Hippopotamus
in a Hot-tub. Hyena
Hallucinations.

Get going Gary!
Grab a gun, ghillie, and grub
Guinea's gonna glide.

A forgotten farm
feeds fire. Flustered flocks flee
from falling framework.

Electric echoes
endlessly enter the air.
Enemies enter.

Don't dream in daylight.
Drink desires down, deep down.
Dance in their darkness.

Chipped cups containing
cold coffee. "Carefully child,
carry cautiously."

Bullets, bombshells, boots,
blasted buildings, broken bones.
A blitzkrieg bombing.

Ambled ambitions,
an aching audacity;
aged adventurer.

Well after the conductor yelled,
“All aboard,” and well after all
of the tickets were punched;
a group of people,
who didn’t know one another
were all headed north.

Little hands turned through pages
while larger ones were cupping
at the window, trying to get
a better view of the night sky.
A farmers pasture flashed by,
but went unnoticed in the dark.

A few seats down slouched a frail
grey haired lady, with her hands
clasped around a small bouquet
of daises.  And across the aisle,
towered a man who’s hands
could hold a dozen eggs.

Alone in the corner was a red
dressed woman; doing her best
to not spill her coffee. She watched
the children next to her fall
into an innocent sleep.
And ripples echoed in her fingers.

She thought about how strange it is
that everyone on a train
can be going the same direction
but have different destinations.
And then she thought about
how tired the conductor had looked.

After Henry Taylor*

On a peaceful night just as the stars had
risen and the chilled dew was beginning
to form on the grass, a set of steel tracks
resting atop an ordinary hill
began to hum with warm vibrations as

a steam-powered engine came towards them,  
pulling along an assortment of goods,
it came fast and came loud, breaking all of
the solitude by the hill, but perhaps
it was going too fast or maybe the
tracks were a little wet or it may be
that the train simply wanted to jump, but

just as it reached the turn atop the hill,
it leaned off its path and like a rubber
band; the rest followed, throwing to the air
everything held inside, tumbling down
the hill, splashing through the water droplets

until finally coming to a rest
at the bottom, where splintered lumber and
distorted steel had torn up earth to show
a mound of fresh dirt, riddled with gravel
and twigs, the hill became quiet once more,
just as the train whispered its final gasp
and the dew began to form on its wheels.

I remember asking my dad,
“How many stars are in the sky,”
and he said something like,
“Way too many to count.”
But I’ve counted.
And after recounting
                                      and recounting
and scribbling in my notebook
under my fathers flashlight
I can tell you that there is
indeed a number.

And to this day I prefer
reading the stars over anything.
They’re the oldest book ever written.
Space: the oldest canvas to be sewn
and the cosmos the paint of Picasso.
Each spec is its own character
each pair a set of eyes
where I can lose myself in their gaze.
A celestial connect the dots
where I collect the pictures
and pick out my favorite spots.

But when my son
is old enough to ask,
“How many stars are in the sky?”
I’ll just hand him a notebook
and tell him to read what he sees.

She didn’t always drink her coffee black.
The milk would spill in, staining the drink
until the perfect hue was achieved
and she’d think what her mother used to think.
“You are always right where you need to be.”
And she’d watch a sugar cube float around
for a few minutes, until the bronze sea
took it away. And her silk dressing gown
trickled past her body just as her new
buyer came to the door. She took one sip
and tried not to let her mascara strew
or even let the mug smear at her lips.
She poured everything down the kitchen sink
and tried to forget what her mother might think.

I've written you a letter and I'll send it soon.
It's two pages, twice folded and slipped
into an off-white envelope
where I've licked the back flap
and pressed it down firmly.

Your location is scribbled on the front,
centered almost perfectly
and my address sits top left
just in case your house is no longer there
and the postman decides to return to sender.

However, the corners are beginning to fray
and a small coffee stain
curves around one side,
looping over the place
where a stamp should be.

Your name is starting to fade
and I'm not sure if the 6 in your address
is a 6 at all. So maybe the postman
will just lose it in a sea of forgotten paper
and one day you’ll swim over to it.

I would like you to read the letter I've written,
but the idea behind a message in a bottle
only works if you toss the **** thing overboard.
And the only time I ever told you I loved you
is collecting dust inside my desk.

She calmly unlocks the front door
as the wind flings the screen
through wild tantrums. She droops down
into her dusted rocker, pushing
with her lavender heels to start the sway.

Her sole taps softly,
as the chair creaks onto fallen lacquer
and the porch plays in discord
through dancing lace.

Interwoven hands lie atop her lap
in a sea of navy with floral ships
at its surface. Silver strands
fall from her clouded bun
and a few locks float past her sunken shoulders.

With jaded eyes she looks at the corner
to a poor table, where a cold candle
peaks among a grassy field of melted wax
riddled with burnt fuses.

And near the candle, a dusted white hat
remains anchored to the wooden surface.
She can still smell the stale cigar smoke
lingering in the room. “He’ll be here soon,”
she thinks as her daze slowly sets in.

The world seems quiet
as she fills her eyes with sleep
and the chair continues its march.
Her hands unlock from their grasp
and the screen door gently knocks.

An elephant graveyard
rests, etched on my TV
as I listen to the howl
echoing from outside
the window. Grabbing
my rifle filled with pellets
I stride outside to face it.

Adrenaline clouds my vision
as this monster of an animal,
this beast of a creature
glares at me. With his flesh
thirsty fangs, drooling
with spit. Ready to rip
me apart and bury the bones.
It growls with want
as it shakes the sick dust
from its mangy coat.
Hair hanging off his skin
like the dead clothing
from its past prey.
Cracking my petrified bones
I fall to my knee
and pump after pump
I prepare my weapon.
With fingers dancing their way
to the ready trigger, I hold
my aim. Steady. Breathing.
Pull. I release my breath
as the gun exhales a shot
into the body of the beast.

A cry shoots out
from the pounding heart
of this whimpering animal.
And as I watch
with regret tumbling
down my cheek. The dog
stumbles off
into the shadowing forest
so that I will never
shoot it again.

I have never seen
The slumber of any fish
Nor has one seen mine

You know those tears you get
When you can't stop laughing
Because you don't want to
And they just rest on your cheeks
Until you finish your laughter
And you wipe them away

You know those tears you get
When you watch a sad movie
And you feel like the characters are real
Even though they're not
And the tears just rest by your lips
Until the movie is over
And you wipe them away

You know those tears you get
When you say goodbye to a friend
And you don't want them to go
But they need to go
And the tears just rest on your chin
Quivering
Until the dust settles
And you wipe them away

You know those tears you get
When you walk down the aisle
And everything is perfect
When love is beautiful
And the tears just collect on your eyes
Until you need to blink
And you wipe them away

You know those tears you get
When you remember yesterday
And you wish it were alive again
But it isn’t
And the tears just fall to the ground
They soak into the Earth
And you can't wipe them away

I wish I could turn her voice into a song
And play it for everyone to hear
And it would sell out concerts
But no one would sing along with it
They would just listen
Because her voice is so beautiful
I wish I could turn her voice into a song
But I can’t get the notes right
And the lyrics don’t fit

I wish I could capture her beauty in a painting
And display it in a gallery
And everyone would come
To gaze at the canvas
Just to see how perfect I think she is
Because I think she’s so close to it
I wish I could capture her beauty in a painting
But I can’t get the strokes right
And the colors don’t fit

I wish I could turn her into a movie
And it would play in every theater there is
And everyone would buy a ticket
To stare at a moving screen
Just so they could see two hours of her life
Because two hours seems like enough
I wish I could turn her into a movie
But I can’t get the lines right
And the actors don’t fit

I wish I could turn her into a book
And give them away as presents
And everyone would tell their friends about it
So they would go buy one
Just so they could read what’s been written
Because she is worth every page
I wish I could turn her into a book
But I can’t get the title right
And the words don’t fit

I wish I could show her to our child
And raise our daughter in her image
And everyone could see her again
And they would be happy
And they’d know she’d be happy
Because her daughter would be perfect
Just like she was
I wish I could show her to our child
But the pictures all burned
And I might never see her again

It seems as though
I always want to talk to you
But our conversation comes at a cost
Because every word spoken
Puts me one word closer
To the last words I'll ever say to you.

With hope I could forever speak
With reason and love aimed at your heart
Taking your ears and making them listen
To what I need you to hear
Before you cannot hear anymore.

Carefully I select the sounds I speak
As not to choose the wrong ones
Picking silently in my head
The memories I would like to leave behind
In every moment I spend with you.

I know the last words I will say to you.
They are in my head now
Dancing on my lips
Teasing your ears
But I will not say them.
Not now.
Instead,
I will say them when it is time
For them to be true.

I do hope, however, that when that time comes
You will have already said them
To me.