soon enough 

in the wake of a full moon the heavens turned a dark hue.
weathermen prophesied; but what could be done?
swollen eyes pleading to the animated sky-
sun, moon and star mobiles spin over empty cribs-
always grasping for something more. 
drawing a circle through space and time-
one line to mark the beginning and the end.
initial inscription entailed,
sea water and cement, a curious pair-
and rain falling, in open air.

how do we cope?
basement level apartments still trying to stay afloat.
in the case of internment, break glass, because third-class is a windowless mirage.
delirious, I suspect icy seas and CCTVs rewired to look introspectively.
interior Peanut city officials muddle words on little screens.
mushroom cloud irises are all I see.
slaughterhouse sheep, poor Shepherd couldn’t bear another starry sleep.
a nice pillow and pad, and a blanket weighing down our chest.
comfortable, counting each shallow breath beside a flickering flame-
losing sleep, over some lost change.

they say it’s one for the ages,
so in preemptive precaution next week’s schedule is a clean slate-
and today, I am free.
today, I am free to watch-
headless city folk tote bags of chicken noodle soup and scented candles, returning to roost in the high rises,
while man on the street prays for dry feet-
to clarify, I have no complaint.

windswept, and wayside.
there is a light in deep indigo.
outstretched arm , upright thumb.
allow yourself to be taken -
by a streetcar named solace.
blooming over blue grasses , 
there is a light ,
hanging above your door.
so, won’t you come in?

hound

I sniffed you out
a thousand miles away

like the dog that I am.

  chasing until it’s forgotten,
A tale as old as time

heading North, heading Home

bright sadness in young Autumn air,
as the snake sheds its skin

for joel

midnight black, silence-
the train tracks shift - a new way!
  the sound of life flows.  

squished butter

     yellow butter-
flies flutter
sunshine wildflower
    90 miles an hour
splatter
   splatter
   faster
        faster...

memory

grappling strung out interpretations
bridging time.
and now,
somehow,
I’ve forgotten,
what to say.

man of stone

a shaking hand
plucks a ripe fig from the branch
and hands it to me
with care

stucco

iron jacket country
blue between green
joy aches beneath the sands

the morning after

  my hands felt heavier today,
more sensative.

I was thinking too much,
about what they can create.