Fault Lines 

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Sudden unbelievable stress,

Has proven too much,

For two-halves,

Of a whole.

“I-I thought I had it,”

The subsided end stammered,

Visibly panicking.

“Look at this mess you’ve made,”

Said the hanging wall,

Haranguing,

His peer.

There was much tension,

So aftershocks,

Seemed likely.

“That’s easy for you to say,”

Said the footwall,

“You’re in no position to judge,”

Feeling their grip,

Slightly budge.

“This is aggravating,”

Said the risen end,

“This is strenuous,”

Their continued harmony,

Seemed tenuous.

They continued,

To point fingers,

As one side fled,

To bury it’s head,

And the other,

Bottled it up,

For a future,

Outburst.

Maple Syrup

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The fork and knife,

Rest comfortably,

Side by side

On the table.

Holding the plate,

Up to my face,

I lapped away,

The last remnants,

Of breakfast.

Bits of pancake,

And scrambled eggs,

Encased in sweet amber,

Like a less depressing,

La Brea Tar Pit.

Color me an opportunist,

It would be in poor taste,

To let good food,

Fossilize.

The Life of a Write-Off

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The ceiling,

Had an impromptu,

Skylight,

And fluffy, pink,

Fiberglass tufts,

Showed through,

Holes in the drywall.

The driveway had huge crevices,

From the refreezing,

Ice-cleavers,

That come and go,

With each Winter.

A flexing frame,

Made vascular,

By tunneling termites,

And shifts,

Caused by cracks,

In the foundation.

The whole thing,

Collapsed eventually,

Without warning,

When no one was looking.

Decomposition,

Can drag on,

For years at a time,

Then destruction,

Finishes,

In an instant.

I Just Woke up

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3:18 A.M.,

And the conditioned air,

Is frigid,

To the inside,

Of my nose.

But it’s sweltering,

Underneath,

This duvet,

And I can’t find,

The right position,

To be in.

I lie on my back,

Then turn my head,

And face the wall.

Every time,

I close my eyes,

I can hear the wind blow,

Every few seconds or so.

I stand up,

Throwing off my covers,

To put on,

A sweatshirt.

I sit on the green lawn chair,

On the porch,

Feeling,

The calming breezes,

Come by.

I blink,

Between breaths,

And awaken at,

5:41 in the morning.

Vinyl

Standard

Walking,

Blindfolded,

Through the annals,

Feeling the walls,

And using echolocation.

The ancient texts,

Sacred incantations,

Chants of legends,

Contained in texture,

To be deciphered,

By a stylus,

Which cannot,

Transcribe.

Each pressing,

With its own,

Character.

Each batch with,

It’s own,

Flaws,

Hissing,

Popping,

Scratches,

Not even counting,

The shattered ones.

Revolutions,

Dictate,

No matter,

How convoluted,

The labyrinth,

Until it’s time,

To switch,

To the other side.

You Will get Away With it

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Every so often,

I hear the doorbell ring,

When I’m not expecting company.

Sometimes,

I look through the peep hole,

And see nothing at all,

“Damn kids,”

I’ll say,

Presumptively.

Sometimes,

It’s just the mailman,

So I sign for something,

Then he’s on his merry way.

But once in a while,

It’s you,

“Come on in,”

I say.

“Take a seat,”

I’ll go get some drinks,

And snacks.

We relax,

Tell some stories,

To fill in the gaps,

“It’s been too long,” you say.

I know it has,

“But I cannot stay,”

I also know that,

“Take your time,”

Glad I could give you,

Some of mine.

When you stand up, 

With your arm,

Half in your jacket,

I ask nothing more of you.

When there’s nothing left to say,

All I want,

Is to be sure,

For now,

That you’re doing okay.

Ballistics!

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Picking up the pieces,

Of past events,

And reassembling them,

To make sense,

Of the occurrences.

Predictions,

On the trajectory,

Of a rocket,

Aimed at open sky,

Which is harder to hit,

Than you’d expect.

The finely-sharpened, 

Somewhat dark art,

Of getting from the business-end,

To the destination,

And vice versa-

And how best to deliver it.

Chaos does not necessarily travel in straight lines,

But there is some order,

In the ways,

Of disarray.

Mjölnir

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Achtung!

Use with caution,

You could rupture,

The sky,

Flatten,

Your house,

Or put,

An eye out.

The handle is too short,

And it looks a tad tacky,

It’s head is made of lead,

And Loki,

Keeps scheming,

To steal it away.

But,

Credit where credit is due,

It works wonders,

Holds great power,

And can still be seen,

Today.

It still rings true,

They don’t make them,

Like they used to.

Royal Jelly

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An odd, viscous concoction,

Consisting mostly of water,

Amino acids,

Sugars,

Vitamins,

And other nutrients,

Served up,

Neat,

In a queen cup.

One protein,

Royalactin,

Gives aspiring queen’s,

Political careers,

Traction.

They feast,

Learn etiquette,

Mature,

And leave,

To settle-down,

Fill power vacuums,

And form factions.

Flip Book

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It was a bad time

to reflect

on what I should have written,

on the world’s last stack of sticky notes.

I ran my thumb over it,

to breathe life,

into my work.

Poorly-drawn, simplistic figures

walked to and fro,

and told each other

sophomoric jokes

until the cardboard showed.

“I could have mapped-out

my every action

months in advance,

or remembered to put on pants,

instead of making stick figures dance.”

I closed the flip book,

and rest it face-down on my desk

ashamed.

It’s all fun and games,

until fun and games interfere

with your daily life.

Needing a chuckle,

I opened it again

to repeat the cartoon anew.

Time well-spent, I say.