The interest of my days- should there be any

He ran through the market with a high gloss
shoulders teembling rocking to side to side when his feet touched the ground
which wasn't often, I could think
but they seemed to overturn something with each
flying step
I would say hermetic, but that isn't the right word
his breath came in sputters and stops with his words
"SORRY
I'M
Late..."
and he ran past

late?
was it such a grand thing to be late?

'Cause I'm cool like that.

Round

There is the sky
and there is the land
and they make a perfect round whole.
Sometimes the land seems
a flat pebble in a river,
sometimes the sky seems
a turtle's blue head, poking out through
the ceiling of trees. 
Sometimes the land rakes through the clouds,
looking for gold,
and then the sun leads it in a bow.
It bows to the stars,
and shoots the moon to the sky to applaud.

Where did the stars go?

done with all NCSSM summer work.

My Child

whisky glass
painted egg
jewel case
newel post
hot air balloon
colorful
two tiny

waving
from the basket.

I Will Know (2)

I want to engineer a train.
I will know
halls cities towns meetings
spiderwebs
catching beautiful dust
All the same,
(originals, of course)
flashing by.

I Will Know (1)

I want to construct
so I will know
shingles on stone mansions
are icing on cake
and ephemeral.

The Man In My Head

He was the only person who had never called me weird
He had ironed clothes and curly hair and a hint of a beard.
I can tell him anything, though I am no ear glutton-
for usually he talks to me
resting his feet
above his bellybutton.

"I have long since given it up, I realized today.
Trying to help real people understand the things I say."
His eyebrow raised above his eye, a personified protrusion
As if to say, as was his way,
"Now how did you
arrive at that conclusion?"

I've always read in story books that heroines keep journals.
I can't invest myself in looks, and I'm strictly diurnal,
So if I want to heroine myself, (I'm told that's right)
My two choices to get the boys,
are to scribble,
or party every night.

(Although I don't understand why,
the correlation's too strong to deny)

"Just, I can't open myself up, not even to a pen.
And trying only tells me that I'll never write the end.
But really, nothing's wrong with never finishing a story
Continuing this silly thing
Might not be real,
but it will not be boring."

(Although I like I-R-L friends,
they always want to hear "The End.")

So I think I'll keep talking to that man who's in my head.
Those conversations are exciting, though never reread.
My kindly man listens better than any boy I've dated.
Speaking of me, reality
is contrary
and slightly overrated.

I could explain this all away and into trenches fall,
"Or I could just explain to you,
and then that would be all."

Mad Scientist

16

     i know why men are superstitious.
one year ago today
     i was very
very
     sick.
and i blew out the candles on my birthday cake
     and everyone ate it.

     (superstitious)
and what a terrible year i had.

     i wonder how today will go.
and
       it frightens me