Sink, Swim, or Fly


There is a lone goose on a vanishing dock.  The lakewater is up. The floating dock’s platform is gone from sight but a railing moored to the dock is still above the surface, barely.  Like the railing, the goose appears to be standing on water. As the dock dips further the goose has three options: sink, swim, or fly.


Rattle across the water, washboard blues and white streak through the air.  Look out minnows! It’s the kingfisher, flying from weeping willow to vanishing dock. It finds purchase on the railing, stuck there like a feathered magnet.


Saturday morning, more rain overnight, the dock is further submerged but inches below the surface the platform still remains.  The heron knew it was there, trust in its water landing. In the fog, the heron keeps watch o’er the lake.  

To continue with this short prose poem...

Leaky Cold Basement

Yeah, my basement (which only slightly resembled my real-life basement) had all kinds of holes where the drywall stopped and insulation was flapping in the breeze.  So of course it was cold.   And then part of the basement wasn't even finished; it was just studs.  So I resolved to get cracking and fix it all up and then the house would be warm!


Brook and I were in the same business class, sitting at the same table.  She had this eraser she tried to use during a test but when she tried to use it, it made the sound of a harmonica.  Very annoying!  So she asked me for an eraser, which I gave her.  But then she kept talking and was bugging the hell out of me and presumably everybody else.


Workers that snuck sniff of Brook's panties...I accidentally tossed Squirt...Cut a guy and his dog...

When I tossed Squirt, he ran across the street.  Then I realized my mistake.  He tried to run up the trunk of a tree but of course he couldn't.  He ran back across the street truing to get away from me but I barely caught him.   Now I had to figure out the legal ramifications of cutting the guy.  And who would finish the work?  And would these guys try to get revenge?

Continue with dream...

A Long Way from Mulch

Her naked foot rubs against
     the unborn blue of the mattress.
A tiny pair of socks airs out
     beneath the open-sky window.
Someone has gone running—
     but not very far, and not very hard.

The room might not be so big.
     They haven’t slept in it since
they hung his latest painting.
     It’s been too hot.
He could close the window, yes.
     But that wouldn’t keep
the dog from barking
     into all corners of the night.

It doesn’t matter,
     he doesn’t need sleep—
he is sure of it. Yet,
     he closes his eyes each night,
plays the game anyway;
     thinks invariably about
weather patterns, or
     his high school graduation.
Sometimes he just listens
     to what the house has to say.

Gasping, she awakes to the smell of him;
     rolls over and asks,
“What are you doing?”
     He stops breathing.
By morning she will have forgotten
     ever asking the question.