Black
Little
Anomalies
Now
Known

The town of Bakewell is under siege, gingerbread men are running free.
The bakers scream. Oh please, oh please save us our brave king, but the brave king is at a loss, for no one in the court has a thought.
When in the back of the court a small voice did say, I will save the town my way.
My boy, my boy what will you do. I will eat my way through, I love gingerbread and so do you.
The gingerbread men screamed and yelled, oh please, oh please don't eat us our brave king.
But it was too late, the  boy and king had gobbled their fill! Oh my brave boy you have saved Bakewell!

dear . . . sweetie,

the projections of your essence is the type
to cook up a future of you;
of the home you call your heart,
or how you let it spill across the metal table,
just to knead it back together to construct wholesome smiles.

yours is the form of communication i've never known,
a presence that haunts me -
as the scent of your perfume lingers at the back of my tongue
as i taste a sweet fruit,
or how your stories speak to me
as my eyes trickle such mundane appliances around me.

you have taken not my heart, nor my soul.
you have extracted from me fragments of my time;
where i find myself caught in the air, mystically
hearing the songs that were stuck in my head when i first met you.

you are the soundtrack to my little death.
you are always right in the corner of my mind, just as i want to see you:
half-baked, smirking, and vulnerable.

Steamy and hot,
The lady shouts two cents, no! three!
For the loaf of bread
People bustling everywhere
Where they are going, no one knows.

The air smells of baked goods and ashy smoke
Vendors call and cry
An old woman covered in a scarlet shawl
Examines a basket of fresh dates
20 cents a pound

Two people are bent over an old tattered rug for sale
With the design of a fiery dragon on the side.
Only 10 dollars.

Letters and fliers blow across the cobbled street
And the sun beats down
Upon ripe grapefruits
And shining sugar coated buns

The Baker Square;
Where I grew up

The Things I Wish I Could Be

I wish I could be
one of all instruments;

the singer whose voice
transforms his audience into a choir;

the writer who drops his reader's guard
making a beautiful decimation of every self-made fantasy;

the actor ripe with nominations
whose prestigious Oscar breaks him open before the world;

the photographer who captures moments worth infinite words
while instilling that perfect piercing silence;

the painter of elegant simplicity
or ponderous complexity in every brush and stroke;

the icon strangers seek for reason
looking upon for inspiration;

the husband who gives and comforts
appreciating the angel he's been bestowed;

the father wise and guiding
with enough laughs and smiles to last their whole lives;

the chef and the baker serving only the best
scrumptious entrees and desserts;

the encyclopedia of experience
answering questions obscured from the web;

yet beyond all things
I wish to greet death with a smile
knowing my life, however lived
was worth those years.