stylographically Morning Inventory
Body hurts.
Soul creaks.
Dogs need feeding.
Sky cracks pink.
Another day?
Hell yes.
The floor’s cold.
Shoes by the door,
one laced, one not—
thesis of my life.
The dogs circle,
impatient philosophers
with twitchy tails,
ready to chase the day
while I’m still
negotiating gravity.
Outside, the wind talks
through alley wires.
Trash cans rattle,
as if the night
left messages.
We step out,
paws first,
feet after.
The world smells like rain
and asphalt and promise.
The sun hasn’t decided yet—
neither have I.
But we go.
Because the dogs say so.
Because the day says so.
Because hell yes.
Iperu Morning, Valley
The sun comes in sideways,
a slow crawl over stucco walls.
I pour water for the dogs.
Charlie circles, Jadie stares me down.
In the yard, a hummingbird drills the air—
a jeweled little bastard,
impatient with the world.
Across the street, the neighbor’s chimes catch
a breeze that isn’t really there.
The valley smells of wet grass,
old coffee, and car exhaust.
It’s perfect.
No one is awake but us.
The dogs sniff the earth
like priests at confession.
Traffic hums somewhere out,
a far-off river of fools
chasing something.
Here, though—
the leash is loose,
my cup runs full,
the air is still cool enough
to forgive.
I think of poems,
of love,
of money,
of none of it.
Charlie rolls in dirt.
Jadie licks my hand
as if to say,
This is enough.
And Jesus,
maybe it is.
Toward
The vine does not choose
the sun—
it leans
on faithful hunch.
A trail of ants
reroutes around a stone
without word,
but unanimous devotion.
Beneath trees,
roots cross like fingers
in prayer,
never having seen
what they worship.
The bird lifts
before thunder,
as if it dreamed sky’s intent.
We call it instinct,
but what if it’s listening?
Not to sound,
but to some tilt
inside the world?
Not thought.
Not self.
Only a turning
toward.
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