Down Isle one thousand
in booth number three
you'll find trepidation
Brewed up in a tea

A new reservation
A live presentation
of self preservation
In the row next to me

A section of reflection
and anger deflection
will give me direction;
This seminar is free!

A booth full of flyers
with snitches and liars
are there for the criers
"Out of place", I decree!

Discover the artist
that's working the hardest
ideas are farthest
from reality

Their booth I will spend
all the way till the end
their work, it will mend
me holistically

When the convention is over
my home, I will rover
to settle with the prover
my sanity

The trip was successful
relaxing and restful
no longer so stressful
natrually

As I lay on my comfort king
fading in slowly from falsehood
splatters of moisture pain the leaves
and drip on to other things
that gravity has claimed for its own

Splatters of rain on aluminum
liquid flowing through it's crevice
gathering momentum' s energy
gliding down the metal channel
giving it's soul back to the earth

Oh, for what was I a boy, so long ago,
Dancing freely amongst the tall tree tops.
Greedily breathing the morning dew's glow,
Mind settling down, vast daydreaming flops.

Gazing eyes upon sweets and fruits of bliss,
Sorrow has it's days and merriment be.
As bitterness eye followed for a kiss,
Delivered confusion under my tree.

Curious rovers bellow sounds of bleak,
Hell fellows chamfer happiness askew.
Mind's eye worrying a shadowless shriek,
Running humming my innocence aflew.

Events that played out like song of sorrow,
Gift to thine eye and forgotten tomorrow.

Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourishèd?
    Reply, reply.
It is engender’d in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
    Let us all ring Fancy’s knell:
    I’ll begin it,—Ding, ****, bell.
All.  Ding, ****, bell.

I can't reach you
they do not move
nailed to the cross
broken arms

Shattered at the bone
blistered and diseased
muscular atrophy
broken arms

They want to feel
they want to grow
they want to give warmth
broken arms

Would you lend your strength
so that they can give you
one last hug?
broken arms

Will you please nail them
back onto the cross
so that they can be numb again?
broken arms

Will you please walk away
and leave me in agony
sorrow is the new happy
broken arms

Do not pity me
pity is for the weak
my knuckles drag on the ground
broken arms

Rotten and deformed
decayed and putrid
burred six feet under
broken arms

poems are words
books are dead tattooed trees
what is my life

was uttered in a
computer generated,
non-demeaning,
gender neutral tone
by the impersonal,
unemotional,
automated,
grocery checkout machine.

"Enter your customer ID now!"
demands the artificial human.

"And... if I don't?"
I query the metallic shell
of what once was
a minimum wage employee.

There was no reply.