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

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

Twists

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

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

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

Seed

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

Daturated

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

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

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

Corner sight at the light

mere skeletons
they walk the streets

her with the ever wet
dog inside her bones
shaking the relentless
drops out of its coat
to splatter, to collide
with the pavement

and him with the
ocean of rats swarming
though his veins
that throw his limbs
to and fro with their
ceaseless ebb and flow

mere skeletons
who garb themselves
in muck of once seas
that now are plowed
and sprayed and shat on

these mere skeletons
sheer their flesh
that catches the wind
and turns their world
from needle pulling smoke
into snort and swallow pills

mere skeletons
serve as their own wind mills

tiny bit of Spring

these April days
raise this outdoor lint
drifting without a breath in the air

here and there
the insectival specks
that gather, disperse, gather
a dance of warming

only these wee ones
with minuscule wings
or tiny stamens releasing
promise to the fates

the almost unseen dare
the most, the most to lose
perhaps their boast