Illogical pit stops
Waste deep in the forest,
Infecting the shrine zone,
Project our dark skies.
When under the curtain,
Where nothing is certain,
While staring at shark eyes,
The festival dies.
There’s no calibration
Or central location.
The law is erased by the lie.
The wailing wind sings.
We’re out on the wings
Of these things we know
Never can fly.
And they tilt toward goodbye.
Tiny blue crystals were everywhere:
in the sand, on the rug, even in the tub,
minute, translucent, thin as fingernails.
We thought that we should clean up.
But this was not our fault.
There were too many, and increasingly
more the more you looked.
And they moved, sliding away from touch,
even popping airward like dandelion puffs.
They formed indecipherable patterns
on the walls; and at the mere thought
of vacuum, broom or mop, they multiplied.
It quickly turned from fun to frightening.
When we went to the authorities,
they said we’d trespassed in a forbidden zone,
but would not be prosecuted if we left quickly
and forgot what we had seen. Tell anyone,
and you will be forever haunted, they said.
Just go now, they warned, And burn your clothes.
I suspect birds
are spelling out signs,
would we have the time
to connect them.
Thousands of windshields
pointed toward the sun
cannot blind the cloud god.
And the ants only steal
as a favor.
We should walk a foot
in their hole.
Not that neon
is the curse of gasses,
but spare me
from your fast food wars.
All these screaming
cell phones in the wind
make me long
for the company of rocks.
He falls down a lot. But that’s cool.
Just smokes a cigarette on the ground
and mumbles something existential.
He’s got a nickel- plated whiskey flask.
But he can’t find it. Must be in the pocket
of an old zoot suit, somewhere.
He’d play his horn, except his teeth fall out.
He’d snap his fingers, but he broke his thumb.
The broken hipster was hot back in his day.
But now he just seems dumb.
My alter ego is in prison.
He acts out more than I.
In his early days of crime,
he’d wink as I stood by.
But things got really out of hand.
He thrived on doing harm.
Bad moods could lead to robbery,
bad dates, a broken arm.
And if it rained on my parade,
he’d go off on a spree.
It got so bad that even dreams
I rest a whole lot easier
since he is behind bars.
But sometimes I still feel his pain
at night, despite the stars.
I saw you crossing lanes
while on the whipped cream line.
Such a bold infraction
often brings a healthy fine.
Later in the forest
I spied you shooting mousse.
Then I realized your problem:
sugar junkie on the loose.
I certainly can sympathize.
You see, I am the fellow
who long ago stooped low enough
to snort a box of Jello.
So I could be your sugar king,
and you my sugar queen.
We’d rule the streets.
We’d eat dot sheets.
Look out on Halloween!
My skeleton’s skin has taken me in;
it’s told me lies, in front of my eyes.
It’s shaped my days in a thousand ways.
It’s helped me out, and without a doubt
I wouldn’t be here; it’s made that clear,
if I didn’t play ball. God forgive us all.
There’s a little white room where we
seal our doom. There’s a big black door
labeled "nevermore." We can step inside.
They’ll say that we died. And our thoughts
compiled will be stripped and filed
into reference books for both spies and crooks.
And our history will be lost at sea. Amen.
Caruthers flustered others
with his glib incessant gab.
The worst abuse life could unloose
would be to share a cab.
He’d talk until your ears turned red.
your anvil bled and eardrums missed a beat.
He’d find you in the office, in the loo, the pub
or elsewhere on the street.
As words flew by, you’d want to cry,
you’d wish for death’s sweet knell.
If after death he rose above,
you’d definitely opt instead for hell.
And when his chatter ended,
listeners slumped by its fierce toll,
he’d grab a sleeve, say, "Hey, don’t leave!
I’ve just got on a roll."
A miasma of misinformed mitochondria
were swimming in a pool of DNA.
Put on some suits, gadzooks, you’re
risking hypothermia, said a neutron
who was sitting far away.
It is no use, this is abuse, said a flagellum,
who just happened to be paddling by.
I challenge you all to achieve mitosis,
said a cell who was quite obviously high.
We are in the middle of an electoral play.
Romeo and Juliet have long since passed away.
Hillary and little Marco fell before the sword.
Lyin’ Ted and Lazy Jeb were just cast overboard.
Now the king is fighting off his own appointed men.
Bannon, Flynn and Manafort. The south will rise again.
He dreams it all, a wonder wall, across the southern border,
a monument to arrogance, an ode to law and order.
He twists his lies to alibis, he tortures truth to end.
He will be tried for all his sins. The devil is his friend.