coffee table, Faulkner

sitting in the barely living room
listening to my own slow breathing
letting time take advantage of me
yawning lazily as i lay dying.

out of place

the most amazing work of art
a perfect painting finally framed
something i could stare at for days
and even if i could ever afford it
it could never find a wall to call home
in the lonely house i call my own.

haiku #11

having your bags packed
means absolutely nothing
when you miss the train

unless i move

i've been warned about this.
worrying about what's outside
forgetting to wash what counts
wasting away while i appear
to be gaining in strength.
i've even told myself about it.
thinking that i have time enough
to talk about the change i need
instead of starting to try now
i'd rather dream of designs
for the man i'll never be.

yes and no

the one thing that has always been there always
and never no never ever leaves even for a second
seems to me to always be that only thing that
i always try but never find a way to wrap my mind
around and put down in words or sounds or something else
because it's far and near and here and there and
it never makes sense how it doesn't make sense
even though it's everything i know but something
that i know almost absolutely nothing about.

redirection

move, move for motion's sake
don't focus thoughts or even think
close your eyes and turn around
fill your ears with hollow songs
because a handful of stones
takes a lot less work to throw
with blind eyes and wild arms
than actually aiming at the mark.

seconds

tiny tin elephants
run around in rings
while my empty eyes
search for something
that's able to explain
whether or not it's a waste
to watch with a smile
as the tiny tin elephants
run around in rings.

i want to know

is it like a favorite shirt
or the air that surrounds
or a cozy old armchair
or your beating heart?
is it more or less
than everything you want
and something you need?

pharisee

i used to walk the crowded halls
and look at faces all around
and i would always tell myself
i had all of them all figured out.
just a bunch of shallow kids
who didn't care about their souls
and lived their lives so pointlessly
in high school halls and green fishbowls.
maybe sometimes that was true
and my shallow judgment hit the mark
but looking back i can't believe
that every single heart was dark
and blinded to the light of truth
just beating for the next big thing
especially when my own eyes
were filthy filled with hypocrisy
and this is my lifetime late apology.

thankful, i swear i am

wake up while the grass is still wet
still tired eyes open to realize
that this life is not what i deserve
because i can't even begin to begin
to give thanks for what i've been given
and i'm only ever thankful anyways
for the things that come to my mind
and with the way i tend to forget
whatever things mean the most
i'm guaranteed to take for granted
the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

haiku #10

if i could watch me
from an outside perspective,
i think i might laugh.

take root

rip my roots out of the rich soil they reside in.
wreck the work wrought over years now wasted.
replace my riches with trivial pleasures passing.
restore my soil. relish the waters. redemption.
return my roots to the earth where they belong.
regain the strength required to thrive again.
repair my battered limbs and brokenness.

the patience i am not

i still stick my fingers in my ears
and sing nonstop nonsense though
you never stop talking sense.

i think i'll always think i'm right
and constantly crave control even
when i know you have it all.

i'll always be a little child
whining and wanting what you won't give
when you only want my happiness.

mirror. moon.

we were made
to be a mirror
reflecting rays
of glory bright.
we were made
to be the moon
absorbing sun
illuminating night.

we were made
but we've been cracked
piercing fingers
with edges sharp.
we were made
but time has turned
our faces hide
leaving dark.

we were made
to be repaired
fractures sealed
covered cracks.
we were made
to shine again
we turn away
He draws us back.

haiku #9

if you can convince
yourself of what the truth is
is it true to you?

self deceit

over time
i've told myself
so many lies
that it's getting
hard to find
a way to trust
myself and i.

the sting (pt. ii)

since the start
it never stops
growing stronger
stinging. stabbing.
once subtle
small sensation
slowly snuck up
and silently
sapped the strength
that kept steady
but stopped sight
from seeing straight.

the rush (pt. i)

the pain is covered over
by the rush of blood
and drowned underneath
the wakening wall
of adrenaline flood.

your mind makes you numb
to lead under skin
letting you forget
the damage being done
to the flesh within.

only time reminds you
of the truth going on
when your nerves awake
and adrenaline deception
is finally gone.

feeling forced

walking the rows
reading the words
that cover the spines
and span the shelves
spinning my head
twisting my neck
to take in the titles.
making the decision
seems much easier
when i can read
my way through one
and on to the next
again and again
knowing that this
is just one choice
that i don't even
have to make.

no contact

my head is speaking
to my heart in tongues
while my hands and feet
carry me forward blindly
through knotted thoughts
and automatic activity
the cycle starts and stops
just long enough
to let me sleep.

weak resilience

does each correction make us stronger
or just prove we've been wrong for longer?
do we learn from each mistake we make
or do they take us to where we break?
and will i ever know the length
of how my weakness is my strength?

the decision

nature says to take the path
of least resistance every time,
so why would man choose the high road
if it means he has to climb
out of bed and out the door
to face the world outside his head
and take the time to live his life
instead of waiting til he's dead.

inspired

sitting all alone
i want to write now.
thinking in my head
i don't know how to.
going to a time
i was surrounded.
feeling what it was
warm hands on my heart.

innocent intentions

is there a difference
between daffodil and dandelion
when given as a gift
from the hands. the heart
of a child?

haiku #8

thoughts become liquid
as they race around my brain
and soak me like rain.

running rhythm

tick tock
tolls the time
off my clock.
clip clop
the clamor of feet
doesn't stop.
drip drop
sweat beads drench
the skin on top.

living room chair

five-petal flowers on
burnt brush brown
six-headed snakes
swim upside-down
cattail crowns and
corncob feathers
psychadelic sunshine
in autumn weather
broken arm branches
bush burning bright
cushion cover crevice
under lazy lamplight.

a change of pace

it's the loose tooth
that you like to play with
and wiggle around.
the long-grown hair
that you like to twirl through
your fingers but needs trimmed.
the song you love to sing
again and again until one time
it's just stuck in your head.
the favorite pair of jeans
that you wish you could always wear
but they need washed.
they just need washed.

ignorance

they say that someone
can't smell the smells
that constantly
surround themselves
so perhaps we all
should wear perfume
even when we're
unaware of our fumes.

paper tongue

it's funny how
curves and lines
are what i use
to empty my mind
and even though
they take their place
i still can't find
any words to say.

haiku #7

breathing is just the
rhythm in this song we call
living and dying.

pieces/parts

one piece of wood or
a single cinder block
don't make much meaning
and even if you had
ninety-nine nails
and seventy-six screws
you'd still be stuck with
a pointless pile of supplies.
until hand meets hammer
and brick by brick each
block and board becomes
better than before, because
they're part of something more.

nothing not

vacuum clean scream
bright sunlight shine
singing music ring
black fly buzz
time speed by
mother mouth talk
hardrive hum
nothing at
all
at once.

haiku #6

turn on the a/c,
but open the blinds to let
a little warmth in.

practice makes perfect

i am the financial advisor
who files for bankruptcy.
i am the ethics professor
whose home is the race track.
i am the sunday school teacher
who finds comfort in a bottle.
and i am the psalmist
who never sings.

biting the hand that feeds

the river current carries you
and requires no work
as you drift downstream
heading toward home,
but once in a while
you feel like fighting it
because you'd rather rely
on your own arms
even though you know
the water will always win
and wash you away
reminding you where
your strength abides.

me, myself vs. i

even in the light of the sun
i still run with my head to the ground
never looking around
the next bend in the trail
so i always fail to find my way home
because i'd rather roam
than make my way home to your
open door and forgiving heart
where i can finally start
to feel somewhere i belong
not in a song about loss and pain
and not only in my own brain.

pitiful

the slope seems impossibly steep
after tires slipped and slammed
and left you laying limp, lifeless
with broken bones and bruised body
and rather than return to riding
you remain wrecked, ruined
refusing to regroup and restart
and your pride pushes away
hands offering help and healing
because your brokenness has become
easier than the race you were running.

haiku #5

spine meets the mattress.
feeling less at rest than a
book upon a shelf.

no such thing as a clean break

even when you finish the glass
those last few drops always remain.
when left unwashed for time too long
they never leave because of the stain.
like scars left on flesh long after a blade
permanent reminders of the mess you've made.

careful now

resonation from the wrong words
can easily crack a delicate glass.

kaleidoscope

tiny pieces tumble atop each other,
spinning around and spiraling down,
making melodies of illumined hues,
captivating your vision with its vibrance.

but when eyes are emptied of the entertainment
to relish the reality now revealed,
the mind mistakes majestic for mundane
and truth, taken as trifling, is tossed aside.

what can't be held

the man leans heavy-handed
with his garden glove against
the rake he's used the entire day
and lifts weary lids to gaze up
into the cloudless blue void
watching wishfully for a sign of shade
but instead his eyes lay hold
of a single shape soaring overhead
whose wings bring it close
and its beauty is beheld before
it leaves the man's eyes empty again
but not wanting more from the moment
because he knows the the beauty
was never in the bird itself
but in the freedom of its flight.

learning to love where you live.

new air freshener hangs,
a fresh set of wheels,
oil just changed and
exchange of the keys.
it's nothing too new
but it's still new to you.

the fresh air fades out,
wheels begin to wear thin,
the oil needs changed and
you've lost the spare keys.
it's nothing too new
but now it's getting old.

search for a new scent,
replace the rims as well,
clip coupons for the oil change and
comb the cushions for keys.
it's still nothing new
but it never really gets old.

you of little faith

master rolls out of bed
scratches your head as he
slips sleepily down the stairs.

you follow his footsteps
to find him finishing filling
your bowl and his stomach.

you eat your fill as he finds
his way back to the bedroom where
he changes into his stiff suit.

you finish your food and find
a tattered toy rope to wrestle away
from the playful pull of his strong arms.

but he walks right past your
smiling eyes and leaves you long-faced
listening to the garage door grinding gears.

you drop your toy and go back
to the bowl you abandoned for play
but you're careful to save some just in case.

you don't know when he'll come
back to the home you now sit in alone
hoping you won't have to wait here for long.

the hours pass by and you decide
to simply lie around and bide your time
keeping an eye on the door for any signs.

waiting eventually gives way to sleep
but even asleep you still keep your
ears open wide hoping for his voice.

the garage door opens your eyes
and you rise up running to welcome home
the master you thought would never return.

too cold.

growing up was easy when
i felt the same way as
the parents who fed me
breakfast before sunday school.

conflicts were quenched
when breaking curfew meant
staying out a bit too late
with daughters of family friends.

prayers passed by my lips
with ease when i failed
to see that they were little
more than sermon lessons echoing.

i take a look in the mirror
and realize that i've let
this hand-me-down jacket
decide who i've always been.

haiku #4

something comes to mind.
a picture of her. dancing.
a smile breaks your face.

haiku #3

Even if it was
tattooed on my arms, i would
forget how to live.

i judge everything by its cover

i once read a book
every letter and phrase
and now all i can recall
is what it said on the last line
of the very last page.

i once met a man
talked for hours and days
and now all i remember
is when he introduced himself
and told me his name.

of want and misery

i want to take a drink
feel the waters wet my lips
and let the coolness caress my throat.

it doesn't take much
only a few frigid drops
or a small, steady stream.

but i open the gates
and let the rapids rush forth
drowning any doubt of my delights.

but i've done too much
and the waters that i wanted
have carelessly killed my conscience.

is improvement forward motion?

press the keys and hear the strings
the sound of the music is sweet
even when the ivory sticks
and random notes fall flat.
your ears adjust to the discord
and your fingers grow accustomed
to those stubborn notes.
but something still tells you
that this isn't the way
things were meant to sound
and dirty keys get set out
next to the curbside clutter
where they finally fit in
and the smooth, black, lacquered
surfaces of your new purchase
have a new room to call home.
you press the keys and hear the strings
the sound of music is still sweet
and the fluid fingertips feel fine
but there's a part of you
that longs for the chords to tremble
and for your fingers to fight
with the old stubborn keys
that you thought you couldn't stand
but you grew so accustomed to.

questions that keep my neck stiff

is it possible
to love someone
so much that
you can't love them.
and to think
about them
so much that
you can't think
at all about
them or anything.
and even if
you know what
you should do
can you ever
do it if you
don't really want
to do what you
know is right.
and can someone
be so selfish
that he doesn't
even care about
himself at all.
if pleasing someone
else is all you want
is it ever possible
to please yourself.
can i ever really
want anything outside
of my own.

fun isn't fun

i'm really just a little kid.
sitting at the small table
in my miniature chair
doing nothing of significance.
watching the real party go on
of laughter and grown-ups
and of sitting and talking.
the swings and slides are old
and too familiar to be fun.
so i sneak away and quiet down
thinking about what to do.
but since i can't talk like they do
with their foreign phrases
and their nonsense news
i just get back on the swing
and hope that one of them
will see me just long enough
to know that i want a push.

i don't know how to cease to exist

if you rewind our tapes to the start
what does the beginning look like?
is the end simply sealed off
or does it hang frayed and torn?
maybe the beginning reaches the end
and has no real finish or start.
it might just be as simple
as a cord with two ends
and nothing to define them
except for themselves and what they are.
simply ends of what lies between.
or they could be constantly changing,
stretching, twisting, growing,
redefining where we end and
where what we are begins.

empty stare

a painting requires an audience
witnesses to testify to its beauty
eyes to be filled with its wonder.
even though they change nothing.
the paint dried long ago and
the characters are set in their ways and
the joy that flows from the canvas
can never be returned to its sender.
wide mouths and gaping eyes absorb
but leave no mark of change, nothing
good or bad or ugly or beautiful,
nothing.

haiku #2

writing about work.
i'm trying to make this work..
but it doesn't work.

(almost) awake

cold engine
turn the key
grind the gears
listen for it
almost turned over
turn it again
hope for it
wait for it
the slow purr
of morning thoughts.

the hungry bear

hungry is the bear
searching for the hive
longing for the honey
that cost a thousand lives
of tiny buzzing bees
who worked for days and nights
but never tasted sweetness
of stolen comb delight
but no feeling of remorse
or any other cares
will drift into the mind
of the ever-hungry bear.

dependence

keep grabbing the leaves
tearing your way up
don't worry about them
as they fall to the ground.

strip the branches bare
as you start struggling
slipping slowly back down
as you fall to the ground.

reach out for the vine
it seems to reach back
letting you know that
when you hold on to Him
you will never fall to the ground.

source

we never really wonder why
our power wanes so rapidly
and our circuits short repeatedly
we just rework the wiring
and hope for better batteries
instead of ever questioning
if we could be made for something
outside our own necessity.

haiku #1

flip the lightswitch on
you never really notice
until it stays dark