I’ve found another gem in the creek,
it shines with blue orbs in the sun
and white pearls before a coffee
black canvas.  I will keep this one

but I can’t remember
where I put the last one…  time
took it away on travels tragic— mythic—
and I don’t miss it anymore

now that I have you, my shiny gem,
smoothed geode, cracked
down the center
like the last earthquake that struck my passions

terrified I’ll lose you, I put you away
in a perfect box, in the perfect darkness
of a crawl space crack, a loose closet wallboard

where I will never look again,
hidden
by an idea, hidden
by what I need you to be,
hidden with furious passions

only rivaled
by that of a 12-year-old’s rock collection.

if i commanded every atom
with half a thought
and pulled your eyes to mine
                                just to smile.

if i twisted the paths of time
and space
just to pass you walking
                               all i could do is smile.

even if i ruled the universe,
Your slightest glance
smallest smirk
wanton quirk, would bring
lips to hide my tongue
and lungs to miss the air.

yet you'll wonder why
i don’t want the universe

The silence of poetry stings
in a dry mouth filled with fear,
And regret
that grows with every smile,
blush, and signal from the wilting
petals, but even dew
drops falling from an Iris
fail to wet dry wells.

The flower will die of neglect
but there are dozens waiting
to take its place.

Poetry will never forget
the piles of withered brown
stems, hardened thorns
and blackened petals

but still will never speak
for a tongue that quakes
behind its pearly prison.

Let it rain on ladies clothing,
bright young faces
and warm damp
places.  Let it rain
on scorching sands,
hibiscus petals,
and rusting metals.
Let it rain on fallen leaves,
through steaming breath
which, so soon knows
death.  Let it rain.
Let it rain the last drop
of sunshine from existence,
and whet the world with
darkness.

I stared at the hollow plastic black handles,
disgusted.
my blood shot eyes burn within the cheap
yellow tape
used to keep the covers on so they
stay sticky.
red print, black letters, yellow tape
so ugly
I looked at their cold metal tan shelf with a
sticky stain
then up at the gas station attendant, a fat
greasy man
in an unwashed t-shirt stained with
armpit sweat
who stared at nothing, mouth agape
and useless.

I thought how little care went into the
lint roller,
one purpose with no need to be pretty
or perfect.
how little care his mother put into
raising him,
how little care he put into himself,
sickening.
disgusted I lifted my gun with ecstasy
and fired.
a smatter of red decorates the bland
station walls
that shines with rapture in the florescent,
dimly lit lights.
lint rollers only have one purpose, so
I leave them.

In a gorgeous bunch of bright green grapes
the purple pigment was suspicious.
It took courage to cleanly twist and taste
to find it too, was delicious.

She lifts a heavy lid to look into the trash
finding shriveled sisters on skeletal stems.
They had hung themselves atop
their vines, wasted gems.

She caught a peek of the clever cook’s salad-
all green grapes served as superior fruits
oblivious to their missing colleagues
grown from identical roots.

In a gorgeous bunch of bright green grapes
the purple pigment was suspicious.
Because the cleaver cook took no chances
the patrons will never know

purple was delicious.