The King of Shards and Metal Shaving,
His consort; Queen of Flaking Rust,
and the Prince of Powdered Pulverized Stone
reign over nothing but dust.

All they fear is a sudden gust
- a brazen wind or rebel breeze
that dares expose landscapes of chalky bone:
skeleton-subjects who once bent knees,
millions who bowed to their Majesties
  proclaiming idiot-edicts, raving,
"This is Holy War!"  "Righteous!"  "Just!"
Now they are bleached remains past saving.

Blood was the wasted acid engraving
tributes in sand to names-unknown.
And none now hear the royal decrees
from each clown on each crumbling tin-foil throne.

The King of Gasping, Dying Moan,
The Queen of  Last Convulsive Breath,
and the Prince of the Final Beat of the Heart
rule in their realm of death.

is playing head games with a Buddhist;
making the Buddhist boiling mad;
getting under the Buddhist's skin
until the Buddhist swears like a trucker...
Or you could watch a funny movie.

I see myself best with my inner eye.
I'm constantly thinking...
   trying to improve myself.
Perhaps when I think more of others
   I will become a thoughtful person
   and look towards helping others.
Naval-gazing is SO tedious.
Nobody is perfect.

The writer makes his rueful confession:
he turned an acquaintance into an obsession,
objectifying and fantasizing...
lying, denying, poorly disguising
the gaping wounds is his head and heart.
This is agony.
Is this Art?

A silver Mylar balloon
escaped the prison
of some child's grip
to float past my window
and upwards toward
destruction.
That's life.

Lord,
  let me choke on a chocolate bar
  or drown in an ocean of honey
  that those who grieve my loss may say,
  "His passing was tragic  -  but funny."
Then lay me out in a caramel coffin
  with a marshmallow pillow 'neath my head.
   Dress me in garments of butterscotch
    and I shall eat sugar the days I am dead.
Tuck some toffees into my pocket
   plus a few peppermints (for my breath...).
Put a raisinette rosary in my fingers.
I'll sleep in a sweet diabetic death.
When I draw near to the pearly gates,
St. Pete, greet me with Hershey in hand.
Give me my harp and halo of licorice.
I'll enter the promised Candyland.

Crocodilian jaws,
reptilian claws,
an Everglades heart
and swamp-gas ****.
A bayou brain
that's not quite sane.
Mud for blood.
A rhyme of slime.
Moss in my eye.
Goodbye!