The caricature of a drip.
Defining in it the sum of a short existence. A life.
Wet and alive and pendulously hanging.
I stare up from the caged depths, my eyes eagerly alive
as it drips down in a cascading spiral
less destructively than I have dripped.
A drip to know and to watch like the T.V. (that's never off).
To see the freedom in its fall.
But once dripped, dies alone. Ripped out.
Disconnected from the unsurviving cloud.
Unpoured, it seems, I murmer out loud.

I watch another drip. My reflection watches back, I'm sure.
I wish for it to break, so I can close my eyes
and hold, for a moment, a friend. A life.  
And to feel the dependence of the drip's lullaby.

Does nothing more than a drip make sense?
I gasp as they escort my back.
And does it listen when I tell it of my life
before it drips out of me like freedom in fashionable attire?
Redder than the red-lipped mouth of a liar
concerned with "family matters" and saying "sign here".
Lies that drip out of them like foolish wars.
Or the painted affections for a newborn child.
Oh such terribly dreadful dripful lies they are.

Down. Down. Down.

I'll fall down the endless corridor away from them all.
And drip beneath the cementum cracks of the floor.
I'll hide with my drip.
I'll drip with my drip.
I'll sip it a bit. Bitter, but I sleep better, I think as I slip away.

Drip. Drip. Drip.
Even after I'm gone.

where I live
the blooming of the Bradford Pear
is always the first flower of Spring
a tree filled with tiny
bright white blossoms
raining petals like snow
a pastoral picture of seasonal beauty
scene in almost every suburban community
but the flowers give off
a powerful stench
like rotten fruit
or an infected wound
or a diseased crotch
that hangs in the air forever
like a fog of swampgas
I hate the smell of Bradford Pear
it can hit me from a block away
and stay with me for hours
pounding at my sinuses until
I think my head will explode
it overwhelms everything
for the first few weeks
of every Spring
and even though it makes me miserable
and even though I hate it
and even though it stinks all to hell
because it is the first sign of life
the first sign of Spring
every Spring
it always makes me feel
so happy
a delicious pain
reminding me
that I am alive

Take the flower
from the garden
twist the stem
it will bleed bitter sap
a single perfumed
tear
will stain one leaf
Conscripted
To      blossom
                                 a    w   a     y

she will hold her carbon dioxide
Breath
And scorn a blessed sun
Petals dry an elegant
Death
    
         Beauty
Wilts
           In
                                      
                                     isolation

We crave the approval of existence
- 'tis the most intimate longing of man
                              
what can satisfy [this void of desire]?
     *only the whisper of God.

Shadows of a chandelier
Beautiful mystery of dark and light
Dancing, weaving, wondering, feeling
Not seeing with glassy eyes

Light fragmented sun ray cracked
The mind casts long reels of doubt
Wonder yet confusion
Enjoyment yet delusion

How many roles to play?
Theatrical conceit
Characters as hours of a day?
Eye-catching as deceit

Illustrious – lustre – lust –  last?
Lest lukewarm fire stir
The ashes sprinkled
Memory of the present
Mourning love yet to be lost

Why hold a storm for the rainbow?
But let the sun shine
And be glorious in its God-written course
To set and rise in perfect time

I roll out my mind
I knead to concentrate
I pound and pound and pound
Trying to smooth it straight
And once it’s even
I roll up my sleeves
And cut shapes with the cutters
Of reason and release
Now holes are left
In interesting shapes
And I roll up what’s left
To start over again

I’m on a roll
I knead to concentrate