A Pair of Evening Haikus

The two red foxes

Moonlit ache of woodland paws Shadows on concrete The owls know your name As a feather from a wing Far is good morning

Dear Extroverts

Dear Extroverts,

I am the introvert

. . . possibly "your" introvert

The one on the side

at the meeting table,

talked over,

talked at,

talked about

for not talking enough.

Framed in the back gallery as

soft spoken 

quiet

shy

even suspicious

And now, a magnanimous plot twist,

encouraged to participate more

speak up

really, come to the table

because your thoughts are valuable 

(thanks, I agree)

You'll grow out of it. . . the quiet.

I have thought about it

I often think about it

from behind my shades

and headphones

a reflection of someplace quiet. . .

The noise is in my head, 

not outside.

There is noise from your mouth

was that from your head?

I happen to like how I am

Perhaps even be proud

though you might have trouble telling,

as there are no closed captions

I am not "as seen on TV

I am introvert.

Hear me assert myself,

at a reasonable speaking volume.

Breaking Out

Breaking Out
aka my god it's full of sars


A glance out the port
The dusty glass, a cat's blue eye

Begin the ritual of protection
End the void within my gloves one finger at a time
Thinking on the moment space makes a man, a boy
tumbled in waves of cold elation

A step out.
How gently the absorbing darkness
Puts all the zero in my bones

followed by more
To close the inconsolable distances
In what we lose
Inside.

To Persistent Demands

"Touch me. I like it when I can feel something", she said.
"Let's make noise.
Let us be more than what we hear."

I reached for her with my rough hands
Gentle words, kind deeds,
Served sumptuous meals
For her fluttering eyes,
her clandestine heart
I helped part her masked lips
In search of the brilliant blade of her smile

She made masks of houndstooth
For her friends, neighbors, heroes
She offered me a mask, but I demured

Did I ever actually touch her?
Was I only ever touching myself?

I wield words, my winsome weapon
With panache, humor, disdain

 Silently swooshing solitary shapes 

Her weft was in the making,
Weaving sparse words
Into enigmas, and victory

"I am semi-hard hearted
withholding, and not talkative"
She warned in a lilting speech,
A small red bird, taking off,
Like a witticism unleashed
In a room full of recyclable punsters

In my cell, a many-minded body,

Breath propelled, floating through rooms
Bodies, profaned in the stewing plague

Just the idea of bodies. . . touching

A nervous social poison

etches itself on every furrowed brow

Every thumb, an alphabet smashing savant

Stunned, and stunted, we grew apart

Branches, wireframed by circumstance

Twisting in the stubborn wind our soft  spots

by the light of rectangular blue suns

I smash myself a quick note:
Yes self, we did touch her;
If only for one, bitter-sweet moment.