The roses you planted don't know
that you're dead.  
Dumb vegetation can't comprehend
the perversity of its
outliving you, how its
simple act of being
when you are not
is an affront to everything
decent and sane and just.  
A senseless vitality of
petals flash their idiot colours
through a shroud of needling frost.
It's not their fault.
The flowers cannot understand
that the one who gave them life
has died.
Whereas I pretend I do.

A pair of ravens fly
intertwining their paths
in the sky
dipping smoothly into the vast space
twirling and diving headfirst
rapidly falling towards tree tops
before gracefully gliding upwards
once more,
and I, watching from a distance
with my feet on solid ground
and my hands warmed by
a cup of coffee,
wish for myself a sense of
solitude and clarity
despite all the things
weighing me down
and the cruel clips that
hold my own wings captive
maybe one day
I will pick myself up off
the ground
and find the strength to
remove the chains
and set myself free,
free to fly,
free to soar among the clouds
and surrender to the beautiful
overwhelming vastness
of the world.

We’ve given our souls to Facebook
We naively took the hand
Of those who offered us candy
Laced with mind controlling words.

And we, like sheep, converged around
The lies and obfuscations,
Believing everything was true,
Ignoring shadows in the looking glass.

Everything keeps changing
But it always stays the same.
Those who see the stop signs
Are run down by those who don’t.

Our lives are full of ***** dishes
And our dreams are thick with dust.
The sun comes up, so we feel fine.
Who notices the storm clouds.

We worship at the small blue square,
Heeding the Siren’s deceptive song.
We offer up intelligence
On the altar made of midnight tweets.

Sleepwalker-like, we stumble on,
Convinced there is no cliff ahead,
That what the Judas Goat proclaimed
Will see us safely on our way.

We put up photos of our meals
And morph our face to kittens.
We have a thousand friended friends
But not a one who knows us.

We’ve sold our souls to the internet.
It cost us everything we had,
And now we can no longer see
We teeter on the precipice,
ljm

I PLAN TO DIE AT AGE 45
NO MATTER HOW MANY YEARS I’VE LIVED
-stolen

Standing on the brink of despair

perched between

the familiar grounds of a cruel world---

and the dark unknown vastness

of unexplored dangerous lands,

I relish in the warmth of your alluring smile

I trust that when all else fails me,

that is, when my reasoning and values, fail me

you will be able to

bring me back from the edge

and breathe warm life into my surroundings

because however cold and cruel it might be,

this world is the only thing that I have.

A Redtail Hawk
Perches the high tree
A barren branch
So she can see
I wonder what
She thinks of me...
Does she know
I'm also free?

She lets loose cries
So sharp & clear
She has no
Melody to hear
Just urgent need
For meat to tear
She has young
To feed & rear.

She's not prone
To ponder. Think.
She acts upon
Pure instinct
To swoop down
Upon her prey
So her young
Will eat today.

Human beings are
Burdened. Bound.
We are tethered
To the ground
Though flight machines
Are built... abound
We still have to
Fly in steel
To the hawk
There's no appeal.

We won't spread
Our wings & fly
From the earth
We view the sky
On this earth
For now we'll be
Only hawks
Perch in high trees.