Poetry

Little ol’ stimtastic me

I want to search for myself in the grain,

stills can only tell so much

and I need more.

So back I roll past white noise

to the start of my fingers

tapping out the sheet music on invisible keys

while my eyes put up their barrier against the hum

and I go off into space.

There it is. The movement

I’m playing right now, recorded in the background

twenty-one years ago.

Poetry

Role Play

Shuffling papers shakes up memories

into cinematic strips

that play on auto after every introduction.

Arranged this way,

how do we know they’re real anymore?

Morphed over time, nipped and tucked,

folded, welded, enshrined and entombed,

buried fast or brought forwards by warm words

from different perspectives.

We are made of stories.

We are stories.

Every Once Upon A Time

threaded into our minds through and through.

Poetry

Mix tape

I pick up the pencil and lodge it in the cassette,

reeling in the ribbons flapping at my face

from the storm above my head.

My tongue catches between my teeth in concentration.

You watch like I’m messing with some ancient technology

from ages past.

I forget how young you are. I laugh at your expression.

Here, give it a try.

You take it and copy my attempts, finally reeling in all the ribbon.

Fast forward.

I don’t remember what was recorded on the tape,

but this is what was recorded in my mind.

I often drift by your patch

and wonder if you remember it too.

I should rewind and ask sometime.