the accidental poet

remember when I meant to write 

paperback novels - frayed at the edge

but the heaviness of my words

laid bare a soul crashing on rocks jagged

closed-off rooms confuse me

the ringing in my ears

is inordinately loud 

amidst the stillness 

of unconditioned air

if I move to the room 

cooled by an oscillating fan

it becomes a humming

and I can breathe, shallow 

drowsily with a bit of vertigo

I’ve never needed 

alcohol or pills to feel afloat 

She’s is a GenX b- screaming, “YOUR MOM….”

weather and its forecast

seems to change on a dime

or a nickel - if they still make 

such a thing - and it’s not 

where I live but everywhere 

I have lived - it’s the Earth, the 

Omniverse…