all looks the same
the painting by my window
hovers against a grassy backdrop
that shouldn’t belong inside
even the bookcases vanish
blending into the grassy plain
the painting stares at me
still life on black
white highlights
accentuate the round bellies
I reach out to steady it
but my hands vanish into the green grass
turning away
my room spins on its side
my bed is pinned to the wall/floor
and the painting crashes down
the grass consuming me
and all is the same
Blow
missing
missing beat
talking like the words mattered
but steps glide
gliding
past it
no no no
no
he can’t use words like that
no no no
no
he can’t come in here
thinking like it’ll all pass
missing
missing beat
thumping heart slow down
but steps glide
gliding
past it
then all the words unsaid
can’t be used like that
no no no
no
they can’t
Ode to a Pen
when I wake in the middle of the night
it is you where I reach
my fingers wrap around you
I can scroll down words
Recently conceived in dreams or nightmares
thoughts on scenes for my latest novel
when I seek comfort from the keyboard
I reach for your cylindrical body
and ink on paper ensues
you become the extension of what I am
what I think
thoughts which cannot escape unless jotted down
when the cold metal contacts my fingertips
I warm you up with my palm and together
we form the strength to produce various words on the page
don’t take it the wrong way
if I tire of writing
it’s only the arthritis
but you know you’re the first one I go to
whether black, green, blue, purple, or red
thoughts never die
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