tiny scream
under my boot
  first step on Mars

what will be
my last sensation
before I die -
will it be the
touch
of your hand within mine?

what will be
the final taste in my mouth
before I die -
will it be your
kiss
moist upon my lips?

what will be
the very last thing I hear
before I die -
will it be your
whisper
in my ear?

what will be
the last sight in my eyes
before I die -
will it be your
face
looking at me?

what will be
my last thought
before I die -
will it be
of you
and our life together?

what will be
has not yet happened, but
before I die
I will live every day
with you
until what may be becomes
what will be

serpentine road
turns into the sun;
   my throttle opens

bullies
online and off-
they hide from their demons
by becoming monsters themselves
in vain

Saturday sidewalks are filled by the youthful,
the boys with young muscles and hard heads,
the girls with soft skin under short skirts.
They wander sidewalks in search of escape.
Each of them dance with lust,
drink hard,
and inject madness
into their veins.

On Sunday mornings,
after the splendor of uninhibited release,
the young weep in regret of poor choices,
their air saturated in reality.

Sidewalks then belong to the wise
who wake from a good rest.
These men and women drink roasted coffee,
reflect on a transcendent spirituality,
read great poetry,
and meet friends to discuss
the roots of democracy.

Every year, the unchanging concrete slabs
of sidewalks appear slightly different.
They reflect our perspectives.
Sidewalks that once led to freedom,
now lead to enlightenment.
In future years,
these same sidewalks
will lead to rest.

Alone
in the desert
of my sable anguish -
a solitary wildflower,
I weep.

twilight -
above my uncut grass
two fireflies