Stories & Stories

Thomas. California.

One of the few places without a king or queen.

I’ve got
navy thread
And a pair of pillows that do nothing
But float from one end to the other.
If you could count me
You’d run out of fingers and toes
And eyes and those looks
That you never forget but can’t quite
Figure out when you think about them.

I’ve got
Arched backs and nailbites on my
Dragged skin
And an impression or two
Earned in earnest. Dimlight or not
I’m honest;
Either I’m made or I’m not.

I’ve got
A few ways to be torn apart:
In comfort, in lust,
In night terrors and
The sobs of fingers missed.
I’ll keep my shape if you just
Let the emotions dry out and you
Tuck my memories into the corners they belong to (seemside down? Seemside up?)

I’ve got
A few nights shared,
More days than hours left
In vacant rooms of my mind
Letting the dust of comfort
Wash out the harsh edges of experience.
Eventually you’ll get nothing new
But at that time I should be comfortable enough
To keep you around.
If not, you can always flip me over
(As long as my vertigo doesn’t make you sick.)

I’ve got
Just a few reasons to stay
Calm and measured in a few
Lousy misnomers.
I, the conquerer of dreams,
The throne of cradled heads and
Lonely torsos
I, the sweet sweep of warm eyelids.
I, the buffer of faces and notions and fondness filtered and shined by sunlight just freshly ground through undervalued windows.


Sitting on a velvet blue
I saw
I saw
I saw
the light of an eye captured
in the rough
contours of my thumb.
I could see
with the touch of a finger
or the forgiveness of
a palm.
Two worlds opened up
like an apricot seed
vanilla in intensity and cherry in image.
I saw I saw I saw
on a velvet blue thought
the kiss of
life on my transparent forehead.



A rare thirst, or, Drinking myself dry.

I’d like to believe my sanity is something that replenishes with my sleep.
If I don’t sleep well,
in essence
I’m trading some of my sanity for the figs of creativity and passion that readily come with imbalance.
If, in an error or an intentional slight,
I miss an entire replenishment,
I scoop from a backup reserve that is much more slow to degrade or be replaced.

This has permanent effects on my sanity.

If I abuse it too much, I eventually see the watermarks left from times of higher capacity.
I fear the day when I go to drink from
my calming basin and I find it empty,
the only spout being the black water of madness.

The smirk; or; Green grass, brown leaves.

Sitting on a velvet blue thought
I climbed purple victorian steps to the red door of your mind and brought in the days groceries.
When I set the bag down my
confessions rolled
on the floor like
eyeless potatoes and those little green perfect moments.

You brought out the broom and swept me out.
I went to the brewery next door and
kissed a girl or glass or two
and built a few windows in my shame.

Drunk on my observations I stumbled up those lavender steps
curled up into your stupid down bed
with the thought of you.
I awoke to a cloudy morning that shook sugar
into my morning cereal.
It missed my bitter coffee.

I stole your scarf and climbed the roof to view the stars but I was eight hours too late so I slept instead.
In my dreams I trimmed crushed velvet trees and planted brick pathways to
the gardens of my capillaries and invited
no one I knew.
With my shadow in tow I thought of my blue satin daydreams and then of kissing you.

Joe Chan:

Joe Chan:

Joe Chan: Framing a frame.

Joe Chan: Framing a frame.

My blood’s in the stars, because…

She had a new dress on and it made me jump
From my chair and say:
“Shit, there’s a fire!”
And my heart pumped because I was ready to pack up my
Hurried possessions,
The trinkets and hats and papers of my panicked fancy,
To keep my body from burning down.
I settled when I realized
I liked the burnt rind shadow of her monochrome wash.
The tips of trees did too,
Or at least I saw so in their hungry black imprints on
The black-moss floors.

I’d never say it but she looked beautiful tonight.
I’d never say it but I once tried to reach out and kiss her milk white face,

But then I remembered the stars I had cheated on and the
Fingers I’d promised away to
Pneumatic curves and the supple skin of
Summer night sallow-shine.
I was a lousy host
And a hell of a cheat and a bad lover to boot
But still she burned forward
Slipping a hue or two of her new dress off
As she rose higher and higher.
When it was just past midnight she was creating the sky
And I could see the wallpaper clearing and
The hardforest floors bent out of shape by
Shadows suddenly experiencing gravity.
She was naked now
Pale and milky and shimmering in
Long-night sneak that I knew so well.
Her pinhole bed was lofty and
She posted just out of reach.
I was jealous, like every night,
And she knew I was too poor to
Share a cigarette or three with her.
I, the jealous and destitute god,
Unable to join the harlot of the heavens.
The one I loved the most, even if she disappeared sometimes.
Instead I looked again with
Eyes that would drive
Candyshops crazy
And retired to my room
With the thick canvas blinds.
A little moonlight
Peeped through the unsealed edges
And my ruin was illuminated
And desaturated
And depthless
In her promiscuous shine.
I, the jealous god,
I, the loneliest god.
Her, the daughter of the sun.
I strangled into my bed
And wept
For I knew my heart was for the moon.

A singularity in the stars, or, Weave first with your hands.

Do you think
after 10 years of marriage,
that endless vows still twist up at night?
Does he, ‘I do’,
wrap his arm around her and hold her
to the warmth they call
Does she, ‘I will’,
sink into his chest
and settle all the tension and fears
that hang there?
After 20? 30 years?
Will they look forward to wrapping up
like they did when they both promised each other
good night?
It’s funny
that this something is
never dedicated in Wedding promises,
for it makes all the difference.



Sloughouse Farm.

Sloughouse Farm.