A Summer's Worth

You can smell the gin from
the other side of the street.
The sway and swagger of people,
indecisive and mischievous,
match the fragrance well.

As the misaligned, misinformed pilgrims
dance on one another’s graves,
they smile on without purpose, boasting
of ancient cultures and assuming
the veil of impermanence.

A feeling much like that
of a fruit-fly or bag of trash,
sinks into skins, marinating souls and
adding to Summer’s spice,
which burns the tongues and all organs.

The disposable nature created during
the sweaty run of the vernal months
washes away hope once felt during
the Spring, previously deadened by
Winter, with unrequited attentions.

On beaches and in booths and with
stony silences, the mingling of
breaths and intentions, with spirits and
Spirit, a fragile bubble of cheer,
leave the season in a fit.

Smelling the many hopes dashed and
left to drain out, those swaggering
wonder if there’s any room for
love still, or if the gin smell has burned
all the bridges of expectation.

On some Shore

On some shore, any shore,
that notates the passing of time
and circumference of rocks,
we sit.

On some shore, gray shore,
which separates true love from
just lust, sand sticking with heat,
we gaze.

On some shore, sunny shore,
calming the blood and breath
with an uncanny rhythm, slow,
we rest.

On some shore, any shore,
where air meditates and Venus’
foam decorates elements,
we smile.

Baseball Haiku

With dust in our eyes,
you laugh, swing mercilessly.
Bat's taller than you!

Briny Summer

Hung up on an unlove with
the summer temperature matching
that of the blood inside veins,
this salted, vinegared season
lasts only so long as the tongue warrants.

Tastefully, with regret that
mixes with grease, bubbles dance
in between teeth and hostile
history as buses scream past and
actions are accounted for.

Mid-Atlantic Haiku

Worry's left to bleach
while birds spook us into smiles
on neon boardwalks.

Breadcrumbs

Certainly not in love
but not without the feeling’s precision,
questions marks are
strewn about the freshly-mopped floor,
sticking to moistened skin.

Kind gestures are tacky
and unneeded- the curved marks
keep sticking to the skin,
unable to be swept up and
sewn into answers, formulas.

Rhythms left unnoticed
suddenly are neon and bold,
forcing the sharpened edges of
the mysteries to dig deeper
into foot-heels and hand-palms.

These crazed patterns point
to remedies based on pride
and adaptation; an insane
tenaciousness, like a tick,
creates strange tendencies.

Shamelessness, and astute,
genuine, peaceful conversation
both do nothing to appease
the questions leftover, thrown
like breadcrumbs for children.

Quiet, inverse operations
battle the way things should be;
what’s left of the mystery
can only be solved by pure
interest and sincere action.