her name is joy.
ok no like seriously it’s her actual name
yes i mean metaphor and she happens to
be joy(ful) but for real her name is joy
and
hm
when i think about her – like with intent,
well beyond the awareness one has
of things that exist, like on purpose,
i kinda just stop for a second
or four
and it’s not a sigh what is it ummmmmmmm
i just kinda do a breathe-and-hold-and-exhale
that’s different than how i, joel, normally breathe
she laughed
swirling her straw in iced tea
a new beginning
is superfluous and a
phrase i think is dumb.
* * *
i melt each time i
remember how you taste on
any part of you.
* * *
tonight i bench pressed
two hundred eighty-five pounds
and felt damn sexy
‘surely, someone was president, right?’
the year was 1904
and i don’t have a damn clue
what happened or why it did.
* * *
geometry of sorts
if i draw a straight line
one, i’d need a ruler or
straight edge, because
my artistic talent is rather lacking
from me to you
two, i’d need you to remain
rather still which i don’t see happening
as you move and shake like the wind
will you still be there
when my straight line
i guess it would be a segment
as a line from me to you
would not be infinite
though i hope to spend
forever with you
well, of course
that’s also a metaphor
‘cause i’m already 33
so let’s forgive technicalities
becomes the point
that was point a to b
and is now the point
and very close space shared
by you and me?
* * *
claw marks on drywall
i’m worried there might be wolves in the house
i’ve noticed clusters of padded prints in the kitchen
and claw marks on the drywall in the pantry
just above the cereal i eat for morning breakfast.
i finished my apple while walking and
underhanded the core into a neighbor’s hedge
squinting behind cheap aviators
i tilted a rebellious nod to my mailbox
and gave the storm door the ol’ what for
with my hip as i fished for my keys.
i write a haiku
in the present tense – just now!
it’s the one you read.
* * *
still rather unsure
what the f***’s a sugar plumb
and how it dances.
* * *
amazing to think;
such comfort in being asked,
‘how was your day?’
intent matters, always,
said the writer.
