Cleaning is like con-
fession. You’re surprised by dirt
under the surface.
Toil and trouble
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Cleaning is like con-
fession. You’re surprised by dirt
under the surface.
Bloody mess of a
play that has you laughing at
clots of gore and death.
I stop posting in
the blogosphere. No one reads
me. Do I exist?
Today was her last
day on a job I said ‘don’t
quit’ two years ago.
“Have you been writing
your haiku journal?” he asked.
You read. You know ‘no.’
Intention shines high
above like a star I see
and dream of reaching.
The more I write the
more I lose my hold on words
that speak without me.
My fingers talk my
eyes listen my head makes it
up my heart hungers.
Nut brown ale. Oatmeal
stout. Bayside, we eat gumbo,
salads, tan through lunch.
I’ll Dramamine my
self into torpidity,
sleep through drink service.