Category: Poetry

October 22 2002

After breakfast, in my silly slippers and cotton pajamas,
I shuffled out into the cold of morning to retrieve my mail.
Among the coupons I’ll never use and advertisements I’ll never read,
Was a letter with a smiley face where the return address should have been.

Starting to shiver slightly, I opened it,
And though my nose was retreating from its duties in the cold,
Artificial coconut spewed from the envelope
And nostalgia dropped twenty bucks in my pocket.

I find the letter to be from an old high school buddy,
With his trademark talent for observing the obvious, he writes,
“Here’s a picture of me when I was younger.”
And I think, aren’t they all? Boy, it’s cold.

Working my way through the wordy letter,
I felt like I was trying to finish a cough drop.
At first it seemed interesting and personal,
But it quickly became sugar-coated medicine.

Still standing half-dressed, and beginning to freeze completely,
And having to read lines like, “carefully layered, haphazardly tousled,
And loaded with sex appeal,”
It became increasingly hard to maintain my interest

Eventually, my teeth began to chatter,
And after reading, “create the illusion of having broad shoulders
By developing those muscles,”
I lost interest.

Maybe because the letter had no personal meaning,
Or maybe because it was cold outside.
Or maybe it was the pajamas.

October 15 2002

I find a nice park bench to rest for a moment,
While the ambience of the city roars all around me.
Here in the shade, near a busy playground,
My mind goes idle, and I open my treat.

The soft brown cube disappears in my mouth:
The warm, buttery sweetness of creamy, melted caramel.
My tongue is bathed in the edible sensation.
I savor it only a moment before
A rebellious tooth, uncomfortable with the indulgence,
Begins a revolt that starts in the back alleys of my mouth.

Migrating through the multitudes of microorganisms,
The blackness of injury spreads through my head.
In no time at all, the bacterial villains
Minuscule jackhammers that they are
Might chip away at all of my teeth,
Drastically reduce my eating options.

I need a bucket, or a glass, or even a drop of water,
To wash away this troublesome crew.
I need anything that will work to rid my mouth,
Of this practically invisible, self-operational,
Disgustingly beautiful, microscopic scum.

October 8 2002

I imagine the Cosmos, infinite and remote.
I reflect on our sun, the perfect planetary host.
I consider our world, the pale blue home of the Earthlings,
I think of this forest, and of this path I tread.

Intentionally lost among Appalachian giants,
I wander a chaotic, forkful path.
Willfully losing myself in the grandeur,
I grow hyper-aware of these ancient plants.

Standing in the middle of an empty space,
I am surrounded by five spruce guardians, their branches interlinked.
I wonder what their purpose could be,
And hear the reply from my ancestor’s voices.

These trees provided the ancients with a place to perch
Tens–hundreds–thousands–of generations before me.
A place to develop their growing brains,
And to expand their busy minds.

Perhaps these trees were arranged this way,
A sign of the next step in the Ancient’s evolution.
Once they understood the Father of Light,
And the Seasons, they began to see the pattern.

A new ability was given to them, and therefore to us,
As the passing of the years no longer went unnoticed.
With the knowledge of Mother earths regularities,
They could plan a time for planting and harvest.

The source of the river is an incandescent ball.
Energy flows constantly, carefully harvested here by leaves.
Generations of creatures, divert the flow,
Creating living tributaries with every bite.

October 1 2002

One sock, two sock,
Red sock, blue sock.
What the hell? That’s not a pair.
Shorts, shirts, pants and underwear.

After work on my neighbor’s Sabbath
Is my time to unwind and relax my mind.
I stretch and I fold,
I smooth and I sort,
I bring order to the bedlam.
The only thing…to interrupt me…

…an unruly yawn.

I think I could’ve been a jazz musician
If only I really wanted to.
But, there was that need to practice,
Which was something I found I could never do.
Yet here I sit, expertly arranging my shirts,
As I often do, with strange care and determination
Half-minded and unconscious, like a professional.
I am the Master of the Underwear,
An outfit origami artiste.

Everyone does this sort of thing,
Or, at least, I think they should.
Most of us are devoid of a maid,
Or a friend, or a lover, that can or would.
Just imagine–right now, throughout the world–
Hunks and hotties are kneading their knickers.
Nuns and politicians even do it,
Unlike the bees, who would if they could.

Now I must stop, for my wife is staring…

September 24 2002


Today in the park, I watched the denizens of my town,
Going about their business, about their day.
I noticed a massive woman scolds her minuscule daughter.
Her voice was firm and serious, but clearly full of love.
Then later, a man with gold chains barked at his wife,
And her posture alluded to unknown dangers.
A policeman (sans hat) chases a boy, and quickly
Catches him cowering beneath a peach blossom.
I saw a large dog, with its master in tow,
And I single the pair out; the man and his owner.
Its salmon tongue flaps, its chocolate fur glistens.
The chain of freedom clinks as it drops to the ground;
The sound signals freedom for him to run around.
It barks and bounds away from its master,
It spins in wide circles, faster and faster.
Suddenly, the pleasant scene hypnotizes me,
And thrown into memory–a long lost dream.
I think of my friend Aisha, now laid to rest,
And of the morning I awoke to a serious test.
I found her beside the road, whining, weak, and bleeding.
But, a warm wave of calm caressed my mind then.
I told her not to worry, and let my healing begin.
Once on the counter, where we cooked many a meal
I washed her wounds with oatmeal soap, and said a silent prayer.
She watched me with strangely glazed eyes, and I said, “Don’t you dare.”
I felt her soft, warm tongue on my hand, saying, “thank you-goodbye”
A bark–back in the park–strikes me with a pang of hurt.
Curiosity abounds in the pup’s young and expressive face,
And he tilts his tiny head, and looks about his place.
The man understands his companion’s look: “I think, therefore I am.”
I regard this human-canine pair, so different from the others.
They seem more at ease than the cops, husbands, and mothers.
The dog’s chocolate coat is healthy; his master’s is dusty and drab.
But, both of them are smiling, and playtime is winding down
They sit happily together, and their happiness erases my frown.

September 17 2002

i have an endless number of names throughout the ages
whatever my nom de plume, i am the author of insanity
inside the minds throughout all of time and space
and now i will vindicate the credenda of sages
bringing forth a deadly agent, bred by humanity
weed out the weak willed, and restart the human race

perched on a wire, i am the Raven with Furious eyes
i quietly observe a hapless service station, with its regulars
assiduously sloth-like, unaware that fate barrels toward them
tragic people, in a desolate town, slowly rotting away in a tainted age
the world is tainted, illumination would be unnecessary
i will do it in secret, my way, starting today

rain rolls off my feathers, a moment of dread settles over me
i give it little thought, i ignore such-prognostications
this is humanity’s baptism, and i am preparing it for the afterlife
in a contemporary chariot of a hundred horses comes the Homo campion
easily spooked, he now carries a certain little something in his blood
he brings the sickness across this country, this nation, this world

soon hospitals will be saturated by the sick
waiting rooms around the world will serve
as makeshift churches and bus stops to the afterlife
the sick are there for a reason, yet there is no reason to be there

flesh, my metaphor metal, makes me think of busy stations
people in a hurry honking and cussing, speeding and rushing
waiting for their turn seems to be a trick
all of them have come to see the professional
the doctor will poke and twist, prod and test
they thank him, pay him, leave him, and still they are sick

the impatient will demand attention-Stat!-
the classic will swallow an innocuous pill, all is well
the resilient wallow in their own misery, misery
truly, it matters not what rituals they perform
they swell, and their starving bodies will leave only bones
those who survive will remember it vividly

my mind laughs, but my throat says caw!
i see fortunate few wandering this torn land
this united nation has been-divinely-separated
my legion of fearful minions, their legion of weakling lambs
we will reside in Cibola, our western desert island
they will exist near a painted red rock-let them

then the true epic will begin, in a once sinful city
and likely, that is where it will end
they will see my one true face with crystalline lucidity
and that is when i make my stand

September 10 2002

The Community

Here on our island in the middle of the Sea,
My ninety-nine siblings and I live as kin.
We are raised together as a family
Taught only of love, and rarely of sin.

We all have one Father and no mother
But we know we were made from one.
He is the creator of this place and of us,
And we love him dearly for it.

Our home is a gorgeous and virgin place,
Our minds are free from outside influence.
We were once children of the human race
Today we exist out of providence.

It has been said that we children shall have
All that our humble hearts can desire.
Under His care, guidance, and protection,
We will avoid the fate our parents did not.

Prophecy is a powerful thing,
And even here it has spoken.
One bright day, Something will arrive
To stir up conflict and create disorder.

We are separated from the dangers of Zion
By an endless sea, which keeps us from our evil dreams.
But now, dark storms are building on the horizon;
I believe they are omens of impure schemes.

At the end of Harvest, some of us run around naked,
Others make love or play around in the sand.
It is ritual, which like the sun, maintains tradition.
The festivities culminate in the Mass Feast,
Where we gather and eat like a family.

But Metis and Tantalus, with their bold new philosophies,
Claim to re-discover the whole world each and every day.
The way they speak of how all this proceeds
And I am fearful something dreadful is on its way.

September 9 2002


We ride this world, an island of the cosmos
Which falls forever towards our sun.
We’re perched on the cosmic beach
Poised to hold on to one.

The jet-black dome is alive with light
Ancient energy illuminates the night.

The sky is worthy of Heaven,
Graced by the upstart Sisters of Seven,
With the Hunter, who kneels to Rigel.
Their home, noxious, worthy of Hell.

I am overwhelmed by the terrific size
The universe appears to be endless.
But the opportunity is free, and available to most
Though some will shy away in fear.

Serious Sirius with mighty Aphrodite
A cosmic dance, eons old.
Here I am, a simple mortal
Allowed to glimpse at history untold.

Unseen hands, reaching from Arcturus
Fields of gravity arc to us
And we feel the pull in our Sol.
The Mother has perpetual control.

September 5 2002


Speaking English is not hard
Though one could hardly tell.
Just walk this nation, from coast to coast
And you’ll experience linguist’s Hell.

In one place, a metaphor
Would make but perfect sense.
But then there’s the misunderstanding
That makes the mood too tense.

When in Rome, speak like Texans
It’s possible to start a fight.
Whether or not, it’s what you mean,
You may not say it right.

September 4 2002

The hunter crouches beside a desolate road
Watching as the entourage drives by.
He fixates on one vehicle in particular,
A pair of diplomat flags demand his attention.
The beast’s flat olive armor reflects
Nothing, as though the light is being sucked back in.
A true social evil rides comfortably inside,
Rings inside rings form in the hunter’s mind
As his victim, ignorant of the lurking horror,
Scans the horizon through his window.
Sand, purified and refined,
Separates hunter and hunted.
For a moment, the hunter suddenly worries
That he may have been misled,
But a glowing Cuban sends waves of warmth over him.
With vision unobscured, crystalline
Air, like a tunnel through his mind,
The hunter presses his anxious digit
Against the trigger’s futile protest.
His mind is clear, and after a moment of hesitation
The quarry suddenly disappears,
Amid a hail of shattering glass.
Hands now shaking, the deed now done,
The hunter leaves to gather himself.