jam out with your clam out

I started a comic today!

It chronicles a struggling band of shellfish, The Clam Band! That's all I can tell you for now! 

a ghost stood in the pantry

eight feet tall and in full business attire

he peered over the door, solemn and lonely.

no one else noticed so i

busied myself with picking the varnish off the kitchen table

creating wood grain continents to call my own.

i sneeze at least once before going to bed.

dreams of crashing planes and cats that aren't there.

once i was shot and killed on a bus in spain,

i dove into a lake at sunset;

color continuing into water.

and when you slept next to me,

i didn't dream at all.

your sweaty body up against mine;

i couldn't tell if i was asleep or not.

and the next night,

i flew on a magic carpet

to see someone who didn't want to see me.

sheets crumped and pillows askew,

a crack emanates from deep within my spine.

i smile, unable to recall

whether i dreamt of you or whether i lay still

a crow perched on a branch.

smoke seemed to rise from the old shack at the bottom of the hill.

i imagine

antlers spanning four feet

a collection of shotguns lined against the wall

a bearskin rug with decades worth of

dust, grime and decay

and the ghosts of bearded hunters.

the dark green woods hide

empty and unmarked wells,

broken pieces of porcelain.

in the winter every creak is a stone amongst stone

i imagine

long hair

dirty nails

emaciation.

an eye for an eye, but he couldn't even do that

just shout and scratch and disappear.

secrets in a musty barn,

a black cat snuck around our ankles and

between the round bales of hay that we climbed

until our small palms made contact with the smooth beams.

when you speak of gold it turns to coal.

black soot on my hands.

the sight of hay makes me sneeze.

garden pot,

 wine spill on the porch,

basil leaves, the veins lined with dirt.

a pile of

thin, orange spears uprooted and tossed away.

sprout stuck between my teeth--i pick you out with care but my gums begin to bleed.
gingivitis, maybe; i always forget to floss.

or too many cigarettes and not enough citrus:
a modern day case of scurvy.

i hope my breath smells fresh as mown grass,
that it won’t deter your mouth from meeting mine.

yet i don’t miss you, exhaust and gasoline,
even though it’s been a long time since you’ve slept next to me.

these nights i lay spread out,
limbs filling every nook of the mattress.

ten a.m. strikes and bleary, my window view is
brick and six inches of sky.

somewhere i smell crows startling sparrows,
seeds scattered in the lawn.