About jftoomey

I'm many things, among which is a linguist, a therapist, a scientist, a business owner, a student, a traveller, a dreamer, a poet, a friend, a dog lover, and I'm sure other things that I'd rather not mention here.

Dry Ice

the cold hard facts!
– like dry ice, but
set you free
like a moth to a flame
the cold hard facts!
– like dry ice, but
set you free
like a moth to a flame
– like dry ice, but
set you free
like a moth to a flame
the cold hard facts!

Her Tell

Eyes squinting like a cat’s

she stares cold friendly daggers

with a hint of curiosity
 in my direction

– as if my nose
 had a bull’s eye

painted on its tip

knees crossed

pinched like the ends of clothes pins

her right foot flails nervously

a twitching tell

from right to left
, from left to right

in fast-moving nervous micro-fits

as if her traitorous ankle

had no anatomic connection

to its long silent leg

by the old wooden desk

she stares a dare

to cross her

Leaving me spooked

I avert her glance
with a dry
painful smile
stretched tight across my teeth 

Managing to mask my focus
on her mesmerized state

I ask myself:

What long stormy hair

could possibly have triggered

this unworldly eerie
 trance ?

Lately I feel Lost in Space

when it comes to making a decision.
it’s become a dizzying prospect
choosing from the cyber space
supply of options
in this labyrinthine
LED blue light
robotic world
– makes my head spin,
like that tunneling
black & white
holy commercial
hypno spiral
on the 4 o’clock
pre-dinner episode of the
intrepid, but closeted
silky black & yellow
caped crusader couple,
or that spinning
prize wheel
on the 7 o’clock
postprandial episode
of Vanna White
Pat Sajak and their


Giddy for Beachside Storm Surge Fun

must be some kind of

initiation right,

a hazing ritual when



Seavees cemented in place

tethered to a cord

in category 5

hurricane winds

don’t blow away,

or at least sideways

like the violently

undulating background

hair-on-fire royal palms

howling ¡mayday!

the laws of physics

seem suspended when

the singular results of

cyclonic centrifugal forces

are simply sopping-nylon-


messy manes on talking heads

filled with hot air

and unintelligible news-

worthless babbling like

drunken beachside

wet t-shirt