The angels are out of the frame
because they argue with the sky;
draping their harp string arms,
plucking their halo hair.
Below, in the secret basement,
they are celebrating the water of life.
Above, in the attic,
Leon King sleeps,
drunk.
His eyes are blurry rivers,
flooding the velvet land,
like the place where the dragon keeper plants
his spurting purple fountains.
Destination?
Darkness.

Flaying columns use to be order
In a Utopian world
Where rules spiraled down the walls
Even when the highways bled
And people held onto cold hands.

Sunday evenings use to be ecstasy
In a simple world
Where lust ran wild through the doors
Even when the tongues flared
And people lived out of their mind.

Bruising necks use to be pain
In a care-free world
Where love caused happiness
Even when the knives plunged
And people winced with blows.

Am I the only one looking up?
I apologize that I find the world so alive,
even though the living are a dying volume -
closer to mute day by day.
That is what I see when I look around.
Mechanical sounds, fingernails tapping.
One day, our point of existence will be hammered
into a useful metal machine,
our brains useless - bowing down to a radiating screen.
Every light bulb is dim; they can't scream or fight,
their sources spit in protest.
Questions are satisfactory without answers.
No one is curious.
No one Questions.
Weak necks, bobbling down- down - to a control claw,
are disconnected from mind and body.
Since when did reputation build on fantasty
and when did people we don't know or like
become more important ?
More important than reality?
How does it feel to die?
Eyes already cast downward..
'Die' isn't instantaneous,
it can be slow and now.
Am I the only one looking up?
Can you still hear?
or do I need to be lips -
attached to those earphones.
Have you drowned out the world yet?
(I'm swimming in it).
I apologize that I am lost being alive
and I apologize that somewhere
in a place that doesn't exist,
you are lost.

An elephant's sword,
    a lifetime straw
A root's explosion,
    an artist's draw
An automobile's pore,
    a backwards claw
A swimmer's suit,
     an eel's gnaw
An immigrant's home,
     a broken jaw
A storage for value,
    an eggshell raw
A trunk I say,
    If I ever did saw.

How do you write a poem
about yourself
when you don't even know why
you scratch at your leg until it bleeds
like the leaky thoughts in your head
that run more quickly than an itchy spider bite
that nipped your neck at night
and you threw out the window
two stories down
and it fell like a poisonous asteroid
onto the sleeping cricket
who gave luck to you
when you sat for hours on a branch,
a protrusion of an apple tree
that one dying dusk night
in which a silk string lowered down
to your shoulder and a widow spoke
apologizing for scaring you
but don't you know I can't forgive myself
and I can only apologize to you
and say I am sorry because
I Love You has gotten packed away
and I don't even know why.

There were arguments propped sideways against the wall,
tilted away from the light switch.
Explanations of the preceding incitements
flickered inside the wall like delayed fireworks
at the foot of a tight rope walker.
Feelings traveled hidden ,
ones I hate to witness - too naked at the surface
like a safe bobbing the surf.
I ran out of reasons to the argument
and forgot to unscrew the bulbs,
I could smash the idea to pieces
and sort the glass and tungsten apart.
Our sources were wrong.