Every scream is special.

There’s no such thing as

-a mundane scream

-a work-a-day scream

-a milquetoast scream.

Some things are like that.

Other things must prove themselves special

at every turn,

and against all odds.

Let me try to sell you on the exceptionality of two particular slices of toast.

Even if they are golden-brown perfection,

Even if they are crisp, but not desiccated,

Even if they are still warm enough to melt butter.

It is still just toast.

And, I wonder how much of mastering life comes down to the ability to

find a scream ordinary

&

taste olympian toast.

I wake up in a world I’ve never tread before.

Standing in a forest, before an oaken door.

The door opens with a screeching, shuddering creak.

I walk into a room whose walls begin to leak.

The flood is rising higher in this strange new world,

and then forms a vortex in which I’m cruelly swirled.

As I resolve to drowning, the walls fall open,

and I am washed down a secluded, mountain glen.

I awake mistrustful, and unsure of my state,

but one fact speaks true, that I need to urinate.

a moon-made shadow sweeps, wind-borne

tree branch tines race across the courtyard

but trees, moons, and shadows do not race

and, so, my mind & time must have become unhinged —

“unhinged” being the operable word

Is a poem like a painting,
a blank canvas layered with colors to form an image?

Or, is a poem like a sculpture,
a lump of potential carved until only that which evokes a sentiment remains?

It feels to me more like the latter,
but — then — wherein lies the lump?

Maybe it’s like sculpting a lump in the dark,
until resonance takes over sculpting,
or something starts to shine?