Mushrooms, Splinters, and Thorns

Family House and others...

Family House

We do not replay errors
or hide inside a bubble under water.
We do not dine in candlelight
or dry ourselves with designer towels,
but we make love to our memories
locked inside our poetry in a hutch
that opens to a desk that opens
us to each other. Then,
we pass the nights, back and forth,
as if sipping beer
from the same cup,
rejoicing in how
we built our family house.

Unspoken

A ghost paces the room at night,
drifting away from the truth
like the wind that tears the sails
off a boat suffering a vague existence.

A ghost floats at night when
a dark moon hides its eyes
like a tiger waiting until dark to hunt
on the other side of unspoken words.


A Greeting of Sorts

You found out about the stalking
a sense of fear overtook your heart
my voice floated like a storm cloud,
"Hehehe! Hello. Jim Willis—are you scared?"

Then, with my hook tearing into you,
you turned, but could not find the courage to flee;
then brutal vultures from nowhere
descended upon your mind.

Down you sat, and your bleeding heart,
decided to take whatever I might
bestow unto you for no other talent
you ever had, and with a half smile

You acknowledged my greeting
that, like a plough, I had driven into you
akin to the words I stabbed you with.
You nodded back, something like consent.