Still, in Fast Forward

Stalks of hay,
wheat or barley.
I cannot tell.
I do not know.

Silhouetted heads
sway in breeze
‘fore a pale sky
thick with clouds.

they roll west,
falling fast
past setting sun.

Not the fast of rapid wind,
but of fast forward film.

I wake to sirens.
I wake to city lights.

I recognize these sights.
I know these sounds.
They are my home.
They hold my heart.

I ponder my dreams,
doubt my birth,
and question my own reflection.

In the contrast,
I knew I was.
I don’t so much.
Not anymore.

Still life against motion.
Performances echoing
within hollow snail shells
In which I hide my soul.

Do you not forget yourself
in those bustling moments
when you can’t find your keys?

Do you ever stop
to question the you
staring back
from behind the glass?

Does it ever cross your mind
to slit your clit
to fall through time?

Spellcheck has the damnedest job
telling me how to live my life.
Knit-picking me piece by piece,
frivolously reinventing plight.

Danger lurks in the alleyway.
Dangerous fever from the flu.
The shotgun nestled firmly under
the dimpled chin father gave to you.

Blasting off, into space,
just in time to win the race.
I call your name across the field,
knowing cancer to never yield.

I do not know if hay,
Wheat or barley.

I cannot tell if I ever was.

in this field of fast forward.



There once was a Joe named Garza
Made fart noises with his armza
Pth. Pth with his lip
When he’d let it rip
No, he didn’t mean to shartza.

Beauty on the Horizon

I would sing about the silent fields
Miles of peace and splendor
Birds flocking, dancing on air
Corn waving in gentle breeze

A Studebaker bouncing by
Kicking up a cloud of dust
Lumbering over unpaved road
Carrying a loving family home

But this is not where I dwell

And I can’t sing.


All abide another afternoon,
absent and alone
among ashes astray
atop air aswirl.

Agitated and askew,
aging anticlimactically,
appallingly apathetic
about adolescence,
adults act archaic.

All adjunct applications
antiquating astride an altar,
awaiting absolution,
anticipating abandonment,
accepting abject apathy.

Armageddon ascends
as an aftershock.


I tell myself to slow down.
Others aren’t keeping up.

I’ve given more feedback
than content I was given.

Let the artist breathe.
She wants time to think.

My ideas are good,
and welcome when requested.

For now I must sit quietly
between the moments I feel

most alive.

Make the Most of This Opportunity

There are poems I should have kept to myself,
jobs bosses wish I never have took,
lovers I should have never held,
prayers God pretends I never prayed,
and a great many other things
you shouldn’t mention in my eulogy.

I’ve asked you to write something about me
because I don’t trust anyone else to say it better.
Use this time to show off your talents.
Make the most of this opportunity.

Try not to focus too much on me.

I know. I know.
It’s my funeral.
Everyone is there to commemorate me.
Or so they say.
Most are likely there just to make sure
I’ll stay out of their lives forever this time.

As I lie here dying by my own hand
I figure that cliche might this time be true:
the best part of me was always you.
Don’t say anything about that in the speech, though,
or they’ll think you’re conceited and stop listening.

Make the eulogy about me,
but make it one of those speeches
where many words don’t really say much.
Get them lost in the beauty of the speaker,
Helping them do the best thing they can possibly do:

Forget I ever existed.