Prism: Three Poems of Longing

Missing Jeff


is it a stroke this calling of smoke

lingers around the temple unworshipped unbegged

upper right


sometimes the words they pop and sizzle into my cheeks

it was around a day ago I truly mourned our passing

a matrix of missed connection, phalanx of suppression


where we couldn’t feel we couldn’t explore


when sitting in our own darkened baubles

the bubbling maker of hisses


the day today is as blue as it is white

a sky-lit whorl returning the concept

a begging returning a fever and all awake


I heard the crows call our names before dawn could screech on mute

but my body sunk itself between twin pillows and blood’s taste winked at my tongue



Missing Eugene


not like it was ever a personalized departure

moments of memory before being carried away on a stretcher of human hands

those moments are real, those disasters among the loud few


our silences were symphonic

our language of hands and wheatgrass smiles

the market chugging and churning when chancing occasions


you could call it an age where things could be known

differentiating from the warm management of today’s day by day


remembering bicycles spinning out of control but not out of our minds

in truth seeing you collide with the curb gave me new muscles of terror


longing to bite down on the grit again

amidst the fortress of pavements

corridors searing in a lazy, terminal heat

jaws probing landscapes of brotherly makers


longing where longing feels short, correct



Missing Stephanie, Steven


mind goes jelly absconding from the presence of my life right now

ignoring the mellow and the vague of a majority calm

embracing the purples within charisma scythe


we taught ourselves well to have fun amidst our dwellings of madness

amidst the climate of the inconsistent


and I remember the pipe tower of water and the sucking in the burning air

before melting a body of wax with whispers of ash leaking toward ceiling


it was there near Mole Street at first and then later more Eastern, some other identifiable anonymity

your abodes always treating us like eggs before the hatch


like the ribs of the barrel keeping the pressure within

pressing into the floor

pressing a bellow or a creek


a treating right

correctly being without fishing too fickly


the color surrounding everyday life the way it’s meant to

the way abandoned lots still can have crowds walk and skip across


the way secrets of joy are effortlessly formed

smoothed not staggered