The Laundry Room

where i write
and wash my clothes

we ran.

in the dark

across the wet grass

of my front yard

into a world

i still chase

to bring you

back home

if I could keep daydreams
they’d glow and dance
with fragile life in undeniable space
ephemeral fireflies of the imagination
briefly awake
long enough to share what i really see
when i’m with you

the laundry room © 2012

if I could keep daydreams

they’d glow and dance

with fragile life in undeniable space

ephemeral fireflies of the imagination

briefly awake

long enough to share what i really see

when i’m with you


the laundry room © 2012

"we’re caught," the moon said to the old man of the sea
"in a ceaseless battle between illusion and existence
where dreamers sway your treacherous storms
with brilliant waves
that keep us apart.”



the laundry room ©2012

"we’re caught," the moon said to the old man of the sea

"in a ceaseless battle between illusion and existence

where dreamers sway your treacherous storms

with brilliant waves

that keep us apart.”

the laundry room ©2012

if i wrote you a poem

you’d never know

because i hide lyrics in cupped hands

and lightly kiss

pressing ink quietly into paper

my heart

the laundry room © 2012

For a long time

words were all I had. I floated in suspension. The perfect escape. No traces. Zero gravity. Writing was a slave of pleasure. My soul worked it hard. It sweat my tears, assumed the guise of closure like a Trojan Horse, forgave me for bad writing against my own literary bias, and let me travel to a dead past in brief increments like a unfailing time machine coated in gold. It was my creation. A horrifying giant. Completely and utterly mechanized by my own words.

And I’ll never know if it was real.

the laundry room © 2012

I drove back

to where the end met its start
where planes still lift off in summer heat across the Boston harbor

like dreamers with soft wings

flashing out of sight

the laundry room © 2012

the laundry room © 2012

the laundry room © 2012