My rolling stone

My rolling stone

Father and I swam in the red wagon;

“Radio Flyer” we sang on a scarlet day.

Blue-white fluff bricks fell to the

Floor, among the bored boxes.

Still, the strawberries ached of stiff joints

And my wooden table licked the baseball

Bat falling to the ceiling.

Fans blew me against the

Wall covered cobwebs

And hurled soft green oil

At my nose.

The blue barrel

Took up arms against us

When all the wood was cut

And doors, windows and phones were shut.

It won’t be long before

The empty bowelled master

Returns, drumstick in hands

And speaking a language

Only a twin would comprehend.

Orange Haiku

Orange

I

I always get that

white powdery shit beneath

my nail cuticles

II

The mushroom cloud of

mist kicks me in the nose and

I think of breakfast.

III

Seeds dance on my tongue;

acid laughs at my cracked lips

burning paper cuts.

IV

Why didn’t British

sailors choose these instead of

green bumpy skinned limes?