Never sure who's boss between us
He comes when called
several minutes later...

Blinking sweetly
smiling as only cats can
Golden, half-moons of sunlit bliss
watch fat yellow-jacket
marginally motivated

The hunt cannot compare
to the soft grass with its tender clover
a  full belly
and the meeter-of-all-needs nearby

But the quick jitter-dance
of an easy moth
sends the tiger
to the jungle of forsythia
Gleaming, stalking stripes
Alternating white of paws in precise approach
The prey?  Too quick
The predator?  Too old and lazy
prefers attention
Lumbers slowly back
lolling against coffee cup
Enough....

On needles of white pine
a secret lion has lain down

waiting only for the lamb

Slowly it slides on sub zero waters
trying to find a pathway to the sea
sheet of pure blue and heaven white
lumbers discreetly for aquiline is quite

From the top of the world
frozen fingers reach down
claws frantic on solid ground

No religion no sage
no saviour just age
and the relentless pull of gravity
will take it from mountain to the sea

This sculptress of valleys and dales
and fjords that can be seen for miles
travels without sound
onward bound

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

the droplets of water are singing a trail down the bricks of the houses
through the alleys of the glassy-eyed broken people with soft hearts, a pre-disposition for death
weaving a tabooed trail across the sidewalks that when gazed upon reeks of obscurity
and leaving faint lines on the creased skin of all the sinewy fatalities
the mildewed rain peaks across the rusted windowsill that sighs with familiarity
it sloshes against the children’s playground and slaps at the pavement with a sudden clarity
it empties itself into the spiked maze of the tree branch hoping the leafs will cling onto to it dearly
it mellows into a pond that breaks apart with sharp staccatos when mushy feet run down the street
and it hurls itself into the bitterly sweet lips of two frost-bitten lovers who will soon meet
it daintily steps into the burning embers of the flame, only to be flushed out in shame
it turns to the shower as a last resort, but whines in dismay when it’s slurped down the drain
it embraces the eyelashes until it’s shaken in misery and then watches wearily as it’s blinked away in positivity
it lumbers down the path of the bruised ego, a shattering of phrases that leaves the person’s mouth
and before it has the chance to drop it is scooped up and chastised until it moves no more
the tears and the rain drops wander listlessly for all of eternity
only to be hastily thrown away or brushed into cotton for fear of a restless divinity
it is never to reach a destination and only doomed to be forgotten
and so it seems dear friends, that raindrops are simply you and me

Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.

Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.

House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.

Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.

Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.

Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.

Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted ***,
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.

Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.

Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.

Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******?
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
"**** me harder, Álvarez!"
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
"Oh hell no *****, 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"
She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?

(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)

I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!

fifteen minutes or so
the pilot lumbers out from the ladies room
she weighs as much as our cessna.
perhaps now she's lighter.

she grunts into the cockpit
and ensures her girth has not switched on or off
any vital instruments.
safety is our number one concern.

i've been more confident in lawnmower engines.
this rumbled like rapture.
i shook, but so did everything else.
we flew like a mallard

over lakes and forest.
we saw a shipwreck that now hosts
families for lunch.
as well as a few baseball fields.

the air was a force.
it asserted it self, to be certain.
i sensed its angst.
it translated thoroughly.

she rambled on
it was her tenth flight today.
i looked behind,
my love was green.

A truck pulls into the driveway I'd just walked by, and
Three men, bulky, hat brims casting shadows over their watching eyes,
Three men clamber out, boots heavy, lips twisted into snarls -
Three men with meaty fingers, built with rusted screws and gnarled wood,
Warped as their rotted minds, full of parasites feasting on whatever knowledge once was consumed.

Dry wheezing breaths push out beside me from a bench I pass by, and
Two men, fingers cracking, gripping their canes with too much strength,
Two men, wrinkles twisting, grin with rows of yellow-brown teeth and black gaps -
Two men, hunched over, cloudy eyes pinned to my back, and
Wheezing grows faster, uneven, a croaking whisper of a snicker, a laugh, trailing after me.

Footsteps thunder behind me through the bathroom door, and
One man, teapot stout but not so dainty, instead gut bulging, too close,
One man, beady black eyes digging, gorging, his swinging belly gurgles -
One man with a squirming pink worm of a tongue, tracing engorged sausage-fat lips,
Fat as his constant hunger for flesh, full of grumbling cravings as he lumbers through the room, stalking.

I run, I duck, I hide -
Only my asthma chases me.

Robert comes in and tells me about how a bunch of his classmates killed his teacher
It was a freak accident
He says her baby died too
His eyes are deep brown wells
That drain when he is confused

I don’t understand
So I call his school

It was raining
A truck carrying steel poles for construction
Lost one on the road

At the same time that she never saw it coming
She saw it coming

I ask him why he thought that
And he tells me that he goes to the Freak School
And freaks have accidents all the time

When steel meets steel
There is always a fire
Always a spark
Always pressure
Snapping
Grinding
Melting to make harder

The process of building is violent

When he is upset he smashes things
Maybe in the same way people who want to learn
Take things apart

It is in the putting back together
The we understand what it is to be whole

He smashes his own head through a wall
So I hold him violently
His head hits mine and my nose bleeds

Every fight I have ever been in
My nose has bled

With my arms around him
I slide his boots off with my feet

His feet are large
He lumbers with them

I hold him as still
As I can

He hits his head again
Maybe so someone will
Put it back together

He says
Why is Emily so mean to me?
Sisters are just supposed to love their brothers
Sisters are just supposed to love their brothers

I call him Bootsie
Tell him I love him
Though I am squeezing him so hard
He passes out

He apologizes two days later
I tell him
Brothers are always supposed to forgive their brothers

I toast to him in my head

Here’s to becoming whole

I sit in a forest, with my back against a large oak,
and listen. Among rustling leaves and
whining cicadas I hear something else.
Something larger.

It's moving through the forest on jointed legs,
snapping the branches of century old trees.
An insect the size of a castle. It lets out a cry.
Sounds like a thousand year old whale's
death rattle. The cicadas stop whining and I
shudder.

It's heading to the lake to breed,
or to die. Their kind begins and ends in water.
Very morbid creatures, they are.

I can feel its steps shake the earth as it comes
closer and then I see it. Ten long, jointed legs
support the bulk of the thing. It towers over me,
silver. Its shell is a knight's armour and its red
eyes are the devil's. I stand up in awe of the
colossal bug as it lumbers past me, blocking the sun
and casting me in shadow for a while.

I light a cigarette and listen to it move through the forest.
Eventually, I can't hear it anymore and the cicadas
start to whine again.

Julie steps off the bus Friday night before 10 pm.  She has had a long week at the store and wants to get home to relax.  Julie manages a franchise jewelry story and needs some down time in order to maintain her fragile sanity.

Friday is casual day at the mall, so Julie is relaxed in her designer blue  jeans and black sweater jacket over her blouse.  She is also wearing her signature black and gold baseball cap that she likes to wear when it’s cool outside.

Julie lives in a busy and congested neighborhood and isn’t crazy about the two block walk to her house from the bus stop. She doesn’t think its necessary to own a car as she likes the exercise of walking, and of being outdoors often.  However, as the bus drives away an eerie feeling creeps into her mind.

Her eyes begin to dart from the shadows of the trees as they rake in the cool night.  The tall timber sway back and forth in the breeze. A creaking sound crawls throughout her mind as the acute awareness of her surroundings increases. Julie stiffens as she continues her steady pace. Her shoulders raise from the tension, she shakes her head and attempts to steady her breathing into a calm pattern.

Stop! You're fine, just like every other night, she tells herself. This city isn't known for violent crime.  Julie shakes her head as she tries to focus on just walking home without incident. Things seem to be getting quieter in the night.   Perhaps too quiet?  Until a rustle from behind her unearths her terror once again.

Julie turns around suddenly at the new sound.  Her heart is beating so fast that she can now hear it.  She stares at what is only apparently a bush in the dark, but she notices that the bush seems to be moving!

Her mouth gapes open in realization. Something,  something is wrong. A dark figure seems to be within the bush. Paralyzed by her fear, she can't move and stands perfectly still.  Only the light breeze lifts her hair as the only sign of life in her body.

Julie stares at the shadowy figure intently for several agonizing seconds before she begins to see what the figure actually is.  A large branch with its leaves still on it has fallen onto the sidewalk from a large nearby white pine tree.    Oh my God!  What a relief!  Julie gasps and puts both hands on her face as she starts to feel the sweat pour down her neck from the terror.

At that exact moment in time,

A man from directly behind her lumbers toward her.  One quick step at a time. Julie freezes in terror as his shadow from the dim street light behind her reaches her feet. The man reaches her just as she is able to partially turn around at his sound.

Julie blacks out as her head is brutally forced into a collision with the concrete.  Warm, red, blood paints the sidewalk as life leaves her permanently.

An hour later Detective Olson calmly tells his partner Detective Reynolds, “I can only surmise that this young lady fell to her death from a freak accident.  There doesn’t appear to have been any struggle or foul play.  I will try and get ahold of her mother in Binghamton, but this seriously looks to be an accidental death.”

Another day lumbers ...

My Canine is still and pet
my diet is poison-less
my Simian; grounded
my plumage; tame
my imagination is prank-free
and my Feline is out of mischief ;
in a productive slumber

In soothe to say
It's better this way
And so passes
Another safe day

He lumbers, he doesn't sashay.
Aware enough to catch a 'think-fast' pass.
He's an analog man, and not a soothe-sayer.
He was a zen buddhist, and a nudist whose wardrobe was air.
He always wanted kids but could never think of names.
His truth is so spreadable it's incredible
His credit's so meddled with it's debtable.
He moves peanuts under walnut shells,
less talented than critical.
With passion like the hypnotized
limits were his starting lines
He was never very impressed with things,
would say 'ignorance doesn't exonerate’—He broke alot of hearts and earned alot of parking fines—‘Income doesn't make the man' unless its not coming in.
His only wish was for a time machine;
He could be ambassador to the past.
he could relive his endings
without missing anything

your mother spoke of god
in whispers that threaded your childhood
with this golden sense of safety
that could coax you to do anything
because if you
****** up and
tum
bled
the landing would be soft and padded
with furrows of cloud and
spidersilk angel fingers
brushing the dirt from your forehead,
every time.

now you
find comfort
not in thoughts of
the gnarled brown
fingers of
your heavenly father
grasping your heart tight

but in bloodstained sunsets
observed from wet ground,
feet loving the long grass
beneath you,
ugly birds slicing strips
of the livid sky into ribbons
beyond you,
the nakedness that
will come later
when the night
lumbers forward
like an old, black dog.

these days
you don't think about god
at all

unless you are drunk
and feeling nostalgic

then he falls upon you
like an ocean of canvas,
clings to your bones like
a milky fog,
the sky sinks low,
you feel the truth
raw and wet
in your molecules
and against
your shiny eyes.

your mother would be
so unimpressed
with your snagged
version of
faith.

to this you would argue
that you've got no one
to save,
you awake happy
on most sticky
cherry-eyed mornings
and it's not like
you have forgotten.

you are in the thick of it
and

you still watch the ****
sunset
whenever you can
from a perspiring patch
of warm ground
beneath a
tree that looks exactly
like your
grandfather
and you praise it
with all of
your hardboiled youth
feeling
coddled and breathless
all the while.
feeling  


safe


as you ever have.

He lay back down from personal disturbance
of otherwise pacific rest, nothing scholarly knowledge has
conceived could cure a nightmare, or a conscience.

Clerk in the worn store
walls breath stale transparent stories, dreams
merely another day in the old man’s shop
until it burns to ash and cinder
smoldering what was once youthful aspiration.


She is waiting, clutching a lackluster gem encased in fool’s gold.
So many nights alone with tears, now again
as the steel beast breaks it’s sleep and
lumbers forward on smooth copper glazed tracks
15 karats fall from car #7 with hardly a sound
or a second thought.


Plains people drink deep the strong whiskey.
Smoke curls from the edges of dark cracked lips
as gray stone eyes peer out on what was once freedom.
The setting sun warms the red brown Naugahyde skin.


Prince of the Dane, sweet protector of truth in a world of
falsehood, what truth did he find? Plato’s truth, Christ’s truth,
Freud’s truth only two choices for a fellow,
so Hamlet died as well


So many dead end alleyways,
calling all the cats from their garbage cradles,
slouching drunkards from their endless revels,
all victims of Fate’s angry fist in the eyes.
Clawing their way toward daylight
from sewers to sanctuary
Hades to haven
or just another...

Under the rug
where it's darker than light
rumbles & tumbles
a beast born of the night.
What is it you ask?
Well, to know that
one must be brave
and one must also crave
to place a face to all fears looming.
So, go on, lift up the mat's edge...
Sneak a peek at
darkness booming.

Close the cupboard doors
for from far in the back
lurches & lumbers forth
the most frightful roars.
Your ears can follow your fear
to the space just farther than
the longest arm's reach,
past the jar of pickles,
and through the forest of forgotten spices,
even beyond the lost boxes
of instant mashed potatoes
which don't grow old for eternity.

It is this lightless den
that's home to scores of tiny T-rex
looking creatures called
Boomasaurs.
They spend their time
noshing & munching
gobbling & gurgling
snacks of all kinds;
including grazing fingers.
You don't need to know too much more about them,
of this I'm sure,
just go close the cupboard door.

Do you trust your boomerang?

There's nothing under your bed,
as sure as there aren't bats in my head,
and I write this in a room
where laces can't be in shoes,
so, you better check under your bed.

For beneath your pillowy paradise
on which you wish to float in a dream of candies 'n cream
shuffles a shadowy blob; dark, as though made of demons' truffles.
And being a black mass of a mess
it moves beneath your boxspring
in a roll-flop manner.
The sound of which when heard lulls the tired & weak,
meek, children & adults alike
into a nightmare's pleasures.
shha-boom   shha-boom
shha-boom   shha-boom
shha-boom   shha-boom
shha-boom   shha-boom
shha-boom   shha-boom
shha-boom   *shha-boom

Very near the she-bear lumbers
Past the sharp palmettos
Paw prints on the garbage can
Under star-filled skies
She walks silently
Obscured by the quiet night
Leaving scant paw prints on the path
While we slumber
Crickets serenade us
Three manatees see
Bright moon, darting gar
Cold springs empty of visitors
I walk in the dark dreamworld
And move without sight
Surrounded by sure feet and wings
Stillness finds darkness throbs and sings

Ahh ahhh
woah oh


escape from the heat
listen to your body
get something to eat

heartbeat lumbers
don't look in the mirror
wake from your slumber

woah oh
ahh ahhhh

you're the woman I miss
I wake up in the morning but
for my dreams I reminisce

now what in tarnations did I go and do that fer
slap that *** and then grab her
you know you want it wanna want it wanna wanna not want it but you want it

but if she cools you tonight everything's all right
oh you know this poetry ain't good and maybe it once was
maybe it once helped me fall in love
maybe may be maybe once maybe once or maybe twice
maybe thrice but prolly not
and maybe I need a smoke but prolly not
and maybe now it's time to leave
and maybe I can't find my keys
maybe their under her
sleeping upstairs
and maybe my hangover will go away before work
and maybe it'll be slow
and maybe I'll be fired how about it,
how about this and how about that
and where'd you go and why'd you go
and maybe I could changemaybe mah be mahbe if it weren't so big
and if I wasn't so small
and if I wasn't so coarse
and if it wasn't so bright
and if I could think like I used to
but nobody can reclaim their brain cells
and maybe I shouldn't have done so much acid when I was thirteen
and maybe I should stop drinking and maybe tomorrow
And maybe to,or row

Oh ahhh woah oh ah

The titans left their weapons
where they did fall in battle
each breath I do get closer
closer to the sauce
the lip smacking kind

There is a turtle in the heavens
with all your sins on it's back
it lumbers into tomorrow
and vows never to come back

You live in shark infested waters
with lampreys clinging to your flesh
******* and biting as you swim along
with mites taking oxygen from your gills

In the ring of fire
where death comes so easily
just a quake, then a shake
and then it's all over


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Dad lays on the couch,
And clicks and clicks,
And wonders where it went wrong,
And the clock ticks,
And ticks and ticks some more,
And the wrinkles deepen,
A persistent fog of weariness,
Clouding,
Clouding his perspective,
Unsure where to place blame,

Too heavy of a weight to carry himself,
And his head shakes back and forth,

The History Channel plays a feature on the Battle of Gettysburg,

And Dad shakes his head some more,
Battles in his head what to do,
His mind and heart battle each other too,
To stay or to go?
Tensions high, passion low,

And the clock ticks to 10:00,
And Dad lumbers upstairs for bed.

Another night and nothing was said,
The words all jumbled in his head.

My sorrow is  not glorious
My pain is not public
sorrow  stays in
pain  weeps ;
feelings swing  
fears mushroom
eyes swell up
vision dims;
tears dry up
thoughts wander
mind clouds
moods mull;
words clutter
heart throbs
vacuum engulfs
silence  lingers;
My sorrow is hidden
My pain is private
Its  all of  love
Its all of parting;
no meeting
no message
no contact
no chitchat;
clock  reminds
Dusk  recalls
memories surge
heart   lumbers;
Heaving seas
twilight afar
nights shimmer
Loneliness bog down !

eyes shoot open
they dart and see
brain changes gear
as it lumbers back into
this reality

not familiar rooms
filled with strangers
armed with fistfuls of lies
and what's wrong?
that is what you kept asking me

what's wrong?
I told you

nothing.

lying to myself
just asking the question from your lips

little boy and little
cat blue,
roar around the hallways
during the monster hour.

the man mountain
lumbers behind
in frankestein pose
intoning
"the tickle man comes for
you....
the tickle man cometh,
to tickle your rickles,
and grasp your giggles,
and eat your toes!!!"
in his deepest basso
profundo.

momma, sits on the couch
in a zombie like pose
as she waits for the clock
to wind out the hour

and in the kitchen
the caulldron bubbles
with "brains and veins"
on the go.

Like drunken wildfire
splashed about the walls
some crude beast that lumbers
recklessly through the camp
the years leave their mark
and there is little I can do
The one hope that we might have
as age thunders towards us
and the ghosts pile up
like so much cord wood
is that we might not sing the songs of our lives
alone.

Ponderous, she lumbers on
through frozen wastelands,
shaggy body bejewelled  
with a million icy diamonds.

Keen is the wind,
born in the high peaks
and honed to razor sharpness
over groaning, green-blue glaciers.  

Head raised to bitter skies,
she bellows a mournful, unanswered cry
against distant night-black conifers,
bowed and encrusted with fallen snow.  

Long tusks scrape the ground now
in search of hidden mosses,
for hunger is upon her, and she is
oblivious to the hunters’ approach.  

Squat are these bearded skin-clad men,
hair-matted, breath steaming, gesturing quickly,
moving ever closer, surrounding,
stepping out silently,
flint-tipped spears and arrows poised.  

And then the sudden cry of attack!
Again and again the thud of flint into flesh!
Stone into bone!

Shouting wildly, the hunters
circle rapidly, calling on
their long-dead ancestors
to witness the great shrieking beast
brought down in agony;
until at length they halt exhausted,
breath steaming and energy spent.

And as the moon rises above the far horizon
an awful silence falls across the bitter wastes.

For it is done,
and the last mammoth
is no more.

What's a simple man like me
Doing in this part of town
Especially at a time like this
When the sun is going down

I crank my Barry Manilow
Up on my cassette deck radio
Letting all the boys round here know
That I'm down with the sound and flow

That's when this old rusty Ford
Creaks up to the light
His girlfriend turns and gives a wink
And a great big green teeth smile

I get the notion then and there
That he's the jealous type
As he spits a wade of tobacco juice
All over my Pintos driver side

Steps down from his conglomerate
Lumbers over to me
The kids in school are sure to hear of this
As I'll soon be history

Roughly pulls me out the window
Shaking me off like a bad habit
Saw my life flash before my eyes
Luckily I had enough sense to reach out and grab it

Just then he catches the music
That's now playing loud and clear
Turns with a look plastered to his face
Asking who is that he hears

I tell him Barry Manilow
He's the one who writes the songs
Just then he starts a-humming
If he knew the words he'd sing along

His girlfriend calls up all their friends
Who quickly show up to the scene
Looks like we got us a Copacabana
With the lights flashing from red to yellow to green

It all came to a ******
As Barry, Mandy sang
There wasn't a dry eye on the street that night
As I quickly saddled my Pinto and drove away

I let out a huge sigh of relief
As I sped through all the lights
With "Looks Like We Made It" blasting through the stereo
Thanking Barry Manilow, once again for saving my life

I wince as I winch up my eyelids
and the day lumbers up from behind
to grab onto tin cannery row
where
the heads are hung low and
the rent's even lower than that.

The laughter's still here fuelled
by narcotics and beer,
Capone's
found his true home at last.

There are tears and you
know it too,
who among many have
never shed any?

Time flicks a snotball,
a sleep or a wake up call?
it's us who decide, but
some like the slide and
remain.

When the tide turns again
Avalon burns again waiting
for Arthur.

They're heroes and crooks
fake *** in real books where
real time is no time to
delay.

The ache lingers on
the last hope has gone
the lights are as low
as the rent
and
the ache
burns a hole in
the nighttime of
tin cannery row.

My mother loved the dogwood blooms -
each spring a fresh crucifixion.
And when it flushed wild in the clearing,
where our new house stood,
on a stripped skull, quick to erode,
my mother would rush to the dogwood,
take each stained white blossom
in her hand and said "forgive, forgive."

She never went to church anymore,
never again touched her cold dead Mary,
never again begged favor or grace,
not after that first spring
bloomed dogwood,
not after the twisted
cursed and giving lumbers
first sprung upon her eyes -
a crucifixion, multiplied,
a hundred times, a hundred Aprils
on the limbs of a retribution.

The body snatcher crawls from the bowels of disaster.
With blunt claws and cracked nails,
he flays the space,
grabbing bodies for the capture.

His home but a place to rest, to close his mind
and slowly peel the layers of dress,
where scars of bodies, picked his flesh.
Attempts so desperate, to remain un-snatched.

The body snatcher dreams of meat.
Meat so rancid, meat so sweet.
Some he sells, some he eats.
He names it snatched cuisine.

The sack he lumbers over shoulder,
resembles a black hole,
Those who enter, learn here after
that death lives stitched in wool,
Those once bagged, often gag
choking on the stench of others.

The body snatcher crawls from the bowels of disaster
A shadowy, feared, malicious captor

family shouldn't
shame - because
shame lumbers in the belly like a bad ham -
it burns into intestines and spills
hot green stomach acid up your throat while
you're asleep peacefully at the television -
no, family shouldn't
point fingers like a winter's frost, scowling
like a midnight alley cat between trashcans -
no - family
reflects in the
social mirror, and breaks
itself down first

Very near the she-bear lumbers
Past the sharp palmettos
Paw prints on the garbage can
Under star-filled skies
She walks silently
Obscured by the raucous night
Leaving scant paw prints on the path
While we slumber
Crickets serenade us
Three manatees see
Bright moon, darting gar
Cold springs empty of visitors
I walk in the dark dreamworld
And move without sight
Surrounded by sure feet and wings
Stillness finds darkness throbs and sings

The Facebook zombie
Distorts its face:
Contorted, convulsing
A spasmodic smile.

Ignoring internal scars
Emotional wretchedness
Faking with gusto
What the good life is.

The Facebook zombie
Hunkers not for brains
But drools for likes
And virtual applause.

Like dazzling neon lights
Its ego shines bright
"I am the best"
"I am number one"
Says the connoisseur
Of filters and fakes!

The Facebook zombie lumbers
Towards the next bite
The next hit
Mindlessly raising its
Bony hands
As the camera sways
Finding the perfect angle.