ten eight

a timid pen is good
at pulling a weak line
from an empty page.

better yet:
give me a bold tip,
and a confident
imperfection.

say it with passion
or don’t say it
even if it’s wrong
even if words stutter.

i’d rather be
heard shouting
than whispering
brilliance
at nothing.

ten seven

this is a boring postcard
from the locale i just visited
in my mind.

something i grabbed
to give you
to say hey
i was just here, just now

here’s a picture
like all the other pictures.
a hello, for hello’s sake.

a cheap thinking of you,

because the gift shop
was out of shot glasses,

and i’m keeping the t-shirt.

ten six

murder me whimsically

for the replay value.

if this is a death scene,
i’d prefer cult classic
b movie camp

over psychological
thriller and the

stuff of real nightmares.

ten five

those ages i wrote
so many
bottled-up feelings.

secret wishes for
secret crushes

locked in
indecipherable
metaphor &
unintentional
simile.

this age:
an entire autumn
unspoilt by
expressions
of affection or vacuums
of unexpressed
affection.

a very
october feeling.

i am:
cozy inside
grey cool corners
colors behind fogged glass
spicy, slightly
overripe
warm open earth
chilling at the edges

ready for harvest
and the blankets
of winter.

ten four

i watch
now-sick
summer’s green
slip away
for autumn’s
erubescence.
ruddy twilight
blushes under
a perfect
grey veil.