DANCING BLIND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DANCE FLOOR
Bare footed on old linoleum floor
Tapestry music engage my ears (I hear the distance)
I see not but I’m placement mid-center
Of a space placed vivid vibrations flairs (I feel the emptiness)
I slowly spin around, I move to the music
Even in the darkness I’ve rhythm (I smell the panoramic)
My naked feet hear and feels the beat sweet
I can see n mine spirit I dance with the light
(I taste the air, I’ve inhaled, I sense the people stare) {I DANCE}
As my naked feet, legs, tortoise whole body sprite
moves as lighting-bugs in the night
Centered in movement dance steps bright
ViBrAtiOnS feels my steps are not sight
Dancing Without Sight
Contest Winner Medal 2nd Place
Born a runt,
milk-chocolate and bright-eyed,
Fritz von Etgen arrived
with a broken tail
he wagged proudly
before offering his doxie advice.
Outside,
he channeled Dox Quixote,
chasing invisible squirrels
with full-tilt conviction—
a blur of stubby legs
and unstoppable joy.
Inside,
he tap-danced across
Mother’s linoleum floor,
tiny toenails clicking
like a Fred Astaire routine
he never quite mastered.
Half-a-dog high,
a dog-and-a-half long,
he’d race the hallway
and slide out of control—
back end leading the charge
as if it had somewhere urgent to be.
From this small,
big-hearted comet of a dog,
I learned exuberance,
optimism in ache,
and the quiet truth
of love offered without condition.
Fritz taught me
what loyalty looks like
when it has tiny feet
and a tail that never forgot
how to celebrate the world.
Some mornings,
memory returns the way sunlight used to~
slow, golden, unhurried,
slipping through venetian blinds
of a house that always smelled
of black coffee and Mother’s cooking.
I remember the stillness of those early hours,
the way the world felt half-awake,
as if holding its breath before noon crept in.
I recall bare feet on linoleum,
the screen door closing with a gentle click,
the kitchen radio playing rock n’ roll,
its tunes lingering in my memory.
There were gravel roads that knew my name,
porch steps warmed by summer sun,
and sky so wide it felt like a forever promise.
Back then, time moved like a small stream~
steady, certain,
carrying us forward without our noticing
how far we’d drifted.
Now, when memory rises,
it brings the same quiet comfort
as a familiar hymn sung softly~
a reminder that the past never truly leaves.
It lingers,
warm as a hand on my shoulder,
gentle as Mother’s voice calling me home.
The dog's paw clawing on the linoleum,
Restless pacing while the kettle starts to
Activate steam. No, it's not a choir of a
Nimbus of gold, just the unmistakable,
Sudden realization that the sink is leaking
Cold tap water on a Monday morning -
Everything is heavy, until it isn't
Nobody told him that climbing out of
Despair felt like a wet, damp blanket
Eventually hung up to dry by the fire
Now, the prolonged static in the radio clears
Cutting through the kitchen grease
Exposing the manner in which dust settles.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Midnight kitchen glow~
your laughter pools like spilled milk,
warm between cold tiles.
We are all clumsy dancers
in this moonlit ballet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The oven door swung wide,
a blast of cinnamon and fear.
Not for me, not this time,
I was already halfway down the counter,
a sugared leg pumping,
gumdrop buttons bouncing.
Behind me, the screams,
high-pitched, dissolving in the heat.
"He's getting away! Stop him!"
But the rolling pin was too slow,
the spatula a clumsy threat.
We were tired of being eaten.
Tired of the gleeful chomps,
the dunking in lukewarm milk,
the casual decapitations.
We fled,
a sugary stampede,
across the checkered linoleum,
under the looming refrigerator,
a gingerbread exodus,
leaving a trail of crumbs and righteous indignation.
We scattered.
Under the fridge, behind the toaster,
the dusty space behind the washer
plotting a new life,
free from the tyranny of frosting smiles
and the looming threat of milk.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the kitchen at 3 a.m.,
dust motes hang suspended
in a wedge of streetlamp glow.
Grandmother's teacup
rests half-full on the counter,
steam still coiling upwards
though she left thirty years ago.
The linoleum remembers.
I stayed in this house,
Where wilted leaves blanket the lawn.
Dust particles dance around the purified air
like the fantasy fairies I imagined when I was young.
The sun rays came from the small kitchen window,
illuminating the metal trash can
filled with rotten foods and faith.
I look up,
breathing the polluted air in and out my flaring nostrils.
I know I cannot stay here.
Its not good for a growing body like mine, I say,
as I lay on the cluttered linoleum floor,
while maggots crawl up my body
and down my spine.
they swagger in badges
hallways of fluorescent lies
drag me by the collar
into their personal theater of power
guns gleam like broken promises
questions barked through gritted teeth
hands cuffed before words finish
justice danced on cold linoleum floors
they say order is sacred
while stomping the petals of freedom
paper walls of our rights
tear under boot heels
every knock at midnight
echoes the guillotine’s whisper
we’re born equal on paper
but in their hands, paper bleeds dry
and still—
we hope for mercy
in the belly of this machine
There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them,
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him naked,
eyes closed while she masturbates.
She wants him to watch her.
She's deathly frightened people will overhear.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking
holding hands until closing time.
One day her bedsit is empty,
she has gone, leaving no note.
On the other side of the city
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
Morality is just a word when you have the cleaver.
Blood seeps into the linoleum like crimson ink.
I'll love you to death, and beyond the autopsy.
Your going to be a masterpiece, the face of darkness.
A houseplant is one of the saddest things I've ever seen.
Loosely rooted in a glazed bowl of nutrient-depleted soil.
Every third day or so, fed plastic cups of fluoridated water.
Enduring nicotine puffs, secondhand sun, forever stunted.
A withering witness to squabbles and suffering.
Violent deeds and sudden ugliness of human beings.
Praying for sunshine- force-fed shadows.
Wishing for a fairy on a breeze
but whiffing only shiny linoleum
bargain coffee and bacon grease.
A houseplant is one of the saddest things I've ever seen.
an open channel to everywhere, here
a flickering screen
a faded dream
a memory of color
a monochrome world
antennas reach
skeletal hands clutching for the sky
grasping at echoes
all lost in transmission
a spectral ballet on the cracked linoleum
a faded warmth of memory
as embers die in ashes
open channels hum…
Henri Matisse's Studio
Scattered about like fish in a pond
are paintings and objects in a secluded room
in a sea of red, shouting out loud,
“Connoisseurs please enter, others not welcome.”
The pink studio expresses acceptance
of chic bourgeois realism, reinforcing boredom
with sunlight streaming through the window
and a welcome mat lying on the linoleum.
The colour-contrast room interiors
accentuate artworks during creative years
of avant-garde innovations
that have captured an audience’s attention.
One version is neat and tidy, and the other chaotic,
peering into one and looking out from the other,
revealing Matisse’s mind in motion
from realism and post-impressionism to Fauvism.
I'm willing to worship
Any girl that calls me a name other than disgusting
The world is progressive
But it has not moved forward
I turn to face the linoleum, saying,
"Oh the ceiling is looking mighty fine today"
And then they squeal
"Ew, she's looking at me!"
Report me to the principal if you dare
I dare you to be outed
And still have to show up to class every day
I leave the locker room
Gym shorts and ugly gray t-shirt
Covering up the undeserved shame I feel
I'm just focused on trying to make the volleyball team
I'm not worried about how high you're hiking up your shorts
It doesn't make you look cool
Oh, and Josh, I talked to him
He doesn't like you
I hope your Christian parents
Can see how you dress when they aren't there to check in the morning
Putting on mascara that's full of vulgarity
And misleading phrases
Your pretty polished faces made middle school living torture
I should have stayed in the closet
Instead of coming out for you
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