Government Property

Our laylow was his idea.

Visibility, check.

Seclusion, check.

Sweat dripped from truck men

In obscurity across the creek.

Docile, preoccupied,

Hefting with bitter resolve.

Fear fueled my fervent glances,

Losing light to rotation.

Every passing traveler, a warning.

Billy’s wide hands stayed steady,

Aiding inevitable ascent.

It was a simple setup.

The device glowed, full of sun

Ladies first, so it was mine –

Mountains of fingers stretch

Toward, away from, into

Caricatures of fragile faces

Arcs, cerulean lasers

Lines of action break and reform

Branches are electric vines

The creek whispers secret ballads

Gasp and clutch at awareness

Where’s the water?

Parasites devour us

Closed eyes grant no escape

Fabric is too textured

Ensembles of geometric fruit

Infiltrate once-private mental cabinets

Hexagon apples, triangle grapes

Swirling nebula cast out roots

Latch onto exposed skeleton

Sound is sight is smell is touch

Who? Where? Doesn’t matter

Neon leaves spiral, not aimless

Each tree, an instrument

Capable of creating intricate

Sensory lineages

“Is it too warm?”


It was concrete in my mouth.

I began to gather objects,

Fumble for a cigarette.

We had come with so much.

The Remnant

The Remnant

Everyone is an artist—
each generation starts out as a blank canvas.

My generation paints a beach.
We are the footprints in the sand:
outstretched toes reaching for firm ground,
longing for purpose,
desiring guidance.

I am a grain of sand—a remnant
My generation walks close to the ocean,
the rushing water reaches out,
its fingertips touching some footprints,
and grasping others back to the dark blue abyss.

Everyone is given their own brush,
able to paint their own sand;
able to become,
a remnant