POETRY, Syllable Tapestries

Ode to my Truck

With the moon in its fifth day of waning

and the artic air waxing,

the night was vast and cold.

I coasted her to rest w/in the shoals.

The tar river was roaring,

even so late.

The thunder of the big trucks

whizzing by.

She shook,

for she must have been cold too,

frozen more like it.


I tuck my hands underneath my thighs

trying to keep my fingertips from freezing.

My breath freezes on the windows.


Please listen, to the story,

The places we’ve been,

Her engine singing to me.

She was my companion,

my home.

With her,

I pulled one dream

out of another.

POETRY, Syllable Tapestries



When you don’t want to feel,

you dream about death

transmuting into a ghost.


They speak so often of the dead,


drowned souls,



left on armchairs and car seats,


A breeze through the window.

Roll ‘em all down,

it’s not that bad.


The dead do not doubt,

in truth they do not speak.

Which is good.

I don’t want to hear it.


These flowers in the vase,

occupying the half-finished bathroom,

the living room, the bedroom,

are silent.


But ghosts,

they still have that belief

in the need to live as sensuous beings;

however isolated they are.