Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Gully-washed desert

the faucet has no tap
it seems, outside the window
'cept for the tapping tap
that raps upon the window pane

the tap has no faucet
it seems, inside the window
turned too tight for leaks
of any drips or spills

Monday, April 25, 2016

Roar of demons

of spiders spinning their aqua webbing
the bowl darkens in their murky satin
of beastly clouds trampling the horizon
roar of demons threatens to flatten

of monstrous conspiracy in heavens above
the hellish electrical gnashing of teeth
of serpent strikes in venomous downpour
roar of demons fall on those beneath

of solar wane and spinning weather vane
the towering leviathans have taken form
of siren calls echoing in the shadowy halls
roar of demons soars throughout the storm

Wednesday, April 20, 2016


taproots of the blacken sky
their march, a route
in chaos kiss of dirt
and stones, the winds
their passion tears
through the fields
the same grass that
tickled their fancy
just the week before

with these passing tendrils
of the clouds, the land
before of the earthen
floor joins in the
vanishing whim

Friday, April 15, 2016

Floatin' 26

floatin' on four rubbers
down the number of an
age I used to be, I'd like to see
with a brain swimmin' in a sea
or drownin' there within
my slish-sloshin' skull

and though my brain may
be sippin' all the numbness
that it can, my eyes are
stranded in the desert lands
as they strain to keep
the open sign lights on
the ache in pain

pass the man who appears
to walk without a head
least that is what I saw
until I passed by him, instead
his look was draggin' on
the ground, that's what I found

floatin' on four rubbers
down a number that's one
greater than a square but one
less than a cube, they say it's true
though my blurry brain has
no way to think it through

the pills await a ways
down the street with ups
and downs through the town
but now I have to pause
for her and him, for both of them
they made the light flash above
'cause walkin' was their whim

floatin' on four rubbers
down a number of two
dozen plus two more, what a bore
but there's branches tearin' skies
flying lovers in bird guise
to please my eye... so very dry

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Rush it, potatoes

pulled from their dark corner
of the house, their wild hair
drapes out of their paper houses

a small closet in the cool
basement is where they simmered
all trough the winter freeze

how they've waited for it
the taste of wet warming dirt
and feel of wriggling worms

the same creepy crawlers
who have lingered in the ice
after feasting on rotting leaves

and they would just as well
dine upon the rotten flesh
of these tubers from the dark

the wild hair is laid into
the trench, tentacles that mimic
the creepy crawling worms

tubers and worms and warmth
reunite in the earth, in the sun
and water soaks them through

Tuesday, April 12, 2016


he sleeps below the sheet of ice
the frozen sight
he claws at to mangle and destroy
his palms open
the adhesive cold holding him there
inevitable stare
into the sight he thrashes again
and again no avail
it is his torment in this icy hell
to face the fear
to dive further into the deepest pain
an acid bath
burns and stabs as the coldest rain
on bare flesh
what his body has been stripped of
his mind shaved
the scab ripped from his very soul
the clay shattered
pieces linger apart and left broken
in stinging frost
under the sheet of ice, sheet of cold

Saturday, April 9, 2016

Five minutes this morning

waiting with the other
turtles in their shells in the dark
in the cold of morning
to tarry as rabbit feet
arrived too soon
or just early enough

I, the eater watch
the texter, the smoker
and the makeup artist
carry on as we tarry
in the dark cold of morning

the texter's face
illuminated blue behind
a window glass and
maybe texting or
something else entirely
which may destroy
her name entirely

the smoker holds
her smoke at arm's length
that juts out a down
window glass and
mimics the shell she
tarries in as it puffs smoke
out its backside

the makeup artist
busies herself with
brushing her blush
with a swift blush brush
in the light of vanity
and her own looking glass
behind a window glass
for an absent audience

I, the eater savor spice
from the sausage buried
amidst an egg I ponder
what precisely is made of
and cheese of which I
question the same
and timidly sip the
boiled brew to open my eyes

first the texter departs
followed by the makeup artist
with I not far behind
while the smoker tarried
still on her break I suppose

Thursday, April 7, 2016

Jargon jaunting: part amoeba

maybe a noble mobile quest
division beyond math
aye, be a global hopeful test
a bold fork in the path

so, be a truthful youthful spin
a hairline fracture shines
and we so fruitful useful twin
when lifeline shatters minds

dreams dreamt in a single cell
greener grass just beyond
gleams glint and mingle well
where more and hope is spawned

a rift, a fit, a split in fact
when one becomes cracked
twas always ayouba and amoeba you know
for atheyba got nothing to show

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

In his name

his name stares at me
from the bumper of the car
in front of me in traffic

a little known savior
to my life this time around
whose sandals were
that of a god's in the
many steps he took

his life too short
so full of many and
many more he never
met this time around

in the red light
his name stares at me
to remind me
it's not written on
any stagnant
moss-collecting stone
but instead speeds by
at seventy five

to remind me his
body doesn't lay
in the cold wet earth
but instead walks on
the Pacific and beyond

to remind me his
heart doesn't rest
but marches to its own
infectious rhythm
as it did and
always will do

his name stares at me
and this time around
I look into the eyes
of a savior I never knew