The glass of wine spins on sins
Encircling the royal roulette
All rotating on a hamster wheel
Pinned on canvas and illusional walls

So tiny in errors and unbalanced books
Unaccounted annotated distributions
Twisting hands on colluded coils
Deeper projections from the heart

An eruption of the social notions
Extracted on the paradise of life
For no truth echoes authenticity
Eccentrically finding a lived reality

Plato symposiums and simulacrums
Pavlov trails of social conditioning
Sampled in tented objectifications
Functioning within the invisible rules

We sniffle as we expose the false actuality
Reactive explosions from robust heat
Unloaded rods dancing under the moon
In our tenderness rejecting the paradigm

Who've tasted freedom
will have no appetite for
less; silence be ******.

I once worked the sign
at the intersection
of Facebook and HelloPoetry.
All those years when
secure in my job,
flush with cash,
I'd not meet the eyes
of those who muttered
"thank you, sir"
on those rare occasions
when a crumpled dollar
fell from my hand into theirs.
So I now tell on myself
to bleed the shame
from the arrogance,
never knowing the courage
it takes to look the privileged
in the eyes and ask for help
until I stood on the corner
clothed only in my naked need.

This is a poem about ***. I am a strong and beautiful creature. I'll buy presents for all my friends. The sand is to bed and sheets are to ocean.  I call myself unclean. I take another pill I find under the cushion of my neighbor's sofa. I play the violin in a dream. It started because I learned I was in love with you. I memorized the waves of your contours. I call up all my exes and leave voicemails on their answering machines. I'll break things into perfections.

I call myself unforgiven.

When the 'Canadians' return to the countryside in November ,
morning gaggles will fly right by my very window !
Off for a break on the banks of Port Lake , to rest a spell from their
arduous travel , to stretch their wings , collect their thoughts and get a few winks !
Up in the morning for a quick 'Dixie Breakfast' then back to the business
of travel along the river .. Cruising down the Chattahoochee with a brief rest stop in Columbus , then back to 'The Blue' , nonstop and bound for home in warm , serene Florida ...

when my son was younger
he asked -

how old are the mountains
from where did the First People come
why does the sun sleep in the ocean
what is the color of rain

now that my son is older
stronger, wiser and bolder
he asks -

how old are the mountains...
...what is the color of rain


some things don't change.

In the evening I will open a store
that sells shadows, to compliment the dying
of the day.

My first customer will be a man who
drowns himself in holy water, who buys his
dreams secondhand.

Dream analysis is useless on this one,
the metaphors are cheap and only relevant
to their original owners.

Instead of swallowing magic he will swallow
his own fears, he buys a shadow that will hide
his form completely, he stands in the center of the
stage, and with a flash and a bang he disappears.

Field crickets will play glorious music by the light of the crescent Moon ,
Elves will sing songs of sweet Summer in the name of beautiful June ..