Skyward streak of light,
Sun glints off satellite,
Marionette play.

living every night
on my fingertips
touching the disorganized
alphabet on my lap
breathing every day
day dreaming the next words
I'll compose when
the sun sets
living every morning
with my feelings
of yesterday
on my computer screen

As a child, everything was free, real,
like early spring air.
Birds were infinite
and could fly to heaven.  
Now air is stiff wood,
and birds only **** on cars.

I took out the dagger to take a stab.
I yawned.
They fawned over the shops on Bond Street.
I yawned
We drank Cristal Brut.
I yawned.
The lights of Times Square dazzled.
I yawned.
The toast crumbs were ******.
I yawned.
The people prayed.
I yawned.

I asked God,
“How do I settle this?”
“Give me your sock,” God said.
So I did.
“Sever all your limbs.”
So I did, one by one.
God stuffed the legs, arms,
and drippings into my sock,
blood-soaking it.
And with that cocktail sock
God smacked me  
and sat silent.
“Now what?”

God yawned.

Sometimes I thirst
So intensely for something
Which I cannot identify
That I
Drink glasses
Of ice water
Until the feeling of nausea
Takes over
And I
Forget my illusive thirst.
And though
It isn't for water that I thirst,
I am unable to name that
For which
I do thirst
And am therefore
Forced to quench
The only thirst I know.