Olive Tree

It's really more like three trees all mashed together. Conjoined triplets stretching out toward auto-trifurcation. Then there's the skin, trying to pull off as well. Leaves crunch on the ground. These trees or this tree, whichever it/they may be, is falling to pieces, and one must wonder if its a defect of the breed. But then it may in fact be an extension of self, the trees make their presence known three hundred miles away with the support of the Santa Ana. Still, the tree looks tired, hunched over and all with ash burnt in from someone's cigarette. They'll say, someday, it fell from weak roots.

a poem about my feet

many pieces of feet
falling about
more red than creamy
and awkward tan lines
so many signs of fashion
scarred into flesh
and all that walking
all that trying to impress
impressed upon the skin
bruised and blistered
and warped nailed in
dirt that won't wash away
callouses and dry patches
creaking toes
anxiety of life
stilled lifed into
peripatetic feet