In Which I Like Journaling, Whether It's About Anything Special or Not.

the drip and
slide
of black
wet ink
onto dry paper
across those sharp lines
(blue or black or any colour,
but straight from margin
to outer edge)
can give more peace,
more clarity
than prayer or
voices or
creation.

In Which It's To Fucking Hot Everywhere I Go.

one time i saw
this old, half-burned cigarette
on the sidewalk that was so hot
if you dripped water on it
it would most certainly
hiss and steam like the skillet
after you fry eggs,
when you stick it under the running faucet
just for that sensory experience
of cold on heat,
and that cigarette was still smoldering
a little, like the coals do
on the grill
after a big family barbecue,
where your dad got a little too drunk on cooler beers
and your mom ate a little too much potato salad
and you played a little too much in the sun,
but some of the tobacco
had fallen out of the paper
and was strewn
in a line out from the filter
as if the wind had blown it like leaves,
like every late August when
everything living isn't,
but is brown and parched
and covers the ground in scentless,
temporary piles,
and i thought how maybe
i read too much into things
sometimes.

In Which "Bad Moon Rising" is Stuck In My Head.

i see a
not-so-great sun
rising
but i gotta meet it, baby,
yeah
gotta meet it despite
or maybe that was
in spite
and I can't tell you,
sweetie,
if trouble's on the way
but monsoon season's
certainly
around the next corner
or the one
after that,
soon enough to merit caution
or at least
a glance ahead,
and, honey,
you might be prepared
but more likely
you'll just be in time
for those clouds to burst or
break.

In Which I Am Feeling Lazy.

everything looks so
washed out, so sun-drenched pastel
in this summer heat.

In Which I Am Watching Labyrinth Again and Don't Judge Me, Okay?

does he remind you of the babe?
that babe with that
alien power,
that chameleon who fell to
earth
in a tin can man of chords and
syth-pop beats and
a permanently dilated
sense of self-importance,
with his cruel owl eyes,
and a name that cuts
us all like a knife, and
though your will is as strong as mine,
his kingdom is greater --
we have no power over
him,
or his tight, tight pants.

In Which Arizona is Gorgeous, but Fantasy Worlds are Better Sometimes.

keep your head full
of living forest shadows and
moonlit wings dappled
with evenstar-wishes and
golden leaves falling in cool breezes
from oaken-strong trees,
for who wouldn't choose that
bliss,
those misty mountains,
over this never-quenched
and still and stinging desert,
its jagged cliffs rising from
thorns and rocks that have never
met moss or even morning dew?

In Which I Took A Mental Health Day.

isn't lying supposed to
make you feel bad
or something,
tear at you like claws
or guilt?
you know, when it's not
to dry a loved one's tears
or keeps those special
gift-wrapped secrets?
or is that just what grownups
tell you so
you'll stay in line and
they won't have to figure out themselves
if it was you who ate that last bag of
Cheetos
before dinner?