Green night in the middle of the day…
Fire rising to ****** the moon,
Uncle Sam’s praying in my room
And the 8-ball will not say

Why a woman holds a gun
To her husband’s sleeping head;
Does she play or just wish him dead?
An armadillo’s included for fun.

Uncle Sam’s lost his hat in the fire
Maybe that’s why he’s praying.
Not for the country he should be saving
While we are conquered by liars.

I’ve tried to make sense of this before:
Masked fiddlers strum in the conflagration,
Dead books, butterflies and chimps run the nation,
…there is luggage on the floor.

Should I run from the scene,
Or stay and try to fight?
I can’t read my books in the deepening night
And there’s a skull waiting just to scream.

The man sleeps on with a gun at his head
And I see another skull by his side.
It must be a sign saying: “run and hide”.
But why can’t I do it?
There’s no way to get through it,
But I must wake up and fight or I’m dead.

June 1, 2006

Her trojans in my head
Even when she’s out the door
My body inside my bed
Outside, the rain starts to pour
I see her polka-dotted rain coat
And I long to call her phone
My fingers don’t do what they’re supposed to
Paralyzed by those **** trojans
All in my head, attaching to other nerves
My thoughts crowd around her
The image stark in my mind
She remains so fine and beautiful
But, all I want is to forget
Erase, delete all the regrets

In all the pieces of past bits in
Collections and recollections
Every painting and every map
Intentions in all the broken plants
and ripped paper
brought to fullness;
A mirror

Ancient gods beat endless tender minds,
Simple empty sleeping.

Human touch *******
Save dark heart,
                   Power burning stars forgot skin

He takes photos.
His books are filled
With spilled coffee.
Wavy sun ray hair
Lime green citrus eyes
Sturdy safe shoulders
Rich, melted dark chocolate voice
Pouty peony puckers
Stolen lenses
Quirky movies
Oversized sweaters to cover his quivering hands when he cautiously holds hers.
He reminds me of a child's desk
That was personalized by doodles dinged and carved into it over the years
The desk that his parents probably adore.
He is a collage of all the things he photographs.
He takes pictures of anything and everything
To make himself whole.

She is a collage
She is a collage of aspects
Too surreal and abstract
For me to really grasp at
But I love her all the same
And I love her all the more
When she opens up the doors
To the library of her mind full of
Experiences and wisdoms
That drown me in a downpour
Of flamboyant and intense colors
That make up her life.