Bukowski's voice
rumbles from the speakers
midnight thunderstorm

autumn chill
the download
at 75%

school parking lot
summer grass
flows into the drain

The Black Box Theatre

The lights dim; red, blue, green still trace our faces. Our stillness turns into movement, and back to stillness, no voice in our midst, no lines, just movement. We breathe as one in each new vector; exhale to a new partner. We trust our bodies to tell a story. We trust this black box to shadow who we really are.

moonless night
a boy and girl dance
in and out of headlights

in the parking lot
a black bird
pecks at pecans
along with the black man
who holds a wedding invitation

buried
in low clouds
the steeple
reminds me of the wine
that clouded our judgment

the motorcyclist
flashes his headlight
harvest moon

fallen leaves
another rejection slip
blows off my desk

autumn equinox
half the puzzle still scattered
on the floor

white petals
fall upon the cracked
concrete
as i question the pale
scars across her wrists

an orange toboggan
over grandpa's gray hair—
the moon pushes back the clouds

"go get a nail!"
my father yells
hammering the screw

street corner
light flickers
in the rain

broken guitar strings—
her hair falls
into teary eyes

half moon—
the child slices
into a navel orange

her new blue contacts.....the cocoon opens

...........................horse track
........betting slips tumble
..through the dirt

cluttered desk
an ant paces up
the Norton Anthology

empty theatre—
oedipus' blood
dries on the nightgown

meditation—
our breath one
with the train's whistle

her book bag taps
the back bicycle tire—
summer's end

the last bite
of a pale apple—
crescent moon

another news report
of a suicide bomber—
the Dahlia flower opens

summer's end the heart monitor flat lines

adolescent literature class
she asks if I read
Derrida or Nietzsche