the spoils

An unnamed 36-year-old
died last night

when his 6-year-old Hyundai
was ripped in half

by a careening SUV full of 25-year-old fugitives
who all survived.

He was ejected from the vehicle and
pronounced dead at the scene

far from where the fragile shell of the Hyundai
leaned against the asphalt in two pieces

and where the engine of the stolen SUV
lay like a battering ram

dropped by the invaders after smashing
down the doors, storming the keep, and running away

with the spoils.

News story on KSL

dirty window

dirt caked in swirling, smattering
patterns on the outside of the window pane
give this particular sunset over yellow
winter fields the look of a Van Gogh.
Catching the sun's rays, those particles
become part of the scene by partially
obscuring it, robbing it of depth, and presenting
it in a flat plane bordered on four sides
by the thick frame.

In this way, the unwashed window
shows real artistic sensibility:
filtering the raw, impossibly rich,
overwhelming, and overlooked
beauty of nature and rendering
it into something finite for the eye to appreciate.

honeycrisp

Poor, poor honeycrisp—
your tender skin's too soft
for the sticker's harsh adhesives.
It bruises and breaks
under my careful fingernails
as I pick around the sticker's
stubborn edges, making me
wince involuntarily. Peeling, rolling,
finally removing the encroaching
label, I uncover the smooth, shiny,
uninterrupted surface underneath
into which I can gladly sink my teeth.

compulsory reading

irresistible in its simplicity,
those mere black dots hold
all the compelling force
of a gun held to your head:

• Read it
• Or else

I guess that's why they call it
a bullet list.

winged gargoyle

Squatting like a stone gargoyle beside the pond
Watching bright fish lazily tailing through clear water,
the large bird mind or didn't see my slow approach,
snapping pictures as I stepped across the grass
until I drew opposite. Then, with a turn of its head
a casual sidestep, an unfurling of massive wings
it lifted off, flapping away with slow beats
toward the street where a delivery truck
braked hard to avoid the windshield-wide
wingspan, sparing the frazzled creature
in its search of a familiar refuge in this
ever-changing and unfriendly world.

contemplation on an egging

stretching and steaming on the porch
after this morning's run I spot
the discolored stain from where
an egg hit the side of the house
just to one side of the front door
so low that it almost hit the porch
instead. I remember finding the shell
that morning months ago, white and frail
on the concrete, a little empty cup
like the ones you find in the grass
discarded by the newly hatched
nestlings up above. But this one
didn't hatch, it smashed after
a short flight from the sidewalk
or maybe the street, launched
from a rolled down window
by who knows who, just some kid
like I used to be, but one a bit more
daring, more reckless, than me.
We did a poor job cleaning it
which is why it left a stain
a bleached spot in the brown
siding, a small amoeba with a tail,
a pale flower on a stem sprouting
up from the porch and blooming
there, just a few inches off the ground,
an object of contemplation year round
as I head to the front door and look down.

check your fluids

Washer fluid's low.
or so an amber-colored light
on the dash would have me believe
every time I brake
or head up or down a hill.
It's not the only thing running low,
though it's one of the few with
a warning light. One I don't
worry about ignoring. Not like
the red oil light which, weeks ago,
flashed just once, and had me out
checking the dipstick first thing
and dumping in two whole quarts
though I knew it was overdue
for a complete change.
At least some things I've learned
not to ignore, even if only to
postpone them.

There are others I'm still figuring out
without the aid of indicator lights
or maintenance minders, only
an internal urge, a back-of-mind
needling that won't go away
no matter how much I put it off
and neglect it. Somehow the
engine keeps on running,
keeps on purring,
keeps on whispering,
just begging to be fed.