Winter looms with halo white, the weight of the stories I'll never know, fall on my fingertips like heavy snow.

For I am alone in my view, warm below the envelope, in a woven basket made to fit me.

“How can I let go of the last person on Earth who might pick up my call?

She opens her mouth, but not to catch you, to start a tune, one of her complex melodies you could never set your mind to.

In younger days, I wrote the dusk— glass of red wind, pen like husk.

See, love is not control, it requires much more foresight.

Oh woe, to me, Othello, for I cannot kiss stiff lips, and the whispered lies made me despise my one true source of bliss.

In ashen sky, one only hopes, the captain eyes the telescope. With cautious gaze, and clear throat, he might save us all from threats unknown that lurk in murky depths.

No matter how they frame us, you're my curated choice.

This city's full of costume jewelry; that dragon's loot worth nothing.

Come, give yourself away.

Squeeze the lazy day luffa over your sore back and neck, I've got that nowhere-to-go glow, free-time softened flesh.

Time tells— if you're going to get by in life, don't dwell. Be grateful for rigor mortis, and the bubbling postules worms swarm.

If only I could ride the Moon, the highest dangling cable car of light, as it glides over the mystery of an innercity night.

The will of the wind degrades us without warning, and we have no choice but to lie still, a pile of cracked egg shells, brace ourselves for the next bullying breeze.

I feel at home in the circus, the wild Cambodian Phare, atop a human pyramid feet scissoring the air.

I know for me I fall in love with places and people too easily. I’ve recently had a fling with Siem Reap.

On that lucky day,
I won't look back or wave;
I'm hero now instead of slave.
A survivor of a planet loaded like a gun.

Close your eyes, let the sea breeze microdose you. Poke your fingers deep in sand till cold grains engross you.

Like interconnected roots anchoring bamboo; I'm under you.

Jason Freeny Would you weep for Jesus on a high wheelpedaling through the walking mallpassed the butcher's window—raw meat born again? Would you believe in resurrectionor tie your shoes on the town wireif you saw the savior cycleover cobblestones,one lone corgifor a faithful companion? Would you fall to your knees,pray daily, if he blessed the…

Be content with the final act. Reverence is a rebellion, a nosedive serenade.

The clay pot is heavy; there isn' much room for roots to expand in a darkened tomb. Would that I would bloom.

A leaky house does not decieve the rain, and stories carved in grain like tattoos, fade eventually; Even the ones on me

I have the will to trigger you; time's up, my safety's off.

They say a daughter steals her mother's beauty, so you can imagine what three of them in the span of five years might have done to my mother.

One points west, one points east. Two men on a park bench strangers, in reality, but in their dreams their life-long besties, train-bound for an epic journey.

The heart has push and pull , empty hours, months full.

The man four stories up , shielded by the shadow of a window, appears as smooth as the man in the moon.

My mother's record collection was the greatest treasure of my childhood.

What is it that I have taken? What is it that I have ransacked standing before my peers in ghillie suit and pine needle hat?

Biking to the open market,slushy flakes evaporateas soon as they touch down.My pedals squeakpast ice cream conessold beside tombstones.What endless varietyavailable in each!We delight in the flavorof our coldstone treats. Tombstonesand ice cream cones,booming early spring.Handcrafted curvaturesgranite gelatos,all the distinct shadesof stele sorbets;pillars of relief,

What do you call a high-paying, low stress gig? A unicorn in a wig.

What will become of their paper planes soaring deserted valleys

A tryst, a fling, a whim, a spree they say that three's good company.