Drought

Breathe, brother breathe.
Forget, friend forget,
Death the wretched mess.

Wind of heaven and earth
Caress mist in trail and palm,

Give Birth----
Give Death
A tailored song.

Mourn, mother mourn.
Shed, sister shed,
Even the rivers end in drought.

Loose pockets quickly fill
With lost breath,
Tears
Fall
Swift
Upon the floor,

Too smoothly to catch.

Whether Prediction

the rain outside has dropped off, floating,
releasing cold miniature castles that is the
crumble beneath my feet.

My sneakers are like boats.
If I knew I’d have to swim I would
have dove collarbone swoop,
shift-like in essence.

Would have flung stars into
the clouds to burst my existence
in this short time of knowing.
You stand, like the unknown soldier

that walks in place, expressionless,
feeling what has happened in the storm
that creates your desires…
and shatters them.

Old Man River's Sunday Drive

I

There was a faded, restless note
On the rear of a handicap soccer mom van:
“Have you been saved from your sins?”
I thought I was saved by my sins.
It makes me climb from
The ladder, away from the smoke.

I could tell he was ‘saved.’
He saw more than evil.
Preaching of holy water instead of
Molasses.
I asked the gentleman how
He grows his grass so green?
He plants his fences without barbed
Wire and out of glass,
To be seen from
Battlefields.

“See my scars?” he asks.
“I see the Pearly Gates in your scars,” I say.
I wonder if he’s happy.
I wonder if there’s freedom in driving
With mouths…
You can say so much more.








II


Ten million gunshots ring out.
I can see the bullets and shells,
How he pierced my vest like digging
Through the earth to
Get to somewhere
Hopeful.
Honk your horn if you’ve ever
Been loved
By something bigger than
What you have been before.

Old Man Hoot Owl River Rat
Remembers swimming.
He remembers, but sheds
To oceans when he knows children
Can still do this now.
They kick when they laugh,
As if they were in dirty bathtubs.
He used to laugh when
He kicked as if he would break
Water molecules like
Eggshells because he knows
Humor only gets you so far,
Unless you flail like
A child again.




III


GOD DOES NOT EXIST.
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha—
If he does, it’s Hoot Owl,
River Rat,
Old Man River,
Stitched up soul reviver,
Bumper-sticker-holy-war-winner.

I’d pray to him,
Why not?
If he can run risks with minivans,
I can stretch my skin
Around thunderstorms and
Call them lightening bugs.
He’s lived most of his
Life barely living it,
I’d pray to him.

Ache

Tonight the porcelain lovers of chirp stare from the ash and gossip

I do not hear them sing the soft hymn of my solitude. My weary eyes rest like

worked hands of labor. The dance of my cigarette asks for one more as I pace

between trance like Chinese fire drills The fan is always on and there are far

too many empty chairs in the kitchen.

Why the City Library Sleeps

The Industrial colossal canyon
Creeps within wires,
And the kids whisper without lips.
Words bleed ink-driven souls
Between lightning bolts.
Books are stolen while the lights
Go out;
This is why the city library sleeps.


It does not know of dreams or
Nightmares, but shakes dust from
Hourglass houses.
The candles have all burned their
Welcome with rushing cold wind;
Computers tear light from throats,
The way we breathe around corners,
Like ripping roadmap shortcuts
From veins of fingers on keyboards;
This is why the city library sleeps.


The clouds wrinkle rain to exude
Upon windows of laptops,
Like pebbling teardrops gathering
On eyes of people who have
Forgotten to forgive, or
Condensation of memories collected
On rearview mirrors because young
Lovers have forgotten to remember
To look back; or like eyes of spiders.
This is why the city library sleeps.


The city library does not speak.
It listens to tomorrow but has
The past written in stone.
The library knows not of
Wishes, but preaches values
From rooftop churches, bells
Ringing for hopes of people
Who listen without judgment.
Telephone towers trace languor
Children and shake couch pillows;

T h is C it y S
Is w hy Li b L
T h e Rar y E
E
P
S .

The Tired Sea

The depth weeps rippled riddles,
Laughing 'neath midnight skies;
She entangles beating hearts
And wraps them in blue.

She dreams of breathing shivers,
Exhaling lonely 'goodbyes';
She unravels vibrations of kisses,
Jai vu zem bocu. (I love you very much)

Gusts of wind to the depth she whispers,
Flowing through rolling tides;
She absorbs dreams of sails
And leaves them askew.

The depth is silent as bellows whither,
And simmers to the world's demise;
She inhales the sky as her keepsake,
All is none but true.

The Unbalanced Palace, for Lewis Carrol

"Wear yourselves ragged!!" the King of Kings shouts,
Curls himself in satin while others simply pout.
"We have no food nor water nor taste,"
cries the young, old and stout,
The King yells, "Care do I not, you must make haste,
scurry to your quarters before I put you out!!!!"

And so the peasants ran, buried under the shadow of the castle,
they eat what they can, something for their hunger battle.
Sick of wrath and furry, the next day they plan,
for the they shall be the jury,
when the King's head lay in their hand!