Misc.

I'm packing shells of tolerance with ribbons of black wine. Outside, three peeps from the mockingbird that doesn't know what manners are. I wait for my day to turn light. The sun rises like a memory, slow and dazzling--unmistakable in its meaning.
There's a cold undercurrent to the tropical breeze before it's shredded by the ceiling fan. The TV drones to itself and I understand why. There are no open ears.
Tongues test nerve. Tucked between the words "I" and "you" is the silent word. Wounds scabbed over until the next big spill. Dust replaces the sound of a working heart--pink and raw like undercooked pig. The pen is full of dissension.
Halls papered with footnotes of what was. Cracked sidewalk leads to what will be. Left over is am. An overturned, empty cup that once held warmth.