I like old glass
with bubbles

Pockets of breath
of the dead laid to rest

I break and I breathe and I taste

Their spices
and vices

Kisses from wives
Curses and verses

Songs of themselves
Wine of their wrath

Salt from their baths

Smoke from their fires
Sweet tastes of desire

Shared sighs and cries
Dead butterflies

Air.

Dear diary,
I'm forever lopsided.
It's as if one side of me has gone to market,
And the other side went all the way home
And the rest of me is all caught in the middle
Torn, divided, uncertain
And somehow this is all set to the smell of roast beaf.

you swung the day into action
but the meditators took a different path;
by reason of their acknowledged weakness.
Now you are all worn out;
while the meditators could run a marathon,
and your energy is limited indeed,
dissipated by feelings of resentment toward those who would not do your bidding.

drip fed constant chalk history
now in a river of swelling
your fingers hurt copying so much banter
wrote up for blackboard copying
a teachers idea of learning;
fill those paper books to bursting
and learn practically nothing
except the route to freedom
a fight you took on early
when school became a burden
an obvious sell out to children
who were not for playing the game of forced crap education.