It’s like waking up in
the matrix of a memory,
jagged glass corners
and eyes as deflective
as marbles.

Our taxidermy li(v)es.

The detail is still there,
but there’s something
‘off’ about the way we
contort ourselves into
the shape of a knife, or
box, or wolfhound.

We’ve all got history.

I’ve no idea what I’d be.
Perhaps I’d just be me,
a piece of the intricacy,
peering at the portraits
with marble eyes.

– B.

The Red Sea

I can still see you
beneath those
tough grass roots
you wear as fur.

I can still feel you
in the tug of waves
pulling the wreckage
from the shore.

I cannot touch you,
no, you’ve burned
the loose ends out
of focus,

like wicks
lost in the wax of
the Red Sea.

– B.

I’ll Drink to That

I am like a bad hangover,
what born agains and
alcoholics anonymous
would call a recollection.

Slugged to the bottom
of a barrel, kicked in the
pit of an empty stomach,
lurching the truth out
onto the freshly polished
shoes of ‘Miss’ Social Grace.

I think I lost my manners
in the blackout of televised
programming we call life.

Reality is quite sobering.

– B.


Some days are steady,
consistently precise,
those little recollections
hiding behind corners,
alleviating that itch in
the back of my brain I
can never quite reach.

Other days are bitter,
consistently stale,
as if I chose to sit too
close to the fire, stuck
in a repetitive cycle I
can never escape.
That particular heat
sneers at the sight
of hope.

– B.

Oversized Cats

You wouldn’t choose
to live the life you’ve
created for yourself,
but you’re a tiger,
you can’t change
your stripes.

Every pattern is
intricately different,
and yet, none of them
ever feel the need to
point it out.

We are just oversized
cats that think too much
about ourselves.

– B.


Breathing you in feels
like exhaling doubt,
these careful breaths
hitting the back of
my neck in rhythm,
a loose arm draped
over a set of steel ribs;
like a dog with a
blanket wrapped snug
around its midsection.
Your fabrication is like
a tequila sunrise,
leaving a cold heart
thawed where reality
would’ve left frostbite.

– B.

Move Along, Wayward Sentiment

These long, drawn out roads,
silence slinging time over its
shoulder like a trunk thrown
overboard a sinking ship.
We collect our debts and then
say they’re not ours to pay,
We pull teeth from the skulls
before burying a memory in
uncharted territory,
clawing at a surface to try
and dig up something dead,
stuck somewhere between
forgettable and irreplaceable.

The invitation was revoked,
so why am I still here?

– B.