Flight of feet
Heavy rotation
A smart read

Just a strike
Mark up
And follow along

For a free lunch and a thoughtful glance
I will build you an empire

If you listen closely to the floorboards
they will tell you of their children
of the long nights of debauchery
of poor manners

They will lament their forefathers
and betray their family name

But when the moon gleams through the bay window
and stretches wall to wall
they will lie voiceless

My skin reddened and body badly parched,
I take the bus to where I hope there is a fountain.
It is somewhere deep below the southern skies,
well past the keeper of the fall.
They say I will know it when I see it,
but my hope is all but lost after the fourth stop.
From then on, it is me and the driver,
one of us always watching the other.
I, hoping he has a map and compass,
and he, hoping I drift off to sleep.

Families of broken
bones dance around cold fires
where they live.

To the sound
of tattered jukebox hits from
days gone by.

When they see
an open grave, it only
means inevitable war.

But if they
can reach out beyond here,
the sun forgives.

- Thinking outside the box while sleeping in it

- Walking between rooms so fast the carpet peeled

- Never noticing the smell

- Lamp light and old speakers

- Opening hatches

- Cleaning the floors without soap

- Pushups

- Visiting the zoo and bringing home the principals

- Exercising privilege

- More coffee than water

- Using profanity for sentimental value

- Strong hearts and stronger personalities

- Never cheating self

Each day, as my calendar fills, it also widens. Today, next week became annual. And tomorrow, this year will span decades. Color-coded and sprawling, I meticulously plot my life in half-hour increments. Each appointment and event perfectly contiguous to another and another and another. I scrutinize my minutes, and analyze the white space. So why am I always late? This widening timeline always out of reach, always one step ahead of its creator. I am forever everywhere in time. But I will never be anywhere on time.

Melt it down to an algorithm wound tightly around the antithesis of evolution, proudly displayed atop the unified theory of panic.

Its fingers seek help and its eyes fall silent.

for seven years his legs pumped, pushing him block to block in a mile-long loop
he knew which streets were for picking up speed and which were for casual coasting
without glancing down, he could steer himself to the where the uneven sidewalk met briefly enough for his narrow tires
for hours on end, through suppertime and curfew, skidding around corners or tearing through parks
he didn’t stop until dew formed on lawns and the streetlights flickered out
and sometimes he left town, heading north as far as the interstate, only turned around because there was nowhere else to go
except south, to where the blacktop split on the state border and everything looked a little more foreign
night after night and through every weekend, he wore his tires so bald they frayed
and the handlebar grips were no more than shreds
for him, it was never because there was nothing else to do
it was never about escape
it was always about belonging
it was about having a place to call his own