The Anesthetizing Rhythm of Spreadsheet Amnesia

There's blood pouring on my keyboard.
I've picked the scabs covering my finger nails,
Exposing the meat beneath them,
And releasing…

I'm letting the dead skin cells collate
On the touchpad, my finger print
Being worn away as I rub the cursor
Over it.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Fog

We strain ourselves,
staring at the sparsely
lit sky,
its gambogian stars
dimmed against a gauzy,
pre-morning fog—
yet, hope might glimmer
like the annulate
smears
which corona each faded
speckle
in the witching hour's
slowly billowing
fumage.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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The Architect's City at a Glance

Through the intellectual fog
That separates
The night through which I'm parting
And the morning that has yet to arrive,
I find a city contentedly dozing
Amid a quilt of brightly colored fields,
And, for a moment, the passing glimmer of it
Cloaks my eyes.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Atlas Hands

I look at my atlas hands.
They make my skin a fleshy map
Divided by a blue tangling of veins.
Blood flows through them—
In almost symmetrical estuaries
That flood my palms with a red warmth.
I notice it for the first time
As I take my fingers and spread them out to sea.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Rough Gem

You're
The nub
That remains
After the leg
Has been forcefully
Amputated. You feel
The ghost of your former self
Twitch sometimes, stretching to move,
But there's nothing really there.
You can't stand. You can't hold
Yourself up when you
Begin to fall.
You're injured.
You're a
Wound.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Cancelled Flights

The tourist that no longer dreams
Sees his destination prior to arrival
Or prior to the inception of his journey—
The sharp futility of steel structures
And glass shards, crystal rain
Tearing through the sapphire sky,
Leaving a tear,
A hole in his
Celestial tarpaulin.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Let's Make Sandwiches

Lately, I've been hungry,
Starving to have my fill,
So let's make sandwiches.

All upset and angry,
Empty stomachs seem ill,
So let's make sandwiches.

If our tastes would agree,
I'd be ready to grill,
So let's make sandwiches.

We could enjoy our food,
The flavors we've pursued,
So let's make sandwiches.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Lamentable Decisions for a Vegan

While shopping,
I went to the bathroom, but
Before washing my hands, I
Found that their soap was
Scented by honey
And contained animal
By-products.
Now, I'm standing
In front of the sink,
Deliberating about
Which code of ethics
Is better for me to break
In the moment.
Choices, choices.
Why must I have these choices?

poem by Tim Stensloff
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We Let the Illness In

At first, we both make contact
With mucus membranes,
And we let the illness in.

The fevers we may contract
Fester in our brains,
And we let the illness in.

We won't know how to react
While writhing in pain,
And we let the illness in.

Yet, such is the fate we pick,
Choosing to be sick,
And we let the illness in.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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A Card Trick

It's like magic—
The way that a shuffling card moves.
It's like magic,
A spectacular parlor trick,
The way a two of hearts removes
Itself from the stacking deck's grooves.
It's like magic.
By sleight of hand,
The illusion almost seems clear
To understand
‘Til the fantasy disappears.
Like magic, it will disappear.

poem by Tim Stensloff
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