It’s been a while; nay, a millennium!, since I’ve posted. Here’s my attempt to get my head, more literally, back in the writing game.


My forehead expands
outward, to be tamed by a belt
or the headband equivalent
as long as it’s tight, tight, tight
and keeps the head from reaching
too big a girth—
a head so big
it gives birth
to more than just ideas or actions.

Satisfaction in the simple,
beauty in a pimple
or a mole,
a face with holes,
but head so whole,
the mouth is leaking—

metaphorically speaking,
of course.

Your voice too hoarse,
you speak with your eyes,

drinking in the world.
Window to the soul.

The cliché holes
for finding true love.

And when your forehead reaches out,
bangs like a wig,
too big, big, big
for its headband britches.
The head constantly bitches,
“I’m hurt.”

And you sing songs that bring the mirth,
laughing as your head
shrinks down.

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