Before the day begins…


At the edges I see the darkness.

Not fading

not gloom

but darkness.

Silent

walking like cat so

you can’t hear it.

You know it is there.

Pointing at you

from the shadow.

There just around the edges.

Trapped

I heard the darkness breathing.

It is there.

One bulb

its light spreading as if a liquid

pushing against the hard formed darkness.

Yes it is there.

I feel the edges of its quiet.

I feel the sound of its consumption.

It wants everything

this darkness there.

As if I was a pop tart

fresh from the toaster

gone before the day begins.

 

Sandler Boggs

Your stop is the next stop.


To be punctual.

On time.

Right there.

The clock not yet aware

that itself late

hadn’t ticked,

or tocked.

A wind up monkey in the corner.

Cymbals clashing with the room.

Noise bursting

filling

leaving only empty chairs.

Sorry, sorry, sorry

time around them

flowing like a mountain river.

The fresh melting snow

glistening as it

turns to doom.

Rushing down a mountain

covering the clanging monkey.

In the end

full

the cymbals crashing

until the water covering them

creates so much friction they stop.

It means nothing in the end.

A tale uttered.

A song sung blue.

Nothing.

If only punctuality were a noun.

 

Sandler Boggs

I was sure I heard a voice there…


The whispers all around

like saw grass

cutting and pulling

at the skin

until

mis-formed

it sloughs off.

Free

for a moment.

But the whispers

just the around the edges

there behind the busy buzzing hive

and with the

ladies drinking Champaign

you can hear it.

You can hear them.

In the hallway

the men stand around

arguing Brady vs. Montana

the Champaign glasses

whisper

sliding

you can hear it?

There in the moment

trapped between what was

and what could be

there.

You can hear it?

Or have tinny ears

quit this season

and left for home?

 

Sandler Boggs

Inside the Salamanders Mind…


There by the edge of what

is now the base

of what is now

a bridge

was the salamanders home.

A single rock

that leaned just right

leaving a space between

the rock

and another rock

The perfect home

for little salamanders to

scurry safely away from snake’s

and turtles.

You could

the salamander once said

stay in a million rocks

and never again find home

perfect

but now gone.

The base of the bridge rising

into the air.

In the salamanders head

the bridge

on where his home was

matters little

as he scurries quickly to avoid a snake

and the always watchful turtle.

home is now not as nice

a tighter fit

and so much less secure.

But it is home.

and not a bridge rising into the air.

 

Sandler Boggs

Alone again with our thoughts…


In the desert wind

that chafes

the sand finding holes in clothing

to sandblast

exposed skin

and.

Raw we turn

the corner to find the mirage

it is still there

as it was before.

A bar rising

from the desert sand.

Flashing neon lights

and a picture of Frank Sinatra

adorn the wall

that is a sand dune.

“I’ll have a camel back please”

and the bartender brings

the camel closer

the back pressed against the sand dune

knocking the picture of Frank Sinatra askew.

“and you sir”

“I’ll have a sandtini”

perhaps then the chafing

will stop.

As the mirage fades

and we are along again with our thoughts.

 

Sandler Boggs

Like rain against a tin roof…


`To hear

as if the world now two

three steps further away

and in hushed tones speaks

quietly

looking away

lips moving at an angle

nothing.

Moving

at times the sound

pops like plastic wrapping bubbles

bursting outward

with an explosive moment

of sound.

Then gone

you turn to where the sound

came from

with nothing there.

Dust

it

is

hollow.

Tinny perhaps

an echo

not what it was

stereo and full

but less now

tinny

tiny

a small bit of sound

that swirling around

goes the other way.

in the quiet

we are all alone.

 

Sandler Boggs

The eyes have it…


The eyes have

a subtle quiet imploring

ask.

Now please

paw outstretched

today?

If it were a question

tin ears

would not hear

but tugging

the heart

yes it hears the question.

I am not Ozymandias

stone

heartless

standing at the edge of a vast desert

I feel the eyes.

No rest

its time

its time

they say

or the paw reaches out

its time

the gentle smack

a remdiner

and then

it is time.

Time spent

playing

eyes

no longer imploring

but lite up

like Christmas trees

happy for another day.

Another chance to play.

 

Sander Boggs