Stroke

Reborn, a butterfly with paws, gnarled breath and fangs. Letters crumble from your lips, your right blue eye dips, your brain hardens to an anvil were the darkest blacksmith pin points his pounds. Your hands fist, tongue strays, your swallow gone.

B.F.M.

Life & Death

The coffee pot 

emptied.

B.F.M.

Tipping Dominos

Losing morning after morning,

hermetically sealed inside a

windowed room 

crowded 

with ten foot wooden ladders

he rants his Poet-ness

atop a 

plastic footstool.

B.F.M.

Dust Storms

Your elders gloat like lilly pads
on a pond
under sunscreen and broad hats

thousands of miles from their 
grown children.

Then the call comes:
“your mother, she fell”;
"your father, has a spot, lump, cough.”

All this is an unexpected thunder storm 
carpeting your sun.

You don’t know it yet, but you’ve 
just been drafted into the minor leagues
playing for a team plagued by dust storms.

B.F.M.