Dominos

Sometimes I don't know where
this dirty road is taking me
sometimes I can't even see the reason why -Townes van Zandt


Do you want to play
dominos? he asks
I don’t answer
I don’t know who
He is

Why don’t you want
to play dominos
with me?
Again, I don’t
answer

Weren’t you my
creative writing
professor?
Satori –
I know
Him

He is loneliness, a
façade hiding behind
Townes van Zandt
lyrics and white space

a computer screen

What do you want?
He claims he’s
interested…
yet he is not
free…

He plays me like
the Scrabble games
he challenges me to
as I get the winning
edge

He gets triple letter score…

Who really has won this game?

It is likely we both
win and lose
as we wander
this dirty road
and technological
white space
searching, seeking
for a reason why.

Miranda

My niece
her name a set
of rights. Eyes giggling
she demands the cop guess my name
he does.

Echoes of Silence

Multi-hued ornaments shine with red,
gold, and green, smiling faces on
stark white branches as lights twinkle,
twist, turn, dancers performing a
waltz.
Store fronts wave with silver foil
wrapped windows beckoning each
passerby as I rush past your open warmth,
head down.
Stream swirls as I grasp the mug. Arm back
I hurl it against the wall. It shatters like
a broken puzzle, piece by piece as murky
liquid graffitis the wall.
I stare out the window, marble streets mock,
challenge me to endure their icy paths as
children slip, slide, knees deep in snow
glee filled shouts of no more school.
Bundled in my blanket, book open I read
the same sentence for the eighth time
before I slam it closed. Echoes of
silence swirl singing me to sleep.

The banister glows glitters with greenery
as it winds and shimmers up dark wood
rails. I glide downstairs, feet light with
anticipation. The tree in the corner
stands majestic, proud arms extended
with homemade trinkets of memories
past. Silence flows over me as I peek
in my stocking. Presents stacked high
with foil colored bows beg for a final
shake. Mom and Dad still asleep, I
curl with a blanket under the tree to
patiently wait.

Eyes open I stare towards the vacant
Corner. Happiness of Christmas’ past
Twirls, sashays like snowflakes light as
Air. Memories of a father’s hug and a
Mother’s kiss embrace me in blanket
Warmth as I bend to holiday’s cheer.

To Soar

6 am alarm clock blurs dreams to
reality and I run out of my house
Saturday morning.

Angry brake lights blink like
ambulance flashers as the sign reads
Freeway Closed Ahead.

My fingers tap tap tapping the wheel
I sing slightly off key
to a bubblegum tune.

Hordes of impatient cars weave
in out, mad bulls searching
exit ramps
as my foot taps to
the tune.

When the knot clears, I accelerate
wanting nothing but a jolt of caffeine
before class begins.

Sun over the trees dazzles my
eyes. Then a host of Hot air balloons
red, green, blue
blaze against clouds’ canvas.
at the helm each
pilot a painter.
Gasping I pull over,
close my eyes.
I am the colors swirling,
and with them
I fly.

Those Left Behind

Water waves
cover rooftops
swallows cars; a
mythic monster
from a crayon
creation scribbled
in angry hues

color splashes
the surface,
confetti dots of
red
blue
green

black…

bodies litter
the street
like broken glass
shattered shards
of splintered dreams,
yet they are
colorless
bloated balloons
floating
among debris,
until
curb crushed

nothing

but
the
city’s
trash.

Published in The Bayousphere (2007)

The Kite

Wings outstretched like a
bird soaring, the kite flies
through the sky blurring a
kaleidoscope of colors: red,
orange, green

Your stubby legs pump
in frayed jeans, white at
the seams, your red cap backwards
and toothless grin as the
kite hurls, nose first like
a sky diver, arms out
plummeting
towards earth.

Small hand grasps mine
with pleading eyes
you beg, “Make it fly.”

Puzzled I wonder where
you came from, when I hear a
voice saying, “I see you’ve met
my son.”

With a blank stare I turn
and whisper the
soft forbidden words
“Where is your wife?”

Patchwork Memories

I remember
an ashtray shattering;
a rain shower of
porcelain
fragments
orange and green,
and stepping out
of its
panoramic view.

A restaurant horror,
the squeamish sequence
of my niece
crawling on the table,
belly full of air;
a white balloon.
Hording her food
she scuttles away
from the borax
blowing bug.
Her eyes blank,
an uncolored page.

A philanderer;
his whispered
four letter
crossword puzzle
clues of
LOVE
and
CARE
deleted with a chewed
bubblegum eraser
like the wife and
children he forgot.
Their feelings
squeezed dry;
a flat toothpaste
tube.

The field of crocuses
like pinwheels,
sunbursts of
orange, yellow swirls,
surrounds a
lone, gray stone
“Heaven is with
its newest angel”
reads the phrase
as the sun
and memories of
my mother
fade to
black.