a pile of old tvs at the edge of a road
below a "dead end" sign

some upright
some sideways
some upside down

still tuned

through their cracked screens
and broken dials
and crooked antennas

to a red, white and blue test pattern

a sip of red wine
at the start of the evening
pastels streak the sky

memory is a story.  it's not a
clean story.  it is a story without
a beginning, middle or end.  it has
many words and pictures that are unclear.
plot points can be revealed at awkward times.  
supporting characters become leads and
leads become extras.  the narrator can
be unreliable.  rising action
can build to an underwhelming ******.
quotes seem to appear from unknown sources.
it is full of story threads that don't go
anywhere, like romances that never
bloom and confrontations that won't happen.
many problems are never resolved and
there are stories within the story with
no discernible meaning.  the hero
confronts many obstacles, but it is
uncertain as to whether a goal was
achieved by doing so.  despite these flaws,
the story reveals a truth, like all good
stories do.  the reader is the author,
and the author the reader.  "and so on".

one sunday in the park
i sat across from a woman in white
her head was hidden
beneath a big pale hat

and a dachshund
with a sunshine yellow collar
sat at her feet
brown eyes
droopy and searching
   staring

as i ate
a hot dog with mustard

sunshine yellow

swan's wake
ripples
rusty leaves bob

tap, click, shuffle

"where are you, sister?"
echoes of the old house

old wood
hard cherry

the staircase unfurls
from the haze

the hallway recedes
out of focus

laughter
pitter-patter

up and down
round the corner

again
and again

white dresses streak
"don't look back, sister"

tap, click, shuffle

the stairs
hold our secrets

aging lessons
written with chalk, sweat and years
for ageless pupils

A detective married a witch.
In a few years, he wanted a switch.

He slinked and slunk out every night,
and thought he kept his sins out of sight.

But one thing he could not hide from her nose,
the scent of strange perfumes on his clothes.

One night when the hour was late,
she conjured a fitting fate.

She cast a spell.
He fell down in a well.

So it came as no surprise,
no one ever got wise.

For the only man who could solve the case
was lying forever and ever, in a very dark place.

She stood at the edge.  It was winter and
the lake was frozen.  Teenagers skated
in the distance.  They held hands and glided
in circles, laughing.  She wondered how they
missed the cracks.  The giant cracks.  Maybe they
saw them and just didn't care.  She closed her
eyes and breathed in, letting the cold air fill
her lungs.  Blades scraped and voices faded.  She
then opened her eyes and began to shout.

The old giant sat on a green grass bed
between two mountains
and pulled a cloud right over his head.

But just before his eyes closed for a long, long night,
he knew he wasn't going on alone.
For he gazed upon a final graceful sight,
angels swimming in the colors of the

distant
  
  waning light.

The hunter spotted the lovers through the pines
as the sunset splashed orange over their arcing spines.

An abstract sculpture of flesh, a piece of accidental art;
a secret masterpiece that warmed the hunter's heart.

He walked away and thought of his own long lost youth
and how lucky he was to have witnessed a fleeting fragment
    of nature's elegant truth.

i see their faces
from my fortified tower

revolution brews

she wanted a new face
because everything in the mirror
looked completely out of place

everyone told her she was so lovely
but despite all of that
she wanted to be just a little less ugly

the doctor said, "your visage, i can improve!"
so he gave her a mask
that she could not ever remove

The floating discs from on high
brought a tear to the old man's eye.

He remembered a rhyme
from a long-forgotten time.

"The angels will come,
marching to heaven's drum.

Be ready and look to the skies.
Arise, my son, arise."

to dream of a sea beyond white cliffs
where water bends around a pale sun
only to awake and stumble onto the living land
and feel the dirt between my toes

again and again and again

glassy black shoes
pinpoint tie
razor keen cuffs
and a sugary smile

he comes clickety-clack
heels eating blacktop
lies on his tongue
licking a black lollipop

one hand in his pocket
ready to make a deal
his eyes sparkle
your soul he can feel

if you want some advice
don't dare shake his hand
he's filling his library
with the hearts of the ******

what do you want from that woman you want
do you want it all or just some of it
what's beneath all the want; is it a need
maybe it's a need to want and, that's life.

the vampire hunter and his son
were like "lone wolf and cub"
if you know about that one

well they were always together
battling the undead
through all types of weather

then one fateful eve
they could not help but perceive
the shining blood moon meant war
they were not naive

outnumbered they were
and survival wasn't assured
but they battled and brawled
until it all was a blur

but when the smoke cleared
it was not as they'd feared
for all the fanged beasts
had been successfully speared

the hunter then turned to his boy -
victory! they both were about to enjoy
but the hunter saw something that made him a wreck
two tiny red holes in his child's perfect neck

for his son had been bitten
and so it was written
this would be his final dawn -
he was incurably stricken

fate was something they could not ignore
so they waited until the dark was no more
he vowed to always remember his son's final night
as they walked, hand in hand, into the sunlight

got caught on a tree, just had to tell you
a branch drew blood, and on my arm printed
an entrance stamp to this special venue,
written in red: a place for the wounded.

“how are things going, i wish you were here
what’s the weather like and have a good time
how ‘bout a toast with your favorite beer
i hate to go now, it feels like a crime”.

something made me stop, i wasn’t yet done,
i looked back and saw, while nursing my scar,                    
the colors and shapes had blurred into one:
a singular vision, clear from afar.

the carved stones nestled in the grass, just mown
looked like lost feathers from a flock, just flown

a "forbidden" fruit
that keeps the doctor away
what a conundrum

nothing like an unexpected embrace,
a gift of surprise affection, to teach
you how to embrace the unexpected

it was cold and sunny
and as i drove into my parents' neighborhood i saw
my dad walking the dog
i rolled down the window and shouted, "hello"

(the dog was so excited to see me)

my dad helped me with my taxes
and my mom said her scar from surgery was healing well

i later went to see a play
with only nine people in the audience
but the two actors were on fire

they both were eating apples
and one was smashed on the stage
underneath an angry character's foot

i stared at that crushed apple,
white and red concentric patterns
flattened into the brown stage floor
like a painting yet hung

a work of art
at the end of a cold and sunny day

jutting twilight clouds
rest low on the horizon
like pink-tipped mountains

it's a place i've only seen in pictures
a ruddy monument of sand and stone
with bold striations like ancient scriptures;
a history engraved upon a colossal throne.

Jump in
Taste the brine

Art lives
Beyond the wall

Future love songs
Ride the swell

Your makeup runs
In the rain

Back street kisses
Well-rehearsed

Cracked vinyl piles
Like onyx shards
Like impressions
Like fantasies

Water beads
Slide along the grooves

Your spattered lipstick
Your chipped nails

It is cold here

Under the clouds

blue-collar artists
that's what we all are, looking
for perfect beauty

he rode deeper into the desert, his
tongue dustier than his boots.  the thirsty
noonday sun siphoned the last drops of sweat
from the back of his blazing, blistered neck.
the horse staggered.  he knew he was just dead-
weight in the saddle and there was nothing
but sand.  mounds, bluffs, ridges of pale yellow.
time passed.  passed?  but the savage sun was still.

then

she appeared on the dune in silk.  blue.  a
cornflower blue that rippled against her
body.  he closed his eyes and thought of the
rolling fields of breeze-ruffled, dotted blue
back home
he saw himself riding ahead and then
he was there.  off his horse at the foot of
the dune, and she descended.  her eyes were
the same blue as her dress and her lips, red
lips, were parted and he could see her hips
move like liquid through the silk.  swish. swish.  as
she came closer her long dark hair brushed her
shoulders.  swish. swish.  and then she was there and
she pulled him into her breast and he breathed
in and it smelled like the wildflowers
back home
and the silk felt cool and he wanted to
drink it from her body and she drew him
down onto the sand and it wasn't hot
and he began to run his cracked hands up
her thighs and she sighed and he felt it on
his face like a spring gust from the green hills
back home.

then

the federales found him three feet from
the edge of the oasis.  face down, arm
outstretched over a patch of grass.  water,
like a mirror to the sky, lapping his
chafed fingertips.

what's behind our eyes these days
is it memories
or dreams
of things yet unseen

what's behind them these days
history, hope, damage and pain
a cluster of neurons
igniting the brain

besieged by screens
with eyes of their own
that record and reflect
all they've been shown

are we any different
have our eyes turned to ice
milky and blank
a clean recording device

what's behind our eyes these days
is anything trapped and want to break free
the answer is very simple
open them and see

the dance hall smelled of chlorine and formaldehyde
as the corpses did the robot
and the music clattered around like
a drunk in the dark

i saw you and wondered why
you ignored me and then I remembered
it was me
who ignored you

then the dead shuffled around
and somebody broke a hip
and you left when I looked away
or because I looked away

but a zombie broke a hip and
who wouldn't look at that

gloves, boots, eyes and breath
neon fingers grip the steam

time doesn't live here

turn.  a sweep of curls, piano-key black.
wave me inside with forget-me-not eyes.

i wanted to write something about your
energy and how i like being in
its halo.  something about how i want
to dive beneath your sun-kissed surface and
feel what makes your heart beat.  the metaphors
aren't quite right and the flow is off but then
again, emotions often live between
the words so i guess this is what i want
to say after all.  please pardon the mess.

deep inside the mountain tunnel

a needle of light

a dream cast all in blue
choked on trapped steam as
the rising roar of the train's whistle
blows stillborn from a weathered pen
deprived of ink for the final pages
of an invisible masterpiece