Trampoline Friend

We would test each spring
before looking back at his step-dad,
"Don't kill yourselves" he'd say
before disappearing into the air
conditioning for the summer.

The trampoline's keeper was at least
twice as heavy as anyone else.
He would launch us into the trees
overhead to pick the foursquare balls
and Frisbees that spent all winter growing.

We would get up early and bounce to separate
the drum from the morning dew and bounce
till walking on firm ground felt unnatural.
We rehydrated with Otter Pops and ate
Otter Pops and wore Otter Pops like warpaint

because you can sort of eat them
in the air and in the air we were safe
unless we got a good bounce and floated up,
beyond the sphere of lost things
to a kingdom of bee hives and dappled light

and once we sent smoke bombs and roman candle fire
into the branches and once we invited some girls
and once I put a foot through the cover and slit
from ankle to thigh and iced it with an Otter Pop,

running it along my leg like a bloody train
until I realized my muscles were still clenching
and we were burning out ever so slowly, illuminated
against a backdrop that only moved forwards.

Dogs and Children

L lights fires in the park as though they keep the world warm while I wear reflective safety gear and do my best to keep dogs and children away, but there are just so many. "I think he can handle himself," says L as she douses a house of brittle sticks in gasoline. "But he is just a baby" I plead, pinching an old man's jowl. She is now standing on top of the big toy, fire screeching around her like a jubilant audience. At the bend of her wrist a trickle of gasoline runs down the curly slide, "Dr. Jessup says he is testing you with that face." Her stream reaches the lake of burning rubber that once was a safer alternative and the flames quickly ascend to the base of the crow's nest, "And what if I fail the test? What then?" I look down into my arms and the old man is gently snoring. Night waves hello from across the city and, from the looks of it, L has run out of combustibles. She dabs some of her well-earned sweat with a kerchief I had given for her birthday, "Today was good." she pronounces. I agree in a whisper as to not wake the old man who coos in agreement: a happy family.

Washington Spring

Concentric blossoms
obscure the reflection of
a rippling skyline.

not ill us

Not quite a cuttlefish,
but we can spoon
though I'd need a fork
to get you out of your shell
and a smoke afterwards.

Conflict Resolution

I bought a bowtie for my dog, but there hasn't been any formal occasions lately so it's become sort of an inside joke. I mention it casually over breakfast and he drags his ass across the carpet. He pees all over my sweat pants and I say, "Looks like we're going to the opera".

On Sundays we go to the non-denominational place of worship next to the Wa Wa and hash out our differences by barking at cars through a sound-proof cashier station. Afterward, when we are hoarse and moist with the residue of our anger we get Otter Pops and every time, as I watch him pawing at the wrapper I have a little sad, "Pour it all over me. I was meant to be blue." he seems to say.