One Leg

At twelve, thirteen 

I lost the reins 

to my happy goat.

Waking I see

I’m the one legged child

unable to keep up.

BFM

Hunter Gatherer

Walking the woods

gathering elm, maple, 

oak, birch, sycamore 
leaves, twigs,
patches of moss 
squirrel tufts, 
owl bones, feathers.

Hot glueing them to my
feet, ankle, calves, knees, 
thighs, buttocks, cock, 
stomach, chest, hands, 
forearms, wrists, biceps,
neck, cheeks, ears,
forehead. 

Hidden, I wait for prey.
I wait for you.

BFM

Watch

Dear poet, step away
from the laptop, put down
your pen and watch
the sparrow navigate
the Mesquite’s thicket.

BFM

Returning

after a long needed break

i return to being the self important
cartographer that I am:
the faux poet.

BFM

Drank Drunk

I gathered my-me, my-self, my-I under the silver maple’s spout. I unlatched the hatch that covered the cup that’s hidden in my head. I drank drunk her unfettered liquor hoping to cure the hole that is my chest. However after all the ounces, cups and pints I drank, my gray matter started to crank, first left, then right. I spin ‘til spun falling deep in grass where I slept under a quarter moon’s light, ‘til two roots of Ms. Maple ascended pulling and pushing me through Br’er Rabbits doorway, hall, bedroom, bath, down his drain a thousand leagues beneath her leaves that gathered stardust for her toes, as the roots dangled mine three feet above flame bringing her consumed liquor to boil, then steam, then distilled. drop. drop. drop.

B.F.M

Near-Sighted

My eyes see you 

inches from me

my heart feels

you’re

a marathon away.

B.F.M.

Coming and Going

Willfully I clinched 
two poems
white knuckled tight.

You honeyed my
fingers open.

Two monarchs unleashed
flitted
to purple eyed heliotrope.

B.F.M.

Catch & Release

The flawed tics of a clock are perfect in measure, like cold creek water slipping through cupped hands.

I once had a perfect moment: a train heard miles away, tiny sparrows chirping, no dumbbells squishing my brain. Then like a slap to my head, I looked up and saw a 747 landing with its 747 anxious passages waiting to get off. 

It's the same way love turns into a dagger or yesterday's beauty veers tragic locked in a cage plucking out its own feathers.

B.F.M.

Bowl A beggar

A beggar 
holds out his bowl,
I climb in.

B.F.M.

If I Could

The wall switch controls the hall lights on and off.

Those close to me wonder why I walk in the dark.

As if I knew the latin root for switch, which as it turns out, is perhaps Middle Dutch – swijch

B.F.M.

Blight of How To's

I've read so much

I've forgotten how 

or where to sit

in the morning's light.

B.F.M.

Dove Aria

Ten thousand mornings

pass and my dove claims

to have birthed each one.

Cooing from her perch 

like the passing sun

"Wake up you buffoon."

B.F.M.