Bug Bites

Insects dine on squishy flesh 
leaving burning holes and skin a mess. 
The trenches widen 
as they burrow deeper to hide in. 
I writhe against the their gnashing, 
tearing my fragile self with every thrashing. 


Summer arrived 
on the backs of screaming cicadas. Virulent, sticky air, 
slowing each breath 
to the point of passing out, 
only cut by quick storms 
and a hail fallout. 
Skin, tight and blistered, 
peels in sheets to save for later. 
Days are gone on the backs of floats 
and clay-filled water. 


Ink splattered like blood stains 
across words I felt in my hands, viciously murdered 
by the toppled well. 
They were my children, 
perfectly formed into figures 
who had their own moment in time. 
Forever lost,
oozing into the wood, 
dripping onto the floor. 
Where do dreams go 
when their words are erased? 
Do they escape and land 
upon another mind? 
They fail me 
behind a splash of my mistake. 
I may remember them, 
but never in the same way. 

Golden Lights 

One note lingers on the brow eye 
seeing all 
taking in this cacophony 
of others’ voices 
who have worked 
as hard or less 
than one who desires 
to lift their place in the world 
and feel the flight of success 
that feels too far away. 
Await patiently 
for the star to land in your ear 
to whisper its secrets to you. 
You will take your seat 
and name the next golden lights 
that know exactly who you are. 


How well the chrome tales 
take the reader on the voyage 
is what will be remembered. 
The little part 
that should not make sense 
instead gives it charm. 
The story is best when flooded 
from dented, inky fingers 
on a tired hand 
doing the bidding 
of an obsessively creative mind.
That mind can’t stop 
the stories from passing through. 
They find the one 
who can tell 
how they had existed, 
how they lived and loved, 
in hopes of never 
being forgotten.