The second hand swings low, gliding past the number six, I watch as it begins to climb upward past the seven. Silence buzzes loudly in my ears and the pressure in my chest tightens, squeezing me like a locked seatbelt; it's not painful, just uncomfortable, claustrophobic.
    I unzip my jacket and loosen my pants hoping it will help me relax, but it doesn't. The room feels stuffy, I'd open a window but there are none. I'd kill for a breeze right now, or for somebody to tell me I'll be fine, that I'm going to make it.
    The second hand passes the twelve and the minute hand ticks forward, I don't see the movement, I'm too far away, but I know that it moved.
     The second hand briefly disappears in the glare of the florescent lights reflecting off the clock's plastic lens. In this moment when the second hand has vanished, time stops, even the humming silence seems to fade to a trickle. Then, I cant help but wonder, if I were offered a road map of my life, would I take it? Would I study the roads and paths and rest stops and points of interest? Or would I kindly refuse and savor the view and happy surprises along the way?
    The second hand and the silence return and a delicate breeze curls through the windowless room.

Remember When I Saw Something Funny?

A bubble in a tipping bottle,
bulging my esophagus,
bursting off the tip
of my tongue.

Countdown

Ten- Heat waves blur scarecrow trees on the horizon.
Nine- The ordinary sky turns a muddled gray.
Eight- Sharp shadows cut mountainsides.
Seven- Fire burns on dirty windows.
Six- Stars blink like old candles.
Five- A white sun plummets.
Four- Night orb rockets up.
Three- Dark an envelope.
Two- Moon a stamp.
One- All is still.
An owl cries in the bitter black.

The West Is Dead

Everything I write is inspired by things in my everyday life. This poem was inspired by a friend of mine, Will, who started a clothing company called The West Is Dead. The cloths and cause are awesome. Check out this website, www.thewestisdead.com

The West Is Dead

O desert grass, how do you thrive?

Why do the clouds yield so much drink in these badlands?

There is no dust, no tumbleweeds, only prairie and skulls.

This is where the buffalo roamed.

Under a cosmic sky, they were the lifeblood,

The heartbeat.

There is no colossal body to tame

this eternal grassland.

They were wild.

Energy embodied.

Life.

It was genocide that fertilized this desolate earth.

Shriveled seeds swallow bison blood.

Not even shadows remain.

Without them

The west is dead.

Stale Love

Writing a sonnet is hard. This is my first attempt and maybe my last. It's valentines day, I'll let you decide whether or not this sonnet is about the kind of love we celebrate on every feb 14. Its up to your own interpretation. Ha.

Stale Love

Thrust upward steel gray cliffs dusted with snow.

Sprawl wide like some primordial jawbone.

Hills roll and buck, and newspaper trees grow.

Beasts cry, a wolf emits its mournful moan.

Stars blink like countless eyes, moon frowns beside.

A lonely wind roams through a wilderness,

Skeletal and baron, mist forming spectral guides,

carefully ushering people, joyful yet oblivious.

A porcelain ribcage rots, flesh hanging like

Old leather, forgotten and thrown away.

 Each violent word is a splintered spike.

Hanging by a stale rope, watching it fray.  

Your companionship is a gray wasteland,

Eerie, cruel, ever depressing, and bland. 

A Simple Savior

For me the spikes were pounded.
Through flesh and muscle
splintering bone.
For me a God falls on his face
to shed his sacred blood.
For me he died stretched on a tree
his arms spread wide
inviting me.

Fallen King

Crowds of people pass my perch.

Eyes blind to my poor condition.

Hurrying to the office, restaurants and church.

Shoes scrape and heels clap, transporting owners on unknown missions.

Nobody speaks to me. I’m a disease. A beast.

A businessman passes too close; I sniff at his closed fist.

He swings, denying me of a necessary feast.

My tail tucks and I run off my perch. I wont be missed.

Night splotches the sky like spilled ink.

In an alley I lay, eyes folding closed.

I’m back. Where I am king. They love me without a blink.

Eager hands approach my nose

Dripping food and life and care.

They have a name for me, a yard, a bed.

I am a king with hair brushed and fair.

But they left me. To them I’m dead.

I crawl from my bed of cardboard and trash.

Alone. I shake my matted coat with a lurch.

I am a fallen king, a beast, covered in ash.

Crowds of people pass my perch

Eyes blind.