Often not, is prayer
In fear of God
But of our fellow man

A voice,
I was familiar with
Previously, deviously
Reaching out
For more of what she had
Before

the old wives
say it must be
the left hind foot
of a rabbit
shot with a silver bullet
or not shot at all
simply captured
one way or another
ideally on the grave
of a criminal
the more wicked the person
the more potent the charm
with the foot harvested
while the poor creature
is still alive
it has to be done
in a cemetery
during the night
of a full
or new moon
though others say
it should be
a friday
a rainy friday
friday the thirteenth
if the foot is to become
one of those lucky ones

Master of Arts
The soul of mine, I cannot find!
I’m lost in the ocean, amongst crashing waves — I’m almost blind!
Mastering of Arts, I beg of you — let the fates be kind

I have been good, haven’t I?
I’ve fed my body well and kept my healthy veins —
... my mistake was that I hadn’t fed another
anything but grains —
But, I don’t understand? I too am a man!
with needs of my own, and I support a wealthy land!
I have wives that lay by me, I feed them well with my hand
Is that not enough for you master? Sight o’foreseeable! What comes of me now? too lay like a fish? I hope that comes by faster!

The waves ripple,
the water crashing by at my feet
I scatter away, frightened by the coming dribble
The sky was turning dark — an upcoming storm was to pass by, I had no shelter and nothing here to eat

My stomach growled, too loud of a sound
It had been awhile since it’d done that, I was always kept satisfied
Now, nothing’s here — not fishes nor ground
The sky roared, electrified
The storm was approaching too soon!
No blues, No light loomed
Overhead. Only the thundering boom.

Too much to bear! Too much too weigh!
Oh Master of Arts!
I’m sorry I hadn’t looked down the lanes!
I saw them too, Ah! They had been too frail and somber!
Starving all day!

Forgive me, Master! I won’t make another...
the seas are crashing courses with their waves,
Stronger each time, “I don’t have all day to be saved!”
But lightning struck, and I swore to keep my place in line
now isn’t the time to be a swine!

Selfishness is another seed to be taken, enough to make you blind
Master of Arts
I swear to you,
I’ll pay more mind
to the frail, aching bodies of the souls
in need
I have enough — I swear it! — to feed!

Master of Arts,
Let the fates be kind..
I swear I have changed, my mind, my acts, my scroll
Amidst all
I have realized
My role

She thinks she's all grown up;
She walks in thinking that she's a full grown
Woman,
Turning her ankle to show off that tiny heel.

She overdrew her lips
Higher than the empire state.
Her tiny eyes dart down the aisles.
Do you really think you can sniff out
A hot stud at the local WalMart?

Her soul tricked itself,
Roaring like it's a lion.
She'd do anything to make herself forget
That she's only a tiny girl.

And there she stands,
Scanning a tiny bag of chips,
Then stealing a beer at the self-checkout.
What a grown up thing to do.

Boredom bored some,
but for the rest of us it became a lifestyle.

The rest of us,
who spend so much money and time,
on objects and gizmos...
Just to while away our lives.

And, on comfort!
If we're going to do nothing,
we've at least got to be comfortable
while we do it.

We've gotta work though,
gotta hustle.
The trick is finding that tipping point...
The Grand American Treasure:
To find the least amount of labor,
for the greatest amount of leisure!

So let's climb that ladder
Make money! Get paid!
So we can quickly and painlessly,
whittle away our days.

welcome to the hollow cake
buttered by cream frosting
its no fun being the rat in wax
is it?

was the garnish good, at least?

we're here only moments
and they're being wasted every minute
just like all the opportunities
that have gone on by

there's still plenty game to be had
a plentiful lot in play
pennies for each of their fads
hair changes, and ripped stockings
handmade

but when the dye fades
your mascara runs
was it fun?