Noia

I've been down
several rabbit holes that lead nowhere.
Gone and come up in the same field of thoughts
surrounded by the same trees and sun,
the same faces
that smile at my dirty knickers
dirty elbows and little bits of
found things I pocketed along the way
that sparkled in the low light and no light
or were sharp enough to prick notice
in the little quests for depth.

They all keep leading
back to the surface and
I am beginning to wonder
why the other animals keep sharing the same stories
when I empty my pockets and explain
the wow of where and what and
I'm starting to believe
they like to hear me laugh and smile
as much as I keep prompting them
to tell me about the things
that keep them above ground
that I have not seen.

Or maybe I'm not a rabbit at all.
Maybe I am a ground hog.
And every day I come out through beads of morning grass
is an entry into the same day I left and
memory of the passage
is only what I've pocketed
in bits of tin, bent plates, and spider legged dreams.
So I'll count them
turn them over and poke them in the sun and listen
to their dots of clinking punctuation
around the words I try to dig up
beneath the storied fields
in which you lie.

Just a Quote 2

"You are only as great
as winningest
as you set your mind and your actions to be
on a daily, perhaps hourly, basis.
Thus and only thus
will you impact your fellow man
in the ways that will remember you
as, not simply good,
but a great human being"

credit -- some guy

who is growing physically ill
from the number of quotes
his peers post
to the social media he chose to be a part of
from writers they may never have read
in contexts he may never be able to imagine
and for reasons he would,
knowing what little he does of them,
rather not belabor his head to understand.

Conversation

Do not mind me
gnawing on the toe of your boot
for all I and my little teeth are worth
because I do not get to see many visitors
and when I do
I am prone
to acts
of embarrassing enthusiasm.

Nest

I've been watching your hair
shift and stuck with sand from the ocean.
The strands smell like
the fresh showers we didn't take and
the exhalations of rain drops
that sighed by the thousands
on their time out clouds miles to the East
while you sunned and I
worried my body in the surf
that chased the air right out of my lungs
with cold pinchy proddy fingers.
This is not fun.  The watching, though, is.
Watching the shadows of your dreams turn
like minnows
against the slashing inks of your hair.

Press upright and watch
the veins stand hard
against the red brown skin of my arm.
Shedding the crush and shuffle of sheets
that fold lazy wrong seamed white paper origami
unless properly encouraged
with stern slaps.
I do not try to stretch in the mornings.
There is nothing sporting coming and
I am as uncrumpled as I was
when I lay down.
I bought cheese cloth.  It was on sale.
I have been thinking to make breakfast
since the sun dropped by and left.
Things to do.  Places to be and all that.
Little hash brown nests with some bits of cheese
hiding in the crisp stabs of dry brushed
sandy brown and tan like little memories
inside little ship wrecks atop little coral reefs of eggs.