I did my bed

I kept my word
I did my job
I checked my boxes
I made my bed

I found my purse
I left my keys
I did my job
I did my job

I kept my word
I pet my dog
I had my shot
I did that deed

I found my keys
I left my bed
I shecked my boxes
I drowned my keys

card tray

the low hiss of ocean wave through beach pebbles bridged
the chip-sealed parking lot on 47th street brdged
the file trays tshirts
brged the sleeve cuffs
the fisherman
the runner t

he low hissed of the the ocean wave
bridge
 the chips, sealed
parking
lotion
47th street
\bridge/
the file trayes tshirts
the fischer man
the runner

dog hair haiku

When I sit on the 

sofa in in a black sweatshirt,

it’s like he’s still here.

thenwhen

And thenwhen
they said 'precautionary'
thenwhen we could standup and
open blinds
when we could turn on lights
thenwhen we could stop texting frantic loves
stop asking questions about our sisters
when we could look at each other and breathe
when we could look at each otherat the tiny bookshelf slid infront of the door
the desk on top
thenwhen we could see the absurdity
thenwhen
we could turn on lights
when we could loosen grips on metalrailsrippedfromafilingcabinet
when we could stop anticipatingwhowould come through the doorand
how we would thenwhen we react in ththatt finnal momenttt
thenwhen we were not straining to hear
(a shot
across
campu
s)
thenwhen the world stopped pulsingwhenthe world stopped throbbing like a second gulp of whiskey,

we wondered what to do.

So we sat for a while.
Staring at each other.
Thinking o what it is.
Tostillbestaringstarin.

And then stupid riddles, Simpsons episodes, Apples To Apples, talk of next year

New Lyrics to Maneater

Maneater
stuck on repeat in my head as I walk the dog in the prerain mist in the dark in the harsh light
of LED street lamps--
the tetherball hanging
limp from its rope in relief
the Prius in shadow the deep red of a conspirator's heart cut from the chest at the Tower, held
high for all to see the shadows
of branches scrawl encrypted messages on the sidewalk in black fuzzy font:

   Ohoh here she comes
watchoutgirlshe'llchewyouuuuuuuh
Oh oh is this my calling here? Is this where I say "enough"?
Once when a coworker complained about the Muslims moving in next store to her about their "towels" hanging from the laundry line in the back yard once when she said these things out loud to me laughing like I was going to laugh too once then I took it up with our supervisor and wondered, in writing, if these were things to be said in front if children her desk was moved and no one spoke to me until I left
I was in school then once learning about the corporate takeover of our schools, about those who would profit off the backs of the poor, preparing for my fight, my professor teaching the book he just published
I wrote him a letter too pointing to the hypocricy of requiring students to buy the book he wrote about profiting off education it was easy to see what was right it was easy to fight
so why not sit in the undercroft, tending the barrels
why not offer my neck and my guts to the fight

Instead I walk in the dark with a dog, trying hard to make it home before this rush of thoughts sung to a Hall and Oates tune disperse trying hard to remember to write this somewhere in this mess:

When it comes down to it, we are either the righteous or the executioner

And I see my own shadow: hood up in the same light as the trees, my details sharp against the fuzz of their font.