It was a strange thing to throw a house party for birds, especially since no one showed up. I was left sipping honeycomb champagne and gawking at the colored glass bubbles descending from the sky. And I thought it odd that a car dealer would care enough about my obsession with old VHS tapes to throw a few onto the cruise ship. Never mind the fact that with all I had paid on fixing my transmission of thought, I was dead broke and looking for a summertime getaway closer to downtown and nearer to autumn.

The things I'd like to do if I could paint. I would construe a white front porch in repurposed chair caning and glue it to a canvas, mottled in shapes and light. Or maybe it would take multiple canvasses to hold what I consider to be the best image of a future. Perhaps a patio with an overgrown garden would do the trick, and I would be just another loner.

Will anyone remember when we were children and we dug a canal by putting the dirt into paper cups and leaving it in the forest? You can't deny that life was easier before I ingested that Matisse print hanging on the graying wall. All these skewed angles and les possions sont rouge make for a bit of a stomachache.

I have a question for you to ponder as it gets dark. If I were to fill a swimming pool with blotchy pastel hues and sit in it as if it were a motel jacuzzi, would I receive some kind of tye-dyed epiphany or would I just catch a chill?

You are the rain falling from the sky,
Serenading yourself off the shingled roof.
Though I have shelter, walls and a ceiling,
You trickle your way through the cracks.

An empty room gathers dust;
Snow collects in corners of windows;
And my resistance to you
Suffers from your irresistibility.

I'm not a fan of spatulas, not when the pancakes burn and their gilt edges look pretentious. Perhaps ostentatious is a better word when mahogany is used in the kitchen. I feel a lot of guilt, mostly over silly things I can't change, so sew me a quilt of pockets in which to store my regrets.

I won't say I got especially drunk, but a few nights later there was a skunk, and I'm thinking that if you had stopped to ask his name, he would have introduced himself as Alfred. However, all this talk of individuality has got me thinking of the polyester comforter in beige she sewed and how there was once that mix-up with my former Sunday school teacher and a national holiday that didn't exist. Does a bigger beard make a man a better prophet?

When a person stops to contemplate a grass blade, the whole world opens up in wonder. What good does greenery do? I'm telling you, it's not so much the greenery and more the change of scenery that's what makes a person whole. Thankfulness won't come in pieces, and God's grace is one of those intricate jigsaw puzzles spread out on a table in your heart as it gets glued with love and matted and framed with goodness.

It's not that I'm in love with my billing office, it's just that I'm thinking of someone else when I put the stamp on. And I've tried to keep my thoughts quiet, but forget wearing my heart on my sleeve, I'm a bank window with paper cutout promises. But if you ever think of me, I'm thinking you might have a deficit on your account.

Just because there's no way I left the oven on when I left the house doesn't mean I don't have the right to check.

There's spotlights
And track lights
And ambient
Wall lights.

And my feet always feel
Closer to the ground in here.

Chairs and floors and
I am not getting anywhere.

Throbbing, my head, make
It stop, plug my
Ears and hide my face
In darkness.

Drumbeats, reverberating
Through the furniture, make it
Stop, just
TURN OFF THE NOISE.

I swear, I will keep
My back against this wall
Until something happens, and I
Swear, something will happen.

There's spotlights
And track lights
And ambivalent
Wall lights.

On sunshiny mornings I'll
Perch myself on the edge of
The sink and look past the
Basil and cyclamen
Past the stained glass birds
And rainbow crystals
And I will look at the trees
As I feel the poetry and taste cold pizza.

When it starts to rain I
Will brew myself a blue mug of expensive
Imported tea and sit upon the
Unswept linoleum as I listen to the
Refrigerator rumble behind my head
And the rain echo in sheets on the skylight.

And once in awhile a
Stray drop comes through the window.

If I ever find myself lonely
I'll take the six minutes back to the
Place that never sleeps and
Drape myself on the humming stairs with my other half
To remind myself that
Solitude is a gift.

People change but
Houses stay the same.

There is much to be found
When you stop sitting in chairs
And realize that the place you call
Home is a place to feel safe.

Loathing upon the
Object of awaking in the
Summertime can be quite
Tenacious.

Dreamy eyes of browns
Opaque ceramic coffee cups in
Grassy fields by
Tired blackberry bushes
And, most of all, a
Gaping sensation of finality and
Sunshine.

Now I'm wondering if I will
Ever find as
Vibrant a friend as you and your
Reasonable explanations, for lack of a better word.

Flying, close your eyes and
On you'll go, far over the skyscrapers, you'll find
Utopia, and I'll find our conversations of
November through June, and drink a thousand cups of your
Dark roast.

Maybe it's strange, but I'll miss your 10 a.m.
Eyelashes and all our lovely times.

Of all the things I am
I am not insane.

The reservoir is rising
And I'm sweating in my
Dress and white sneakers
And the sky is turning gray.

At least there are breezes
By the lake, although
I had a breakdown in the car
When Henry wasn't real.

Lele left me for Larry
And I'm struggling to write
Your prose as my own
Poem thoughts.

If it rains on the
Water I will never
Forgive the person who built
The glass cafe.

All the plastic communion cups in my purse
Cracked.

Prop my feet up on the dash
Make another societal
Faux pas and take one last sip of
Chandelier staircase filmstrips.

This kayak of mine
Has tipped.

To be human

I think it's bad,
To be human,
A peanut in a shell,
Destroying our own society,
Then landing straight in hell.
I think is bad,
To be a human I mean,
Not taking every life as a charm,
Cutting down all the trees
Until there's not even one.
It's shameful,
To be human I mean,
Locked inside a cage,
Forced to vote and ride life's boat
Then die of cancer or old age.
It's misfortune,to be human,
In a sand trap of our oan greed,
Not even thinking about what it takes to make a penny,
A fishing rod,or a simple shirt sleeve.
I think it's pointless,
To be human,when we can be so much more,
Instead if tearing down our hell hole and
"weathering" it's floor.
It's like a prison,to be human,
Locked in the golden cage,
Only let out when you've done your job,
Destroy the world to its old age.
I think,its sad,to be human,
Having the emotions nothing else can feel.
And then trying to communicate to ones that won't understand.
I think,it *******,to be human.
I'd rather be a deer.

I know how to question
Authority
Now someone teach me to question
Reasonably
Why everyone settles for
Mediocrity.

I'm not
Passive
But I get
Aggressive
When society becomes
Dismissive.

Art is not a
Perforation
On an
Illustration
Of paper-doll cutouts of
Creation.

But somewhere we lost
Authenticity
With our former
Intricacies
And were stripped of all
Legitimacy.