums the broken-down guitar
that sits behind me