The Way My Mind Works

I wonder if that other fork is lonely?
All the other forks are in couples.

Who knew that forks were so cliquish?

He should find like a spoon, or a spork, or something.
Shock the neighbors.

I wonder if forks chew Trident? Or know they are tridents?
Is there such a brand anymore? I don’t even know.

I wonder if utensils ever feel used? I mean, they are.

I used to love to come up with different ways to place
The utensils around the plates when I was
Supposed to be setting the table properly.
Because I was a kid.
Am a kid.

It’s amazing how careful some parents are with their kids.
Then they hand them forks.
I mean, really.
I’m surprised my brother and I never tried to kill each other with forks.

Or that forks don’t just strike out on their own.
Maybe that one did.

Maybe he’s an introverted fork, like me.
The utensil drawer must be hell, then.
Like being at the mall during the Christmas rush.

Silverware is almost never actually made of silver.
Weird. You wouldn’t say glassware for plastic.
Anywhere isn’t made of any, though, so there’s that.

I wonder if Luke Skywalker’s aunt and uncle
Taught him to eat by saying,
“Luke. Use your fork…”

Persuade the World

How do you persuade the world
That you are right, and they are wrong?
I’ve seen you at it for a while;
Your daily labor, hard and long —

I see defiance in your words,
To castigate in smears and daubs —
But love cannot be born of hate,
Nor quiet hope be spread by mobs

But let your love show out from in,
Your words and actions guide, and heal —
And then you might persuade the world
You daily come upon
For real

undercurrents of desire

undercurrents of desire
flowing through and ever higher
hidden from the passing stranger
signs of some illicit danger
known, unknown or otherwise:
underneath the calm disguise

past the reef of pain and sadness
lies the deep erotic madness
hidden and entrenched in shadow;
shooting forth as from a crossbow
hitting heart and soul, the same:
past complicity, or blame

undercurrents of desire
more than ever we require
things connecting us in real ways
shaking us from sleep and malaise
felt, unfelt, or otherwise:
undercurrents of

Stacked Up Words

We use our words
To claim we have control,
As though we fathom
Psyche, mind, or soul

We dare not whisper
That it’s all pretend,
Or just how much
We cannot comprehend

So much that goes untaught
In any book or blog or college —
So many stacked up words
That do not give us any


Once, There Was A Girl

Once, there was a girl,
Who was a person, not a picture —
And anywhere she ventured to,
My heart would also go —

But time brought days, and days revealed
The cracks in our foundation:
For whether you “find out” or not,
Eventually, you know —

Like rain upon a lake,
Our passive, commonplace,
And simple failed attempt,
Has vanished, without trace,

Except —

Today I feel the ache
Begin to slowly worsen
When someone who you loved becomes

A picture,

Not a person