The Blurry Aftermath


Blowtorch. Deep
-water. The flu(n)ctuation
of de
-cadence. The new
(seducer soon and locust long)
that come too soon
and leave urban sprawl
cloudy walls.

Account for falling. Coconuts.
The crypt
-ology of reason. The corrupt
seducer seasons of con
-nation. Flesh, in all its
failings. Ladybug wings
and carrot

-cake with no frosting.

Shall we dream? Or hold our
-selves un,



My Shawna gave me a wordlist. Thanks for the unstuck moment, Girl. ;) 

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dragon roll


the sky’s a hot mess
of wasabi origami cloud
cover and white

tuck in, begin
the free of falling,
the flight of calling
strange. we’re scaled,

ageless and

we’ve got a feel
for the rhythm; for
-gotten how to rhyme.

but they don’t teach us
how to keep on going
or how to color inside
the lines; just how


good times.

Prompted by Poetic Asides

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The low and quiet hum of it


There’s an aria here, too,
and ballad moments. Nights filled
with long slow love songs. Days
drumming our hands against the
furniture to the beat of our kids’
hearts, the rock album noisy
rhythm of it all. There’s the clack
on black of fingered keys, the tease
of playful bark and mumbled
meow. But mostly

it’s the humming how
and the whispered why
and the will and the while
of it, the spill and the smile
of it and the drip of the coffee
and the way your hand fits in
mine. The low whine of the
fridge and the murmur of the
clock that says we are for
each other, and that this is home.


What does love sound like for you? Come play over at dVerse, as Walt prompts us to listen to love. 

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call of the while


all wit and whim and slim-jim
trim stims aside, we abide
by exactly


of the rules. we choose and
snooze and lose ourselves
in the
(shiny object!)
(hey! my soul!)
game of cat and mouse
(-keteer). state your name.
name your state. doesn’t
matter. doesn’t matt her
(down, or other

call me
(late for dinner)
and i’ll tell you truth. all.
most. sum
of the parts of me
I have gotten to

elbows, for example. pointy.
need lots of room.

knees. not used
nearly enough.

eyes. dotted with
hope and sometimes
crossed, a tease of

once in a
long long
while, we smile. toothy.
strange. (s)lightly de
-ranged, and not
quite ready
for the next
long hard mile.

Inspired by my Shawna, who penned the line that is the title.❤





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Do we call it a pit, or a stone?


The center of the earth is hot,
they say, but I believe the core

is cold as ice and twice as dark
as this midnight sky. At any rate

(or speed, of sound), the journey
is too long and I am far too tired.


I missed the Quadrille a couple of weeks ago over at dVerse (the direct link has since closed). The word was “journey.” Because I love the Q44, and because I’m a little OCD (need to do them all) and because this wanted to spill out today, here it is. 






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things you cannot keep in jars

the dance of trees
the moon’s lull
the bubblegrin sun as it
melt-shimmers over blue

a light twist-skipping
green into the seaquake

the breeze that spills your
soul to stars

the rose;
the risen thorns

the way a journey
you loose,
Another Q44 for Bjorn’s dVerse prompt today. Bar opens at noon, PST. Come play! 



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7df16321b89d2dcc694c8801dd3bc262image from here



we have held light
in our very hands, crum
-bled and smeared
across our hungry skin.

we have kept secrets
………(skeletal, haunting)
counted them in the dark.

we have collected shards
of sharp and silent things;
stars. mourned other things

we saved
in jars.
It’s Quadrille day at dVerse! I missed the last one, so I’m sooooo ready to play! The bar opens at noon, PST! Come play! 





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