Paul believed he gave himself away.
He sold himself to the highest bidder.
It felt good.
His body reacted without thought.
He thought if only he opened a window.
He thought if only he spoke.
A typed sentence of reason
rotated swiftly like a jump rope
like a string in theory
creating a sphere.
Paul had no memory of the evening.
He after-tasted words in his mouth.
Like shoe leather on his tongue.
Like dirt and sea making a salt marsh.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney
Lori carried a dust buster
as if it was a six-shooter in a holster.
Whenever she was around rude people
she quick-drew the dust buster
and sucked their ill tempered words
out of the air.
This earned Lori baleful gazes
from those rude people
who wanted their words to land
a knockout punch.
Lori had no trouble with this consequence
but wished to learn
how to empty her dust buster
so it was not a lumbering B-52
dropping its payload
in her trash bin with the city logo.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney
Paul is about to speak.
Surprise takes him.
It places a black hood over his head.
It shoves him in a getaway car.
Paul’s words stand in the queue.
They are ready to be uttered.
They do not understand the delay.
They are unsure what to do next.
Surprise sends me a ransom note.
The note sets a sum for Paul’s words.
The note states nothing about Paul.
It ends with the word Scream in a Halloween font.
I was not really listening to Paul.
He took too long assembling his words.
I had drifted into a replay of a Cubs game.
Bottom of the ninth. Winning run on third.
The sum was small enough,
I would pay to have Paul back.
But not just his words.
What was Surprise thinking?
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
I stumbled on a tree root.
All my words fell out of my mouth.
All of them. The seldom used ones too.
Blanket, forget-me-not,
moon and trademark
stuck to my left arm.
They sunk below my skin
to become tattoos
in search of colors other than black.
Working late into the evening,
I picked up most of my vocabulary,
fearing a frost would wither my words.
Squirrels scurried over to the spill
and took words away
to bury them for a winter cache.
I cannot name
a single nut type anymore.
Or what it is that encases its edible kernel.
The tree roots soaked up many words.
The tree now pleads with me
when I trim its branches.
While relaxing in its shade,
the tree tells me how it feels
about squirrels.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
There are mountains.
They will not always be there.
Nor will love or blood.
Leaving is a constant state, so stop holding on.
If I understood how to be larger than myself
exile, death, and heartbreak would not affect me so.
A single hand clenches rage in a fist.
Two hands bowled fill with prayer and offering.
I cannot take back what has been said
or offer what has been unsaid for too long.
History is a human construction
made of words and interpretation.
Remember that. Words. And interpretation.
I urge you to write your own story. Win or lose.
I am leaving, now. I follow the mountains.
I use two hands to wave goodbye.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 