In the Beginning

I sleep two time zones,

wake in the small day between.

Darkness on the face.

No rest on the seventh.

The dustbin lid cracks down

on kitchen dreams.  Ashtray speaks

with gently-hammered elbows

and knees.

Only a blue-lit kettle

shines through the deep. 

Everything is transformed,

microwaveable.

I thank the god of oven mitts;

my fingers free to make

evening and morning,

and it is good.

At last we sleep

on the crumb-strewn floor. 

Evolved.  Immortal.
Creation under my nails.

tk/January 2015


Brilliantly delivered by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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It

Sleep is innocent.

It runs, hides in the dark,

is easily frightened by radiators,

the drop of a digital clock.

I have access no longer

to the lull of manifold sheep.

Time zones are corrupted

with a single cunning sock.

Night spins uncountable hours

in a game of blindfold;

I hear your voice in my head,

misidentify your face on purpose,

wanting always to be it.

tk/December 2014

Deliciously soporific R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Outerbelt

Speedway soars

without pit or champion.

Glow of dashboard.

Echo of centrifugal force.

Cars never cross the finish line

bleached with tire marks.

White-knuckled steering wheels.

Endless narrow-eyed loop.

At night there is no grandstand. 

I am the only fan.  Awake.

Dizzy with silent exhaust.

Inhaled secrets.

Drivers envy the cool

underside of my pillow.

I hide under the covers.
Dream headlong.

tk/November 2014


Charming read by R.A.D. Stainforth and Amy the cat...

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Morning Star

Torso of Venus, 1920, bronze, Aristide Maillo
Columbus Museum of Art

Venus whispers through limbs in the ash;

charts the path of twinkle, twinkle, little.

Yet so much.

What are you like? 

Sleep becomes a nuisance.

I pace the ceiling, press warm footprints

to the windowpane, count the night

on her glow-in-the-dark rosary,

string it bead by bead across the sea.

Her morning eye watches from a headless torso,

holds me, transfixed.  

My goddess of love and war devotes herself

to the small hours,

offers me your kiss.

She is darling,

but not as dear as you.

tk/February 2014



Delicious mid-week read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

The Absence

I grip the banister,

touch each sleepless stair―

the door's salutation

sounds sadder in the dark.

Night swallows me,

one naked shoulder at a time.

I hear your voice in the crickets―

fireflies remind me of the distance,

how each nocturnal window twinkles

from counties to countries.

How stars scatter

differently across your sky.

tk/July 2013 

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for this masterful reading.  

Man and The Moon, 1990 by Andrew Wyeth 

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Berkshires use my finger towels

Berkshires use my finger towels ―

ruthless and without tact,

wake me restless,

hot and hungry,

Mozart's Serenade No. 10

like a meadow in my hair.

I pull damp strands from my neck,

grab the sill in my descent,

each dark stair a trowel,

unearthed in my hand.

I crave often and sticky

your peanut butter,

stand in the kitchen at 3:00 a.m.,

lick it clean from my thumb.

tk, October 2012

image: Midnight Snack, 1984 by Curtis Wilson Cost

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