Walking the Corridor

Stoney Valley A glance over shoulder  Reveals valleys Filled with unturned stones Resting now- Craggy watchers, once tumblers  From the path ahead  To the trail behind Unseen, undigested Until       Until          Untilled Ripe soil sheltered  Where, thought fallow, Mycelium nurtures Sunless patches  Waking now - As I look Away      Away           A way Blinding light Holds less sway. J.M. Rogers 

Foot Dragger  I trip over words  As they slip past lips  Gone numb from mumbling Secrets no one hears, Sprawled on the floor  Every eye averted To spare themselves  The embarrassment of  Knowing, knowing, knowing  That I blunder Through a trance of Nostalgic reveries  And hollow goals, Hopelessly tangled in Thorny desperations  As I continually blurt The snares and tripwires  That will bind me up In perpetuity.  J.M. Rogers

Houses  I feel you peering  Through slanted blinds Eyeing the furniture and walls The flooring and ceilings Your eyes bounce around and see All that there is of me And I wait, Like a good house.  And I wait,  Like a good house While you keep tapping  On my front door  Hesitant to step inside  But I know that look of yours  That sparkle in those amber eyes  So I wait,  Like a good house, So I wait,  For you to choose  These hardwoods floors  Worn, but eager  To bear your stride  Until the years have made You light and frail  And my joints creak on windy days But still I'll be a home for you In my humble way When I am not much to look at  But brimming with love Like a good house,  And so I wait,  For you JMR

 Festival Night     I walked among the festivalgoers, raucous and clad in myriad costumes.  All the celebrants wore black garments making their bodies seem fluid and boneless in the long shadows cast by the weak light of leaning street lamps. The coppery smell of cooking organ meat filled the air, the sulphuric smoke from assorted vendors' trailers polluting the night sky. I could not discern what festival the people were celebrating. The elements I could understand combined the aesthetic of Halloween with the mood of Mardi Gras, creating a fusion that was altogether Bacchanalian. A sexual tension charged the parking lot where they had gathered, with drunken groups of two, three, and four, amalgamating into seething clusters of sloppy kisses and aggressive groping. Those who were not fornicating sat along the edge of the pavement on a long uninterrupted curb that stretched on into nothingness, their mouths agape and drooling as they laughed and leered in manic deligh...

Season’s  Greetings   J.M. Rogers Mac ran an appraising hand over a red gift topped with a glittering, green bow. The wrapping paper was thick and smooth, dyed a deep maroon that was more blood than holly. It crinkled softly beneath his fingers. Under the warm light of the fire, the paper revealed no seams. He had seen such a trick before, but it had been many years ago. A trace of a smile worked at the corner of his mouth and quickly faded.  Gently, he turned the gift over, inspecting every side, but found no tape fastened nor any tuck or fold of paper. The only imperfection was an illegible name scrawled across the top. Mac lifted his eyes and stared longingly at the evergreen that towered over him. Finely crafted ornaments of silver and gold dangled from every branch, and crystal teardrops spun on invisible strings projecting sparkling shards along darkened walls.  Mac returned the gift to its place atop an impeccably stacked tower of presents and glanced ...