The water turned brown in the rain,
An eagle hangs in the maples arms above.
The toads jump green on shore,
The meander fills with shells,
Skipping stones and drift wood.
The current carries 500 feet per second.
The bait fish feast on flies,
Jumping into the air unrestrained and ignorant
While I carry the weight of the city,
Little town kayak holds me up,
A raft against the natural life
Beyond the reach of people,  
Only dead fish float down stream.

It's one of those days; those days when you feel like a looser.
You feel like there's a pressure pushing in
from people who are busy;
who are better by their busy bodies
budding and boiling over,
filling the life you try to look through with steam,
and as the pressure builds, you
sit and sweat and worry,
trying so hard to hurry.
"What to do?"
You'll say,
and in the end you'll stay;
stay in that sultry salty sweaty *****-up that you are.
Cuz on that day you feel like a looser. You realize
you built your life like a pressure cooker,
not a steam-engine like you wanted.

Betty Jones was a talker.
Had the whole town spun in her web.
Door to door she'd collect her prey.  Cunningly, she'd score on each stay.

In confidence, they'd all come clean
About some week old drama
or the fresh cooked steam.
And while she twisted
And plotted
and sewed
the lies and propaganda began to grow.

She became ever so greedy
with reputations held up in her fist
that she didn't seem to notice, really,   the deep hole they'd dug in her midst.

Shed thought she had it made,
her silky voice and her grin....
Thought she'd go on forever....
Until one day the did her in!

Betty Jones was a talker.
Had the whole town spun in her web.
Not thinking of the consequences.
She ended up dead.

The steam from a teakettle.
To be in love with one's own name!

Funny sort of locomotive!

The steam rises
and announce us:
jasmine tea is ready
I will serve you a cup
and keep talking till dawn.

It rises equally
the urgency of the word
steaming me the reason:
words own texture
that poem will save as caresses.

You wait in the elements, for a man who never comes.
You walk to the bus stop feeling hungry.
"There's a sandwich in my bag, but I have no box, it must be wet."

Ugh.

The elderly are getting in the way,
The teenagers making too much noise.

The bus is packed,
It's very steamy, yet cold.

You think about his no show.
You ponder whether he still thinks about it.

But before you know it...

Your thoughts turn back to;
The way my feet are cold and damp,
The way my coat smells like a wet dog,
The way my sandwich is soggy,
and
The way I waited 2 hours for a person who was never turning up.*

I am Miserable

my throat aches for food
my stomach and mind shout
naysayers
heavy with
the clock, she won't stop chattering
nervous tic
aching shoulder, from laying on my side
staring
waiting for
one new message
crooning songs echo
in my shallow veins
beard of dunedin
oh to stand in manufactured rain
cleanse together
hot steam breath collide with
(well)
******* scenes dance heavily
salty
sweet soapy soft silky
soaked..
i feel so alone.
what life would crawl over my skin?
what lips caress these dead eyelids?
what fingers traces these cold curves
like tree limbs next to the curb
i am living trash

but I still want to make you
wet

You know it's time to talk
when the teapot empties
itself, forgotten steam
whistling in and out
our ears. Tell the truth, it's
all about the mist, crawling
in and out of our heads.
delicately painted china
empty of all but dregs
spilling out patterns
depicting surprises
unreadable to all but the blind
changing the addictions
to colorless schemes
of the bitter sweet taste
lingering on our tongues
uncurling to let out the truth.

Cinnamon peppers
the rooftops in December
and the shattered
whispers over the hills.

It makes you sneeze
and your fingers
freeze
which causes
evermore solace
with the warming fumes
of myrrh.

The bubbles
which circle the edge
of your tea, darling,
pop on your nose
as the steam rises

we sit in rose,
while outside
the horizon is smudged
with ash, and coal
and dirt.