Smearing

Our pyroclastic remains litter our once wannabe house. 

The first great dream is always a bruising lie, leaving one feeling cornered. 

Dipping our index and middle fingers into liniment jars, 
smearing balm like war paint, with an ash chaser.

We ready for something smaller, a one bedroom apartment, apart. 

BFM

Mothers See

The right hand is darker than the left. An apple is flecked with yellowish specks. Peeled tangerines sit on a blue and white checkered tablecloth. Horses are ridden.

Schooners hoisted sails fill the innocent bay with blood stained sheets, puffed up and out, gliding hulls through skipping waters. Gulls squawk.

Mothers standing on crescent shores seeing there daughters number, 543, 782 or 314, hoisted, skipping into bluer waters.

B.F.M.

Four parts

In one part of my brain a man wearing a tweed jacket rides a motorcycle round and round a Tudor house; in another, a ten year old child counts to ten looking for the perfect word to describe the lasting effects of an alligator taking his ten toes, three brothers and whoring mother back to the swamp to start a new life without him; in a third part there’s a spike so I laugh when I should cry and cry when I should laugh. In the fourth part is a corridor banked with windows overlooking fatty tissue that insists there is an I in there.

B.F.M.

I know what I'm doing

Rita kept her fuzzy strapped pink slippers and matching laced negligee chilled in the lower neglected family waters at tentacles reach.

Her skin glistened like frosted dew in the moon's wane, ready to melt under the firm embrace of an intellectual bipedal man, if only he’d risk a late night swim in a losing tide uncovering tentacles flailing with knives, forks and mirrored shards.

B.F.M.

Annoying Lot

Brothers. Holmes. Both think they deduce motive, flavors, favorite colors. Decipher voice inflections. One of them read too much of the other.

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.