53 Readings | 1 Rating

Even Dead Grasses Daydream


Kansas goes brown in the winter.

Desperation will tell you that 

brown is sister to gold and that even a dead leaf can sparkle.

But a swath of monochrome posing as a jewel 

won’t fool anyone for long.


The bike keeps the lungs alert 

and the demons from freezing solid.

I ride through dirt alleys, past the hoarder’s house and his junkyard doberman.

I tell the dog he’s a cliche’ and he loses control

of his left ear, tilting his head, his mind defanged.

He knows he’s somehow been insulted.


Past the high fences of the country club

is a park where burrs pop from dead grasses,

clinging like orphans to frayed sleeves and new socks.

On Mondays and Wednesdays a lone gray haired man can be found hitting golf balls

into the great Kansas nothing.  On Tuesdays and Thursdays

a different man stands in the opposite corner of the field, hitting them back.  

They live like pen pals.  


There are gaps in the tree line.

The day comes that I hop the curb and enter the woods

to eat twigs and let low branches ping my spokes.

The bike grows claws and I lose all language.

A trail is nothing but a path worn from use, and a life

is nothing more than a straight line, it’s curves imperceptible 

to the god eye.  Even when a single day

feels like one sawtoothed hour after another.


I don’t know if the trail was here before me 

or if I dug it out with my own blind will. 

Your shadow is there because you’re blocking the light and

repetition makes even a dull whisper feel like stone. 

And then there’s always the possibility that

someone knows the little secret you keep in the woods.

I ride the trail three days a week, leaving four days

for someone else to claim my dream as their own.

Posted 07/30/17
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