This Peasant Breath

Brisk December
The sky is clear and I can nearly see the stars
If I squint enough
The neighbors are bumping R&B tunes across the street
and hordes of college students arrive
toting 30-packs of mainstream domestic brews
Hypothermic winds whistle through the trees
And finally I exhale

Argonauts

This is the way we run now
The wind at our backs
A carrot before us
Our twisted, lurid bodies
Bent over, lurching
Stumbling, grumbling, aching, churning
Kicking up dirt and grime
Making divots in the ground and assholes of ourselves
God, nothing feels better
Sunshine in our faces
Three sheets to the wind
Sky’s the limit
The world is our oyster
And every hour’s rubbed worn like it’s Saturday
This is the way we run now
In circles
In fields
In dreams in our sleep
And when the sun sets we sprint home to our beds
To our families, to our friends
To everything and life ever after
We run
We run
We run

Sunset Builder

You waited for this moment
Crickets dance and chirp in the dirt
The day holds on
Until you exhale the moon
And scatter the stars with your spit
Another job well done

Until I Reach the Sun

I want to build a rocket.
I want to build the world’s fastest,
highest-flying,
gravity-defying,
motorized,
packed with bells-and-whistles,
space exploration vehicle.
When I strap in,
“oohs” and “ahhs” begin.
Fire rumbles below and lifts me skyward,
into the beyond.
When the smoke dissipates,
and I’m gone,
the rest of you will go back to your day jobs,
your nine-to-five grind,
your suit and tie existence,
your lives without dreams come true.
But you’ll dream of me,
floating in space,
out of jet fuel,
and for once
you’ll wake up
fully rejuvenated.

In Frequencies

I have a voice
It starts deep, way beyond
My lips
And the back of my mouth
Down into my throat
Through my heart, and
Into the very pit
Of my stomach

On most days, it is quiet
Conversational, fluid, and friendly
It tells jokes and pokes fun
Teasing friendly smiling-eyed company

Other days,
It rumbles
My gut swells and tenses
The sound travels
Through every pore, each one
Emits decibels of shrill, coarse, unbridled
Fury

I have a voice
Its memory is long
It keeps secrets, and it knows
My past
And the present
It’s calling