Some devils looked upon the lights
of angels in the night’s blue air,
and said to one another there:
“Let’s rob the fair, deface
the profound, and place
these lights on the ground.”

So up they flew as the night grew cold,
the sky bought in, and light was sold
to the ground for the sound of cars
in a valley of concrete, and steel bars
carved by rivers of wide awake.

The ground began to bend and shake
as pillars rose to fill the air,
then further to ensnare the eyes
who then became the spies of smoke.

Now early morning has awoke
too early, all the ***** dust
is kicking up and down the street.

The clock struck one, a sun so new,
the day brings so much work to do—

for very soon, the clock strikes two.

Sick in bed, and barely moving,
With a fever unimproving,
I witnessed a vision so behooving
That it haunts me evermore.

A ghostly being there intruding,
Held a hand out, thus alluding
That I was to come, excluding
All the bones and skin I wore.

From the eye my vision leapt,
And witnessed as the body slept,
Then looking to the creature, wept,
But followed swiftly out the door.

Over the city, softly glowing,
Rising until the sun was showing,
The being pointed down, bestowing
What empire I’d wasted for.

Above the clouds we then ascended,
Passing even the stars suspended
(fields where those fires offended
Darkness in their endless war).

Above the stars we reached a place
Of laughter and pastoral grace,
Beyond the grips of that mad race
For greater burdens to abhor.

Here people lived in a wooded grove,
Sleeping in grassy nests they wove;
There was no need for roof or stove,
For here no rain would ever pour.

Here we happened on a feast,
Where as they ate, the food increased,
So hunger too was never ceased,
And satisfied them all the more.

Wine was tapped from a willow trunk
Which let them live forever drunk,
Dancing until the moon had sunk
To hide behind the sycamore.

And oh, what music when they danced!
They’d shake, or fly, or sit entranced
By melodies which drums enhanced,
And sing along to every score.

Here I stopped to take a rest,
Discerning that this place was blessed,
Thinking to mingle as a guest,
And learn a little of its lore.

I took a fruit and tried a bite,
Finding it much to my delight—
But sickened when I caught the sight
Of rot and writhing at its core.

I threw it to the ground in grief,
And there it fell before their chief
Who smiled, much to my relief,
And sat me on the forest floor.

“Listen, child”, the chief then said,
“Your body slumbers in a bed,
But all the creatures here are dead,
And these are the fruits that we adore.”

That creature who had been my guide
Returned now, standing by my side,
And led me to a longboat tied
Up loosely to a mossy shore.

We set ourselves upon the waves,
And tracing along the cliff's enclaves,
We reached a set of narrow caves,
Whereupon that creature manned the oar.

The air inside was black as ash,
So I hadn’t seen that fateful splash
As it directed us to crash,
But blindly felt my body soar.

I fell from my bed in the bud of dawn,
And was in my room, with curtains drawn.
My fever now was finally gone,
Though still I was a little sore.

I sat by the window to catch my heart,
And felt that my whole life was just the start—
Like I'd only known the smallest part
Of what there really was in store.

Whatever that vision was all about,
Of its effect, I’ve not any doubt.
Taking my coat then, I went out—
For I was craving to explore.

Red fish, blue fish,
I wish you were
in the sea so
you could swim
with me.

Bright star, true star,
how far you are
from where it is
you really need to be.

Sad eye, glad I
got myself to give
a smile to the air-
flying free
on seamless breezes;
caught and tangled
in her hair.

Now here we are
where we can see our
conversation flare.

Let us veer far
from who we are;
let us forsake
our stake on there.

So there’s two school’s of thought.
Invaluable could mean valuable.

Why would they be synonyms?
I don’t know. Not my school.

Invaluable could also mean not valuable
because it makes a lot more sense.

Some people prefer sticking to what sticks,
and others prefer sticking to what's stuck.

At the very least we all agree:
Those conventions are invaluable.

The circle meets under each new moon,
and sees a gleaming lunar noon.
Facing together, they’re singing about
the night they blew the moonlight out.

And in the moonlight did they weep
for silver simmering in its keep;
they dreamt demonic days asleep,
and saved their breath only to shout

until they blew the moonlight out.
And then in the darkness did they creep
like Spider in the water spout,
or like a flock of wounded sheep;

Sirius said the wolves will sleep,
then painted the dirt a deep maroon.
Sower shall sow, and reaper shall reap;
they dined in darkness, free of doubt.

And if the hour is dawning soon
the circle sees the silver spoon,
they’ll forge an empire in the deep,
and then they’ll blow the moonlight out.

Cupping drops of chocolate in island palms,
I ate one like life, sweet and bitter;
like silk and butter; like the sweet dark
oblivion of sleep but better.
And in my trance I took another,
and another, until I had just one,
and mindful now of what my indulgence
would soon become,
to be no more, I savored the last drop
and rolled it about on my tongue like
a word for one I love,
and after wondered to myself-
in which drop lay the deeper satisfaction
now that all were passed?
The very first one, or the very last?

Young is yes, but no
is longer-
let’s be slow
together, stronger.
Feather floating
way, way back
to live forever
in the black
that was and will,
and is but not-
you be still,
and still taste hot
despite the cold;
forget the lot
that you were sold.
If you ask me,
it's growing old.

To talk
like best friends on a midnight walk,
to sing
like it's the first morning of spring,
to laugh
like you just found the first giraffe,
to cry
like the falcon whose wings don't fly,
to love
like you're falling from far above,
to hate
like they've stolen your empty plate,
to learn
like tomorrow our books will burn,
to read
till you fear your heart will bleed,
to teach
to the children the power of speech,
and to do
unto others as they'd do unto you.

You may say that I’m a dreamer,
but my dreams are all I have-
if they die, then so do I.
So I have to try.

Friends say I’ll climb this mountain
and discover that it has no peak-
still, I have to know how high.
To know, I have to try.

Many are saying through twisted eye
that I’m a fool and dreams will lie-
they’ve seen even less than I.
For them too, I have to try.

I’m a fool, and always have been,
but that’s just no way to die-
and even Icarus got to fly.
I too, have to try.

I ran though those rotating doors
where men were doing silly chores-
polishing statues and waxing floors
outside of those redundant stores
that line the air conditioned alleys,
ten foot poster **** sallys,
and symmetry in pale valleys
beneath the ceiling of Elysium;
more marble in here than an art museum.
A sad omen for whats in store-
just which god is this temple for?

I bought that Norman Rockwell mood
I surely absolutely needed,
then headed for the court of food
(for shopping does leave one defeated)
where I was so kindly greeted
by a man who’s head was beaded
where his eyes were meant to be.
Some would stare, but no, not me!
I ordered white chocolate ***** tea
double espresso and sugar free,
but sugar overflowed ‘til it coated the floor
and I’m already craving more.

I then stood up to take my leave,
and lock myself at home to grieve
for what prosperity had done;
our towers now eclipsed the sun.
My gentle stroll became a run,
for underneath fluorescent haze
the walls and marts became a maze-
some escalator MC Escher craze
which drowned me after several days.
The secret which I had not known
was simply that the mall had grown
and stretched itself right out the door.
Which god is this temple for?

We go, no one sleeps
easy slow weeks
just keep coming
flying high on the float bus
to Uluru, engine drumming
living like a curious ghost
on nothing
but noodles, jellied toast,
and cheap beer.
Wake me when
we’re getting near
to where we’re going-
I fear though, here
the heat is growing.
Maybe we should steer
instead to where
the coast is clear
and glowing red
to end the day, and drive
and drive the heat away
by splashing in the tide.
Living free is easy
by the fading sea
where we may see
the decade ride.

Welcome to the zoo-
and who are you?
And is it true that you are free?
All the animals you see
are often coming up to me
and asking: “Which way to the door?”,
but I don’t answer anymore,
for I have lost my way as well.
I wonder then if you can tell-
is this the zoo, or is this Hell?

As many men build mighty towers,
the Buddha child shakes his head.
He grants no time to a tower so tall-
such a tall tower has too far to fall.

As men flee fast from falling hours,
the Buddha child will smile instead-
for like this tower, flat on the floor,
is any tower that falls no more.

We who stop and see the flowers
heed what the Buddha child said:
"From where do you take the fruit-
from the stem or from the root?

Short and sweet are earthly powers;
do not abandon your dreams unfed,
yet do not lose yourself in hunger-
for it cannot make you younger."

A ship tossed under a violent storm
is thought romantic, as blood is warm-
but waves are worse on the little lake,
and take an often darker form.

Here there is no triumphant splash,
or chance to choose to fight or dash-
there is no dawn on which to make
a promise that you will not crash.

Dawn will come, but it's only dawn,
and when it arrives, it's glory is gone.
There's no reward, for none's at stake;
no luck, for lots were never drawn.

So set your sails, and sail free,
and do not lament so readily
the life you're destined to forsake-
for you may get to see the sea,
and that's worth every wave you take.

Tonight the wolves are prowling;
I can feel them in my blood-
and in my ears they’re howling
in wild rage against the flood.
The moon is in my eye,
and in its glow I’m overflowing-
drowning in the starry sky,
and clawing madly for a thing
which moonlight isn’t showing.
In naked wind I feel the sting
of sleeping decades in rotation:
I mark my plot, make darkness sing,
but summer, fall, winter, and spring
eclipse my shallow indentation.

What is still out there
that I am yet to cry for?
Lie for? **** or die for?
What treasure lies buried in the folds
of a shifting world, tossing me
like a baby in a blanket
in the sea of storms and creatures
of all creation?
Is love what calls the hero forth
into the battles of the giants
stomping on the soul
and beating the heart with hammers
in the desert where we lie waiting,
cold and wise and old
and in disguise as sheep?
Is love out there?
Or is it in the night, breaking
silent suffering scarecrows
with the brothers of time
and screaming from the open sunroof
of a car overtaking dead midnight traffic,
waking the pastures of a reckless
and restless youth?
Is love what we were chasing
when we were racing?
Or is it something far above,
and beyond what we have yet become
as children in the womb
of life and sorrow;
will love find me in tears
of a final breath for all that was
lost in seamless sleep and
dreaming?

These pages aren’t all light and glory-
this is a terrible love story,
but it’s still some great *******.
It’s a tragedy smeared on the geography,
and it’s a comedy of cosmic calamity.
It’s the chanting of the trees,
and it’s the ramblings of insanity.
It’s a tirade told with fluttering hands,
like the last autumn leaves on a dying land.
It’s a careless musing, but so amusing;
a prophets dream we’re, by waking, losing.
It’s a mystery of misery;
it’s a history of divine impartiality.
It’s the animated hand of animosity,
filled with the fire of philosophy,
then faced with the fallacy
of reality.

I would not be so impressed
to hear a king had made a guest
of me in halls all lavishly dressed,
and blessed with every new feature;
I have known the smaller creature
to be the greater teacher.​

Yet nor would I be so relieved
to see that not a soul had grieved
when in the next he was conceived,
deceived as he was by mortal power;
despite our divide, we do yet cower
together from that final hour.

Encased in basement shadows
where spiders hang from ceiling corners
like dead men hang upon the gallows,
stirs the ghost of a forgotten child-
his body rots in a shallow grave,
but still his eyes are glowing wild.

Sitting alone in harmless study,
I saw his eyes before me burning
for what rage still held him here
like arrows lodged inside his brain-
my stomach set to churning
in helpless wonder of his pain.

Sweating and frantic, I called out:
“What is this visitation about?
Begone, if you mean to do me harm!”
Fixed upon the air alone,
those emeralds held their bitter tone,
and from the dark there stretched an arm.

It held my shoulder, and in alarm
a scream bellowed from all around
that froze my body to the ground.
Then the eyes flew through the floor,
and the scream flew out the door-
and I never sleep anymore.

A glorfax found a bolloro
and hid it under some snanxa-
the snanxa groughed though,
and the bolloro was no more.
Alas, the glorfax could not glorf.

Deep beneath a subtle glance
upon the skin, or upon the plants,
there lies a secret universe-
this land of sorrow, of romance,
where wiggly creatures all rehearse
the never ending microbe dance.

Gathering into their little mobs,
they wage tiny wars, and work tiny jobs-
they test their tiny roars and sobs
in tune to a timeless, wordless song.
This dance will ransom what time it robs,
so says the cells: it won’t be long
‘til they jiggle into jelly globs.

But dancing is older than they know,
and the song of change is slow.
As its structure starts to grow,
movements within these micro-nations
pretty soon will start to show
longer and wider variations
as symptoms of some new mutations-
on and on this dance will go.

In communist wasteland
billboard show dictator-
says, "Work hard
or we make you miserable."
In America,
billboard show pearls-
says "Work hard
or you make you miserable."
In Borga Borga,
no billboard.
Island five miles wide.

In communist wasteland,
election is fixed.
In American election,
opinion is fixed.
In Borga Borga,
everyone broke.

TV in communist wasteland
blame America
for poor in Borga Borga.
TV in America
blame Borga Borga.
Borga Borga blame TV.

Nobody want to live in
beautiful Borga Borga
but me.

Of all the woods I've wandered through,
the most exotic was of bamboo-
from photographs I'd seen a few,
and so assumed them a greener hue-
but this, it turned out, was highly untrue.
Bamboo, I have found, is a shade of blue,
with maybe some splashes of yellow too.

The great golden wheel serves only to steal-
the deal is lost as we buy and borrow.
It severed the hand while we sanded our sorrow;
abandoned the bleeding demands of tomorrow.

So now seas are rising where we reside,
but we must not think to run and hide.
Why don’t we decide instead to step outside,
and into sunbeams, glowing red?

To feel the flora fluoresce like an aurora,
or to hear the battle rattle like a cattle train;
to taste acid rain as it trickles off treetops,
and tickles the trembling brain.

Why don’t we decide once more
to die for today, and prop open the door,
for only to witness that light which will stay
far after our feet have forgotten the floor?

Why don’t we decide to play
together while the skies are grey;
together we will find a way away from here
where we have wrecked- what a lovely side effect.

Australia they say is filled
with all the things that get you killed:
snakes and spiders, birds and bats,
venomous dogs, and dog-sized rats.
But none in counting could ever forget
the continent’s infamous national pet,
by which you bet I mean the fly.

Like rocks with wings, or drops of dry;
like drones of death, the scouts of hell,
the souls of all the men who fell
to thirst along this twisted track,
or like some angry god’s attack
they swarm in shapeless, shifting form!

A black mass like a violent storm
is aiming for our ears and eyes!
Swatting is hopeless, but still one tries
to ****- just one! To no avail-
it’s easier to **** a whale.

Dizzying sweeping, swoop and swirl,
they’ll never sleep- just loop and whirl,
cry like a hammer who’s driving a Hummer,
then clothe us like four coats in summer.
Here paradise waits with a wave and a cuss,
and we found it after the flies got us.

What is this unholy place in which I have awoken?
Walls so white with light so dark; I, a body broken.
I see no sky, nor bird, nor fly; and yet I surely see-
it hardly looks like hell, and yet it’s hardly heavenly.
I am still free, so happily may find some friend or wife-
but I’ve no need now for to feed the greed of prior life.
It’s best for me to rest, for life is lost on the immortal-
for surely I’ll discover no machine behind this portal.
Maybe by day there was a way for memory to cleanse,
but in this place there’s not a trace of doubt upon my lens
that every last ambition was a fever-maddened dream;
tales we told were not so old, but rather it would seem
the measures of all men were as the shadow of the steam
rising from the heat upon some trickling desert stream.

So valiantly did he die upon a little hill
Of greenest grass and under sweetest air,
And he died grinning for his unfailing will,
And for what eternal glory met him there-

And his courageous heroism will be told
In song by each new coming generation
Who still sing those fighting songs of old
Within our proud and glorious nation-

What true sacrifice and supreme nobility
Lies in he who serves our shining vision
Where everyone else can grow up to be
Just like him, perhaps be on television-

Because he believed in his bleeding heart
What it means to die for where you live,
If he had one regret, and was let to restart-
It'd be that he hadn't another life to give.

On cold and windy, rainy night,
I sat beside the fire’s golden light
with such an intention then to write.

To tell what shadow I had seen
pass by outside my window screen-
supposing I knew what it could mean.

Wet cobblestones in alley glisten-
but would anyone out there listen?
Even one would warrant this mission.

Hearing the tired branches sway,
I wondered then how I was to say
what no prior sentence could portray.

I sat, reaching for all the things
that crying wind of cyclone brings-
but silence! Now the blue-bird sings!

How long I sat in aimless wonder
for that spell which I’d been under,
hearing now just some distant thunder,

but few words would come to me.
My pen would’ve set the world free-
but all that flowed from it was poetry.

When you jump into the raging sea,
and through the gates of misery,
do not forget to get your hair wet.
Do not forget to forget your pity,
and don’t forget where they cast the net.

When you’re waiting for your train,
do not forget to become insane,
for here is where your fear is met.
I know the nature of your pain:
You will give more than what you get.

When you huddle in the cold,
watching your empty time unfold,
and all of your joy is rooted in regret-
don’t forget to whom your soul was sold,
and do not let them win the final bet.

When you’re buried into soil,
and let to rest from all your toil;
when your corpse is roasted on a spit-
darkness will still have the light to foil,
so long as you did not forget.

As all those planets passed me by,
I ever wondered- was it them or I
holding the earth in this position?
I've called it a stupid superstition,
yet must point out how odd I feel
assuming that this eternal wheel
would pick just any empty fools
to mold into the vacuum's tools
before pulling the world away.
I know to them I couldn't say,
but if I did, I would explain
I’m more than just a brain-
I too am all the universe,
undivided in a hearse.

Somewhere far from the stars, I slept,
and dreamt a dream where I dug a hole
in the sand, which fell as pyramids wept-
I dug too deep; Earth swallowed me whole.
I freed myself finally from that lonely prison
in which I would witness the hour or minute,
while many long years were evading my vision
and spinning a new world; no trace of me in it.
Now, I'm a spirit who sings this to every soul
that wishes to flee these waves of sorrow
by sipping some cyanide from a bowl:
Refuge which we take, we borrow
from the children of tomorrow.

Standing with friends on a nameless shore,
I feel somehow so grateful to be so unsure
what wonders and horrors destiny has in store.

I go in, and sit where the waves are breaking.
Repeating, rolling over my head, overtaking
all of the spirits- now shivering and awaking.

They did not sleep, yet also they did not stir-
for the land they loved was occupied by her.
Now she's gone, but they're not as they were.

The light is low; the day is coming to fiery end-
but there are certain things Apollo can't defend
and why should I not call the night my friend?

In blackest day, or brightest night,
of longest vision but shortest sight;
in a single step on an endless road
of mindless thought or breathless ode,
I stumbled over the shadow cast
by ancient present and modern past.
Here I discovered a light that shone
on wonders wandering, all alone,
and onto that faceless, nameless ghost
who whispered this to a wooden post:
“If all who judge were to be blamed,
as all who boast were to be shamed,
and all who hate were to be healed,
so all who hide could be revealed,
and stones forgot how sand had sinned,
then spirits which they call the wind
would carry them off as a faithful friend-
and only then would this road end.”

There is neither
word nor rhyme
with passion
left to prove
my love for you,

thus then either
bird, or lime,
or fasten,
shmeck, or groove
will have to do.

A man stood up to pass me by,
and heading briskly for the door,
let loose an almost inaudible sigh-
what could he have been sighing for?

Could it have been for all the friends
who never call him anymore?
Or was it in woe of all of the ends
of happy times gone long before?

Or are his motives less self centered,
and he sighs for the human race?
Was he so solemn when he entered,
and did he walk at such a pace?

I wonder just how many sighs
contribute to our atmosphere-
if bottled up, how much it buys,
and does one ever disappear?

Could I have answered to this sigh
and brought a castaway to shore?
Could it have been a silent cry,
or just a sigh and nothing more?

I think
therefore
I am
afraid
the hand
will take
what it
has made
and I
will fade
into
the snow
before
I find
a place
to grow.

The ugly boy
saw the beautiful girl,
fell under her spell
and was lost in her swirl.
In whirling wind,
he fell into the sky-
but she was a storm,
and in passing, would die.
So then he would fall
and get caught in the trees,
to go back on loving
like the rats and the fleas.

I see it in the bathroom mirror,
and on the horizon, coming nearer.
It’s dripping from a dollar bill-
I sell it off but touch some still.
I hear it dripping from my car,
I hear it comes from wells afar,
I see it seeping from a stone
(that monolith we call a phone),
and spilling from our eyes at night
while sirens dance in rays of light.
Now as I shower for an hour,
I feel it filling up a tower
all the way up to the moon.
This tower will come crashing soon.
It is the milk of death and strife,
yet some would say it's the stuff of life.
Some say that it will set you free-
in blood they tried to baptize me.

Every time that you fall in love,
your soul inhabits a distant star-
so as you come down from above,
you must remember who you are.

As even the light is but a dream,
and woke you screaming in your car-
as decades now have dried the stream,
you must remember who you are.

To comfort that loathing little boy
who lives within your reckless scar-
to love; to touch and not destroy,
you must remember who you are.

Because you forgot your eternal worth,
and all the roads you’ve walked so far-
because you're the savior of the earth,
you must remember who you are.

What some called faith was only fear-
distraction was all that they held dear.
I tell you the truth will be hard to hear
if you've still got something in your ear.

I've got nothing, and nothing is mine.
I've got no god who gives me no sign.
I've got no church, which suits me fine-
at least I'm allowed to enjoy the wine.

At night I can sleep on solid ground,
and listen as nothing makes a sound.
In the daylight I can look all around-
finding delight where nothing is found.

I too have witnessed the ethereal glow,
not from above, nor from below,
but from moonlit footprints in the snow-
from nothing I came, so to nothing I'll go.

You are not Atlas, who holds the earth;
nor are you Hades, who hides below.
You are but mortal, and yet you choose-
therefore you must choose to go.

Go into a world of blood and bones-
this monster begging for its ****;
it’s true, there may be only death,
but you must choose to go there still.

Go into this life which may be illusion,
and build your truth there anyway-
these temples of sand will fall in time
while sand itself will surely stay.

Go into this battle every single day,
and vanquish whatever land you roam,
so when your campaign is met by night-
there will be no shame in going home.

Deep in the comfort of my darkness,
and numb enough to succumb to sleep,
I stare in silence through the shadow-
through the comfort, through the deep.

When in my still there comes a wind
that pierces through the clouds in me;
the curtains dance like shaken spirits
while my spirit aches to be shook free.

My window aligns to the city streets,
but I care not for what lights they see-
for I in my waking see their judgment
would tame the flow of my destiny.

A voice now calls me to the mountain
where I am to finally write my book-
and maybe there I'll reclaim the years
that all this darkness and comfort took.

I am but another of those
cigarettes in San Francisco’s
singing, silent early streets-
falling from the fire escape
and wrapped in hotel sheets.
When all of life was nothing
but some spinning fiery rings,
and in a time when we had time
to waste on precious things.

Setting deadly streets aglow
in frozen, dancing Chicago-
I am the call of the moon,
the song of night, the howl
of the restless night owl
perched forever out of
place and out of pace,
yet promising forever still
to save our human race.

New York City, lit in name,
but dark and brooding all the same-
let me shine upon your dock
for every weary pilgrim
upon every distant rock,
and for every paper plane
toppling your house of cards-
let us look past our broken hearts,
for we’ve ignored another’s pain.

I too am the merciless, wild lands;
a sea of fire in cupped hands-
and like a vulture for its prey,
I stand along the highway long
as golden starmen play my song.
Unchained, untrained, and undefined;
take the ticket, light the mind.
Breathe me in, be free to see,
for it’s not freedom if it’s blind.

I do
because
I’m afraid
to.

I swim
because
I’m afraid
to dry.

I drown
because
I’m afraid
to fly.

I dive
because
I’m afraid
to die.

I live,
because
I’m afraid,
alive.

You are the love of my life, my dear,
a love that grows with each new year,
so please do be truly willing to hear
me confess: my love has left your rear.

I knew you'd find this news alarming,
and regret I couldn't be more disarming!
I know that I am no Prince Charming
but who in here is your health harming?

We used to dance beneath a burning sun,
and then when we felt like it, we'd run.
Remember how often the day was fun-
please don't tell me those days are done.

If you love me the way you say you do,
you'd love the song of the summer too.
You'd love what I love, the way I grew,
and more so still, you would love you.

There is a room as old as war
without a window or a door.
In here is none but the smoky den
of too many torn and immortal men.

Through Brazen Bull they'd stay unslain
though men are strongly swayed by pain,
thus here are the most unholy tales-
for hidden within was a Cat O' Nine Tails.

The fiend who found it holds it still,
whose morphing face appears at will
to mimic a president, parent, or pastor,
though his name is always, "Master".

Most men fall to Master's feet
and swear, declaring their defeat.
From his wrath they shall be saved
so long as they remain enslaved.

A few will wrestle and risk the knot-
most will fall, but some will not.
Just give the clock a little spin,
and Master's changed his face again.

Sitting by
my windowsill
my soul is still

outside
my home

are many
people
talking fast
drinking coffee
coughing smoke

living
dying slowly
and horribly.

You'd like to be just like anyone
who, held by wires, flew-
and you'll take anything
if they do too,
until one of you
takes a few too much.
It's always cool to play the fool
in the hot kitchen
'till the fool plays chicken.

Let me breathe your smoke
and I'll tell you a joke:
I'll love you 'till I'm broke.
Love you 'till I croak.
Love you 'till you love me too
(but then I'll wish we never spoke).

I know how to get to hell:
by riding the crab with the pretty shell.
She's wondering how long I'll take;
I'm struggling to stay awake.
I wish the birch wouldn't fall when shook;
she gets jealous when I read a book.

Look before you bite the bait!
Don't hate because love couldn't wait.
Don't play the Game of Kings like me-
my focus fell from keeping free
and trading my queen right out the gate,
I sealed my fate for checkmate.

"Holy Quambats!",
bellows low-orbit sports announcer 33e, a.k.a. Rick,
"The Zargoball's been switched! With a hopping Ugaroo!",

(An Ugaroo is an adorable jumping rodent from Vulky II, and a Quambat is the ten foot titanium pole typically used to hit a Zargoball across any particular preset playing perimeter- this for any listeners at home who are new to the sport.)

"Not to worry! It seems that Team Lime Green has gotten the Ugaroo caught in a snare- placed here in the ancient past for JUST such an occasion! Uh-oh! Here come the Iron Knights to try and steal their capture!"

(There are over 70,302 teams [exactly 70,303 teams] currently competing for possession of the Zargoball on planet Zargoz, partaking in the galaxies favorite interstellar pastime- a popular sport known also as Zargoz.  The current round began at an unknown date in the planets ancient history, and all that remain of its origins are a plethora of wildly conflicting and confusing myths. It seems here that Team Lime Green has passed down knowledge of their hidden snare for hundreds of generations through word of mouth before this incident today. Miraculously, their bizarre efforts appear to have payed off.)

"Oh, what a blast! The Zorodan Order has just dropped a neutron bomb over the site of the capture, eradicating all life within a fifty mile radius! All referees are currently contacting their lawyers! And now... The word is in! The new Zargoball has been placed in the Temple City, just outside the Zorodan Temple! Power move!"

(...)

"The timing however couldn't have been worse! It is now 29:29am of the third day of Rayah on the Zorodan Calendar! All Zorodan on Zargoz must now drop all clothing and physical possessions, sit on the ground, and spend the next 3 days in holy naked meditation! The Council of Crystals has now moved in and captured the temple, decapitating all naked Zorodan on sight! After burning down the temple, the Council will be transporting the Zargoball via Air Carrier to ninety-third base, where hoards of treasures await the recipient of this hard-earned point! It's a long journey though! Before they arrive, someone had better discover the secret location of ninety-third base! And quick!"

(The secret location of ninety-third base actually, out of sheer coincidence, is also inside the Zorodan Temple- however it will now likely be well over a hundred years before this is discovered, as the only living contestants with knowledge of its location have been recently decapitated and burned.)

"Folks, I'd like to take this minute to promote our sponsor, Fizzwerz! A bubbly drink, sweeter than theropian glass-grass and recently determined to be more highly addictive than human crack, now cost you only 13.1 Gobi credits! These are- HOLY GOD!! Attention folks, I'd like to interrupt this interruption to announce a spectator of honor here in the low-orbit VIP section! Actually God himself! What a serious honor! And now we return to our broadcast! Oh here we go! Oh dear! It seems that the pilot of the Crystal Council Air Carrier was a Swamper spy all along! The carriers passengers have all been knocked unconscious by his thick perfume! What a show!"