Yellow peeling paper
With edges burnt and purple.
He said he wasn’t driving here.
He said he wasn’t him.
He said I wasn’t made of light.
Or dark
Or anything at all
Except for something he said
In a French accent
“Bon chance”
Whatever that means.

A grin which broke the drought
Like the upper layer of snow,
Which crumbles at a touch,
Brought rain as if the farmers…

If only they had asked!

The crack of thunder,

The peal of voices,

Pull out from the drive in theater.

With no one aware,

Nothing aware,

I recede into my own thoughts

Of a creek through the woods

And birds singing blues

And leopards who think of tiger stripes.

A beautiful meadow

Laid to rest by the power of nature

Encompassing all.

And each grain of sand

In all the deserts

Contain only nothing at all.

I step from my process

And into the void of accepting everything

As passing by.

I strip myself of clothing,

That coarse and final skin.

Ashamed of my old patterns,

The fabric’s rather thin.

But once the frost comes falling,

Like bullets from God’s gun,

I eagerly await my coat

To cover everyone.

For brains are so much silly things

To think they’ve always won,

And break down as the midnight moon

Comes sailing past the sun.

I spear my dreams with bayonets

And hope they don’t return.

In place I guard my only hope,

The autumn leaves will turn.

In search of some more

He washed Father’s floor

And never knew what he could be.

So green like a Raven

He left from his haven

And followed his nose to the sea.

But all of a sudden

A babe from an oven

Wrestled his mind back from free.

The stars are tigers
Lying in wait for their turn to burst
And shower down to earth.
Where they are worshipped
For the flowers in their eyes.
Always on the verge
Of something
Tasting of discovery
And maybe glory,
Whatever flavor they incite
And leave behind.
But in the meantime,
They wait and worship
Us with their incessant watching.

Obsession,

Like salmon up the stream,

Or should I say dedication?

In a nation of accomplishing

ASAP (!),

When am I allowed to float

On my back

On the surface

of some body of water?

Or should I file my taxes

Before I forget and

Forgive me for acting

Against Washington.

He died because he didn’t want a common cold.

How efficient.

---

Have you ever forgotten your glasses

At dawn

And witnessed the beauty of the world

All fogged up,

And simpler?

 

I set out to construct 9 Horses.

To protect them from discovery,

I wrapped their parts in clear

     Plastic wrap and pushed them into

7 Potholes. Left to the elements

for 5 Days, I returned to find them grazing

    on Asphalt.

 

For teeth they misused what I had intended for their hooves.

Their diamond plated jaws shone only when they masticated upon the underlying, ancient City.

Memories churned through priceless ambition.

 

My pride in their construction was washed away by fear.

For manes, they’d shared 3 Plastic bags

from a nearby convenience store.

Their eyes were beer bottles full of whiskey rage.

I stepped back onto the curb and wept for the gentle souls inside.

 

Forgive the world or blame it for taking my graceful dreams and filling them with sand,

Blood-stained asphalt, grease, and disease.

I drew them in with loving tongue-clicks. They still could hear.

I stroked their cardboard skin and piece-by-piece tore them apart.

 

When I was left with the soul of

A single Dirty horse, I left the city,

and he followed me.

I can hear him, faintly, right behind my left eye.

Dreams come quickly

With their pounds

Of worry

Adventure

And fear.

Chased by anthropomorphized

Daylight somethings.

What gives them power

At night?

What makes them matter

Other than your mind?

Neither created

Nor destroyed

But somehow changed

Shifted like water to snow

And back again.

If strength is a muscle

They’re stealing yours,

And you wake up

Cold sweating

With sore arms and

Hearts.

I’ve been awake too long

To believe in the day and the night

And the way that we worship them

Like a God, we say that that day is good.

Nothing good happens after 2 am.

Doesn’t the sunrise come just a few hours later?

Your daily reawakening to the world of color.

And your first cup of coffee?

I know smiles that only come out at night.

Aren’t we blinded by the light of the day?

Lovely,
I’ve stolen you from thoughts
And steeled you
And felt you into a plaster mold
Because I felt the need.
Once you noticed,
You bent sticks onto you arms,
With your eyes closed,
And even after apologizing,
You continued with a straight tall
Beech.
With the aide of your teeth,
You tore the bark right from
Its white blood from the depths
While I forgot to breathe.
We can take turns,
I suppose.
Submerged beneath of the water

Of this damn atmosphere.