Aldous the cockatiel lives in a cage,
and loves it -- he’s comfortable there, and vague
enough to sleep while a man would linger

nearby, free, uneasy, watching the fingers
enwrap themselves in invisible knots,
tighter, tighter, with every sweep of the clock.

Relationships of divers nations
          crystallize in Terrible Times:
alliances divide along
          Terror/Anti-Terror lines.

The paradigm is surgical:
          eradicate the cancerous cells.
So privy nations operate
          on Terror's malignant network of Hells.

The human species balances
          upon the precipice of Fate:
voices clamor on Freedom's side;
          dogma grips the side of Hate.

And one God watches, knowing They
          have and will defeat the Beast.
But who's the Beast? "It's them!" points each.
          May the best team win, the other cease.

I'm planning on plotting a novel about
A ravishing beauty, a former boy scout,
Her longing for him, his passion for her,
And the love they made forever and ever.

Or how about a detective, jaded
By betrayal, loneliness, and faded
Memories of something about a woman
And a time when he’d felt almost human?

Or what if I write about damsels and knights,
Or giants and dwarves and elves in fights
With assorted villains and torturers,
Like dragons, magicians, and sorcerers?

Or maybe the world would relish a tale
Of invasions on a galactic scale
That threaten the earth with annihilation
Till superheroes deliver salvation.

But whether the myriad books I might write
Would even be read or might kindle delight
Is academic, unless I proceed,
From start to finish, to do the deed.

Why does a hummingbird hum,
        And a butterfly fly?
Why do they only come
        When flowers are nearby?
        And why do flowers die?

And why does a river flow
        Into the distant sea?
Is that where people go
        When nature sets them free?
        Will you go there with me?

Our only happy sun
        Goes away at night.
But what if there were none
        To make the daytime bright?
        Where would we find light?

The sun must cast a ray
        To make new flowers grow.
Forever and today,
        The water’s constant flow
        Is all there is to know.

And as for you and me,
        Our love is always new.
Whatever the reason be,
        That’s why I love you,
        And why the butterfly flew.

To say “I love you” is equivalent
to saying I breathe air.

                                         Such sustenance
as I derive from oxygen devolves
so liberally, so reflexively upon me,
yet were I deprived of atmosphere,
the words “I breathe” would not avail to fill
my lungs with what they need, nor would the words
“I am a fish” convert my lungs to gills.

Ethereal by nature, not by choice,
I’m bound to love you notwithstanding my voice.

The children's photographs hang statically
from mobile threads training in the wind
of time and memory, flashing faces

smiling frozen in the blink of the eye
of mind as it focused at a time within
memory, impelling eternity

toward me now as spaces stretch between
the real trees grass sand and gulf
and places where the real faces move.

Grown-ups are too big to see the ground.
They watch the costumes, masks
and arms, the throws
into the crowds from giant floats
like little clouds.
They catch stuff in the air,
but if it hits the ground
they leave it there.

Grown-ups hide even the highest floats.
Backs and backs of heads and hands
like tiny treetops block
the view, so all I see
are tractor wheels and legs
and big shoes.

Grown-ups don’t know what they’re missing.
Dodging knees I stoop and scoop
up tons of treasures
in a blink. They think
they’re smart, but down here
I’m the King.