How the Hummingbird Got Its Sound

The glassy red feeder is dry, but I fill it up
with my words, ink drying as quickly as liquid sugar
as it permeates upon this page, sticky,
with the sensation of saccharine and empty calories.

There is a corona about my hands as my characters waltz airlessly
through the story, their auras attaining a rose-colored hue
memories of you and I. Even bad times
shade every sentence.

Hummingbirds, zumming across the porch
to sample its sweetness, spanning
galaxies, singing space operas
with the force of their dancing wings.

Han’s Solo Blues (or Delusions of Grandeur)

Am feeling a little

Han Solo

this morning.

 

It’s a bad feeling.

 

Already, there’s

trouble in the cantina,

and a firefight

has broken out.

 

Would love

to get you a passage to Alderaan,

but the hyperdrive

is down,

again,

and my shift doesn’t end until two.