I gave a boy a pirate toy;
he cut me with a sword.
I taught a little girl to whirl,
until she got too bored.
An old man walks on darker streets.
Increasingly, they narrow.
He wraps his bones in memory’s sheets
and listens to the marrow.
The children play, and hide all day,
behind the gravestones bending.
I wave goodbye. I’m off to die.
There is no happy ending.


Long Shot

If I had money in my pocket,
I’d lend it on the spot,
like betting on a rocket
to hit a microdot.
Anything is possible
if you can beat the odds.
All it takes is good relations
with prevailing gods.
If I had money in my pocket,
I’d lay it ten-to-one
on a hunch the night this time
might overcome the sun.


The long legs of the law of physics
unravel like a chemical cuff.
Strands of conversation multiply
into equations of noise unfamiliar.
Arms of love encircle scientific concept.
Atoms split, molecules cool.
Genes are always shrinking by design.
Periodically, a table is turned,
revealing an element of surprise.
The soul of explosion is destitute,
always seeking flame.

The Turtle

A turtle has no moxie.
It’s probably too boxy.
Must be a living hell
encumbered by that shell.
To let one win a race
would bring lifelong disgrace.
To bolster tortoise pride,
one martyr rabbit died.
The chant of "slow and steady"
makes many snappers heady.
If for bunnies you may care,
don’t talk races to a hare.

A Mention of Tension

Intervention. It just can’t
compensate for your intention.
The failures great
and just too long to mention.
I hope that I have garnered
your attention. The probables
defying all retention.
The touching points define
the line’s dimension.
And fair or foul
is only a contention.
Prevention is a negative
invention. We need a
constitutional convention.

Pound of Flesh

Dog men bark in afternoon breezes,
fetching papers to train masters, tails awag
for justice. The bone of existence. They run
in packs, an army of homeless carnivores
clawing evening alleys for scrap iron and wire,
building small houses of waste and wood.
They snap and chew, growling stomachs,
barking backs, teeth bared, fur matted,
sleeping on cardboard. Until morning unleashes
the muzzle and they hunt again, howling for god.

Am I Sitting On Your Flower?

Don’t blame me for the bees’ suicide.
I don’t control the planet: I’m just on for the ride.
The melting ice up north that’s going to make the planet neat
Insures there’ll be a channel some day where there’s now a street.


Am I sitting on your flower?
Have I taken all your power?
If I come back in an hour
Will you even be around?
If I pull the big alarm
can it still undo the harm?
Will the third time be the charm
or must we move to higher ground?

Scientists predict a run of great catastrophes.
Since there’ll be no underground, we’ll have to live in trees.
Fighting crows and vultures for our food will be a pain.
Sunburned fish will float by in the wake of acid rain.


Somewhere strangers sit and cultivate an inner peace.
Fatalists are hollering, "Remember Rome and Greece."
What’s abundant got redundant, then just disappeared.
With a bang we had to face the whimper that we feared.


We used to dress in chinos,now we’re just neutrinos,
floating in the cosmic wash of space.
Where used to be the earth, there’s just a blackened dearth,
a soul-less void that used to be our place.

*END* (or sing forever…

Bats Without Balls

Bats without balls
often cling to walls.
They can hear a pitch resound.
That’s why they hang upside down.
They can sense the stitches turn
in their radar fueled nocturne.
Bats, not balls, are taking flight
in the diamond moonlit night.