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Posts Tagged ‘story’

I used to think
we were
our stories.
Now, I believe
in something
more spare,
stripped of
plot
and title
and character.
Still something
in you touches
something
in me. It’s more
in the silence,
though,
more in the way
the light
makes a nest
of your hand.

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He was tired, ah choo!
of the whole, predictable, ah choo,

tale. The way the princess, ah choo!
how she, sniff, how she, sniff,

how she always rode off
with the well-muscled man

on the, ah choo, horse. Often white.
He was, he decided,

allergic to ha-, ha-, ha-
happy endings. Ah choo!

Just whose happiness
were they considering,

not his, with his snot-nose name,
his raw nostrils, his perpetual sniffling

and blowing, wheezing and phlegm.
That day that the white-skinned one arrived,

no matter how lovely by some standards,
no matter how sweetly she patted him on the head,

no matter how innocent her intentions,
that was the day he wrote his resignation,

took Dopey by the stubby hand and said,
Man, it’s time to write a new kind of story.

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balanced on a twig—
two blue dragonflies and
all that space between them

*

the story, calloused
and gnarled, inside it
red leaping blood

*

picking up the moon
like a telephone to dial
your number, of course

*

contemplating
dessert for
the Armageddon

*

opening a can
of worms to find
rose petals

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That bald eagle
flies this canyon every day
today I saw him

*

all day I try
to scrape it off my skin
that bad dream

*

long after you leave
the chairs remain hushed so to
better hear you sing

*

every story
I’ve ever had
the end

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