Denver the Cat

She sits watching me, pupils growing
Ears tucked back, tail flowing.
Her fur covered face releases a purr.
Ready to strike, she leaps, accuracy sure.
The target?  My ankles- she latches.
I shriek and yell, she runs, and watches.
She watches, waiting for her chance.

Her chance to strike.

The Worm

You call people worms as insult
Yet in all its wriggality
That which eats dirt,
Feeds nations.

A feeding tube for the resourceful,
A knot for tying for the bored,
A game for the children,
Brought forth by a living cord.

This worm pierced onto a hook
Sacrificed for my brother’s dinner
Caught on the Muskegon river,
I thank you for your life.

You who eat dirt,
Feed my family.

You are a single flower.

You are lonely
You are a single flower
In a field of grass
Taking a foggy shower.
Beside you is another-
Colorful and covered in bees.
Why do they receive it?
Yet when a young boy sees
The beauty of your petals
He notices your shoots.
Grasping your stem gently
He pulls, scooping your roots
Carrying you home
To his home, now yours too.
Placing you gently in a pot.
A new home, just him, and you.


I let it rest on my tongue
Only for a moment’s time.
Then the capsule is formally flung,
Washed down with Corona and lime.

The combination soothes my itchy head
But it wakens my dreams.
I drift slowly to sleep in giant bed
Only to be woken by screams.

They are my own yells
Escaping the dreamland,
I had a dream about Kells.
And how she released my hand.

Reminds me daily, to grow up

As I sit silently sinking
Sinking into a chair not fair
I stare at my sandy hair.
Sandy is not the truth,
It is more brown, yet shines.

My hair used to be bleach blonde.
Wildness for hair in my childhood
The brightness faded, now only flickering.
It shines slightly with right light
Yet will never shine the same.

Perhaps it yet could shine white.
Perhaps it could shine for a few bucks.
A cheap can of spray, lathered on
With a liberal coating of regret
Instantly setting in, easily washed.

No, for I must be willing to admit
That my hair is not bleach
That my childhood has ended.
The dusty brown upon my head,
Reminds me daily to grow up.

Yet, I never will.

Bag under eyes

As I sit at my desk,
I stare mine own eye.
I notice the bags below.
I’ve noticed them before.
Today they stay- perpetual.
They mock me with exhaust
Though they beg for rest
My mind reminds them,
They are not in control.

Neither am I.

I punch my pillow
As if it is his fault.
Bills, studies, relationships.
Responsibilities of small weight,
Fall like a drop in a bucket.
They build up into jugs-
-Into bags

Fish Need Oxygen

I can do better than this- but this website is called primitive for a reason.

Fish need Oxygen
Though they swim
In water clear
As glassy day
They gulp air
The same way
A human chugs.

Their gills remove
The oxygen from
The crystal water.

Their bodies bloat
Filled with air;
Filled with food;
Lacking of lungs
They produce food.

Food for plants
The plants eat
Like humans soak
They eat carbon
Regardless of form
Making carbon, oxygen.

Fish need oxygen.
Plants need carbon.
The cycle continues
All within my
Fifteen gallon tank.

Free Hot Chocolate

As I walked to class
I was already late.
“Free hot chocolate!”
I suppose this is fate.

Smooth and creamy
And not cheaply made
Feet dragging, I waddled
Throwing away my grade.

I saw the posters from far off.
“Fifteen week old fetus”
“What are your thoughts on abortion?”
The question raised a fuss.

As I answered “I’m against it”
And I started to leave
Annoyed by his presence
Tugging on my sleeve.

Suddenly class was a haven
Safe from hard conversations.
He took my email
Interested in my conservation.

The Rubber Tramp

I only ever loved on woman
Her name needled into my arm forevermore
In small scratched black ink, “Lenore.”
Though I was abandoned at birth,
The lovely Lenore learned me healing.

I had one other love that trumped
A love for the road and leaving.
A rubber tramp, barely breathing
If I stuck in a town too long.
She however, was oxygen.

I would visit her stately stead,
Hoping for a meal, hoping for warmth
Hoping for the touch which warned
Warned of weary discontent and malcontent.
A touch forged with a demon’s hammer.

It was fuel for my heart
And though I would beg her,
Begging for company on the lone road,
No interest in my travel showed.
The fuel transferred from heart to tank.