The story teller writes
For a naked character
On a bare stage.
The one character,
One line play.
Profound, all encompassing;
A brief run,
But a blockbuster
With opening nights
In all the capital cities.

The visualist
Could use one brush stroke,
One lump of unmolded clay,
An unchiseled stone,
Weathered driftwood
Or a piece of glass
To display in the great museums
For our interpretation
Of the exposed truth.

One note could orchestrate
On string, wind or skin,
And the composition would be complete.
The maestro could bow and walk;
No encore could repeat.

I want one line of verse
To embelish my yearnings;
To explain the cosmos,
The meaning and crux
Of this place,
Including us.

Venomous slithering silk gown
Adressed the chandeliers in the
Marrakesh's dusky evening, just
To outshine the simmering glass

There were gentelmen and ladies
Chit chating politely, uninterested
Awaiting on a dinner to be served.

He noticed the scarf, she thougt to
Herself. Unending in memory are
Hoffman's grand thrilly fairytales.
I wish he'd gather the bold pirates
Of his conquering intentions and..

in the head.
go to bed,
wake up and wed,
have some kids,
then you're dead.

I cherish no dreams of sand..
My head aches... my glass thoughts collide.

A ticking bomb... my blood turns to lava and i cook inside my skin...

drowning whispers lick my mind clouds...

a sour taste of discomfort sends a sickening twitch down my beating limbs.

Ejected into a timeless void between worlds..

Where planets eat one another...

A silent witness to the end of all things...


decolorized  and stripped of mortal chains

the sigh i have become...


I hold no dreams of sand...


But when life shows its fragile side....

I have no choice but to cherish the obsolete purpose...

Of our futile human lives....

I'll not be wanton with fecundity,
Nor superfluous with beauty.
I'll provide between the images,
Not breathless by the finish.
It's a dustbowl without the wind,
And starry, not star-filled night sky.
I'll have allusions crowd my head,
To keep husbandry on the pages.

Look It Over**

I leave behind even
my walking stick. My knife
is in my pocket, but that
I have forgot. I bring
no car, no cell phone,
no computer, no camera,
no CD player, no fax, no
TV, not even a book. I go
into the woods. I sit down on
a log provided at no cost.
It is the earth I've come to,
the earth itself, sadly
abused by the stupidity
only humans are capable of
but, as ever, itself. Free.
A bargain! Get it while it lasts!