Sunday Whirl – Hellhound

The sharp piercing of my right arm told my mind the snarling small dog was a problem. I flailed after I saw him. My car waited with a bar in the trunk. His haul of flesh will leave a scar. But soon I’ll treat him apart, casting him upon a hearth of his Hellhound brethren.


Sunday Whirl – The Music Lesson

Defenseless teeth feel like they are abut to shatter. The crescendo of the trumpet playing shrill excuse for the right note brings blood to the edges of my ears. Birds rattled by the electrifying noise bare their tail feathers leaving for land of milk and honey. The gravity of lack of talent starts to weight against the monetary gain.

Sunday Whirl – Desert Walk

Sands follow the boundless wind. The sound of madness powers past me. The urge to shout battles memory of the taste of the desert. At least, I can miss hunger.

Sunday Whirl – Prayer for Change

My rasping voice becomes hazy. Words folded like frozen route fall. Outside the crazy place designated home, I watch for the holy Saint Poverty to leave. The winds gusts across barren earth. Prayers fail to find ears.

Sunday Whirl – Message

The truth bends like a message missing ink. Gentle spin was supposed to put doubt in a distant row. The debris of my spectacle scattered about a post in mint shape.

Sunday Whirl – Rainy Days

A cold, dense rain tramples the magic of a sunny day. The cat takes aim dangerously at my twitching hand. Weather holds today’s tale ransom while change waits patiently elsewhere.

Sunday Whirl – Jack Frost

I question the sanity of my shady game of chicken with January. The gravity of situation figures to assemble a list of things taken. Superstition of Jack Frost told in ice grains on my skin.

Sunday Whirl – Logic

The silver light tells that nothing exists as the middle seam holding this illusion together. Mighty rumors swing like vines ditching warnings of why and how. No wonder logic seats lost here.

Sunday Whirl – Caught in a Web

“Tina?” I question her feigning shock.

The word like a shard of broken glass on the tongue. Slippery, like the truth, time chains me to the moment. My mind runs for greener grass. But the screen I use for reason, fails to catch what I need to escape.

Sunday Whirl – Lonely Thoughts

If escapes exist they would drive wishes to compose a thank you song. The party sounds thirsty to be joined pushes other to attend.