Yellow Stingers
When the light goes on in the fridge, I search for something good.
Something different, but not too much.
I got home one evening to reveal a plastic bowl of pineapple in its center glory on the top shelf.
I told myself I wouldn’t spoil my dinner, but its tart juice persona was deceiving.
My guilty conscience overthrew; one piece after another disappeared until all that was left was a little puddle of juice on the bottom.
Although my stomach was full, and my throat thoroughly satisfied, my tongue burned like a spankin’ at age 5.

The Lava Lamp Boy
The Lava Lamp Boy wears shirts of dead rock stars.
We talk about life in the middle of the day over tea.
His hair is stupid but truthfully I like it.
If mice were human, LLB would be one. Shyness is a lifestyle, not a characteristic.
He wore a denim jacket to church.
Initially, I’m wasting my time writing about a boy that changes form, up and down, through the burning lamp of my mind.


A Plant With Eyes

A single white flower curls with the dew drops of early morning.
The tips of its petals are brown and slowly withering its entirety, but the eyes – not a chance.
They see the world, the generation growing and aging.
Hearing kids slur vulgar insults, spotting the dropping of books, freshman lovers sucking face.
It observes. It knows.
Bricks and huge grasshoppers aren’t the best of friends, though that’s a side note to the flower’s daily routine.
The lily may be small, lost in a ruffle of green leaves, but it peeks through.
It is living. Breathing. Watching.