Until now, my best work yet: a boat, a love, the Leonids.
Quite beautiful as heartbreaks go, a near miss on a midnight
lake, with wishes dropping left and right. I laughed at that,
said take me back, and until then, I thought I meant
to shore. Nice story; camera fixed on Indian Point, boat exits
left 'neath fireworks, sponsored by the Galaxy, brought to you
by Tunnelvision. Cue piano, pretentious fin, but then
you – a star: hotter than those meteors, colder than those
miles of lake. I wrote you in, rough draft, known as
the man who loved this woman best, but take your bow;
you've been recast: the man who loved this woman last.

My Window

Staring out my window,
sometimes the view is very wide,
sometimes the view is very small,
How can that be, it's the same window?,
sometimes my window is CinemaVision,
sometimes my window is TunnelVision,
and sometimes the blinders offer no vision,
how can I be so right, and yet again be so wrong?,
how can I love so deeply, and yet show such little regard?,
my world is so incredibly large,
and yet so infinitesimal,
I cannot believe most of the things I can see,
how am I supposed to believe the things I can't?,
I wish I had answers to some of the troubles of the world,
but it seems I have none, nada, zip, clueless,
I consider my self fairly smart, but obviously I'm quite stupid,
is it me or does the world seem to becoming more difficult?
I can't even understand what is going on outside my window,
how in the hell can I help mankind?

Gomer LePoet...

Robust numbers resist
With stubborn clarity
As tunnelvision experience suborns denial
Facts persist

There is a man making his way through a moonlit field of sugarcanes
He is weilding a machete that clears the way for him
He slashes viciously and clears an impressive area with each swing

The sweat is running down his forehead now
His breath and his heartbeat is all he can hear
Thanks to his tunnelvision a stray swing slashes through the canes-
and into his left leg

The dark stream is pooling in his boots now
He can't quite feel the pain, but panics none the less
The slashes grow more ferocious, a distinct twang sounds with each swing

The man inflicts more wounds upon himself
Each wound strenghtens his resolve in turn
Every swing greater than the last, every step more ******



There is a man laying in a moonlit field of sugarcanes
At first he curses the venture, what a sorry mess!
After that he weeps without sound, what else can he do?

Lastly he looks back at the whole thing
Sliced up vegetation and pools of dark blood
Everything will be ok.