as stated in the ealier post, i have a lot of time on my hands.

Orion hovers over the sea

Flashing phosphorescent blue, green.

All the colors of the water

Dance, erratically, beneath the fog.

The sharp little stars, which make out the shape

Of tiny life, crashing in the waves.

The slightest showings of color,

Sometimes lost in the foam,

Live and die

under the shift of the watchful hunter.

Phyloplankton, nothing more.

The life cycle repeats and rotates

in the expanse of the blue green curve,

just another turn of the wheel,

change in the tide,

but for one moment, it was something.

sometimes when i have a lot of time on my hands, i write a poem or two. they don't always make sense either.

Fold

Heavy beating against paper walls

has the thin sound of dying light

Like an old candle, or trash settling in a can

There is compassion, and then there is what happens when the selfish heart

Folds and unfolds

like money in your pocket

There is no way out of feeling it

Sharp and thin, and forever containing your attention

It isn’t anything, but a hint of the bind

It isn’t a barricade, but a polite reminder

Of the things you already knew came, and were to come

When you take it out and open it up

And show it off

And hold it in the light

Close to your face, to let it in, but not repeat

The contents of the message

Although so many have already read the words

In an earlier draft of a better subject

As your pen lies there, assassinated,

in a pool of its own waste, you look for another

before anyone can offer you their own.

pamela taylor-brownsville resident

brownsville historian

la putain avec les fleurs

balmorhea at salvage vanguard theater

on the edge in Brownsville

food porn in vegas buffet