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I am small ordinary easily overlooked.I have told myself this long enough, thenI realized I am as small as a boltIn a suspension bridge, as ordinaryas a commute on a windy day andoverlooked at one’s own peril. I recognizethe depth of the hole I will leave behind,seeing my value even if no oneelse does until
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“Hunt, we, uh, have a problem?” Lin said. He stood stock still, hoping to stick into the carpet tiles and disappear.With a look of long-suffering patience, Hunter Payne studied his Head of Transformative Programing. Messy hair, dark under-eye bags, noticeable pit stains, the department head reminded Hunter of a rain-soaked rat. The CEO flexed his
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A lot of people have heard tell of the Goatman. Up around Pope Lick Crick, there were stories about a half man half goat who was a traumatized circus freak who took refuge under a trestle and jumped out at cars with an axe. The Poke Lick Monster mostly just encourages young fools to hang
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Embers glowed in the mighty stone hearth of This, That & Sons. Couples and small halos of friends huddled together around the old tavern’s tiny oak tables. A magical fiddle played Janelle Monae covers under a baby spotlight. In his usual corner Old Grifty was in his cups laughing at his own jokes. Bountiful flapped
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The new year, fresh as a never opened volume, leansOn a nearby shelf.Inside there will be numbers and crisp certain linesCrisscrossing time into days weeks and months ofLists, delicious lists, ambiguous lists, to do lists gloriouslyCorralling chaos and shepherding baby lamb dreams. Scarlet, orange, saffron, choices stand upright in a coffee cupready to highlight illustrate
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Behold my unfurling. Hark, that tickle deep in the back of your throat. Is that an ache in your calf? The catch in your breath is my trumpet. That phlegmatic drumming in your chest’s hollow. I am coming.Deny me at your peril.Ease into my warm molasses of fatigue. Accept my embrace in a smothering of
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Burning ring of fireHunka hunka of burning lovegreat balls of firein songs love is a flameme, I’m just a straw maneasy to knock down, no brains, flammable My girl, the prettiest thing in the only bar in townShe never gave me the time of daybut late one night Guns ’n’ Roses was playingthe air smelled
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Open skies beckon in something broaderFor this is the ballard of the Forth Worth ThreeA trio of girls who may have been lead to slaughterOne afternoon on a Christmas shopping spree Rumour is they were nabbed by a fiendFort Worth, heart broken, was shaken to its coreFor they were never ever again seenAfter the 23rd
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