On the lake
Sits a toad,
An ugly thing
Three years old
With boils,
large lumps,
And a croak
That challenges
The voice
Of an old woman
Who smokes.
Placidly he stares
Off in space,
And doesn't care
What takes a glance
And passes upon his lake.
He is a simple thing,
Three years old
Admiring tranquility
On a quiet lake.

the jaded bird took his perch
in branches thick with voice
his song a croak, his beak quite broke
a lovely sight, though unlovely noise

a plumed up bird, dressed in furs
cut into his space
she sang quite sweet, high and neat
sang right into his face

the jaded bird, of course, was hurt
by that most spiteful act
he moaned in pain, never sang again
until a finger tapped his back

a timely toad, brown and slowed
eyes blinking with slime
opened his mouth, north to south
and took his merry time

he sang a sound that squelched around
his throat before release
then he bellowed loud, and sore and proud
and the bird fell to his knees

the toad taught the bird, who listened, who heard
who was patient, feathers bristling
they sang together, sung for forever
and never cared about who was listening

It got to the point where we just ******.
No snake oil arguments,
No cookie batter eating binges, no street corner improv,
No cold, crazy, middle of the day, psychopath silence,
No clink, clank sulking,
No cuckoldry tears over the kitchen sink.

It was as if we secretly decided,
To pound each other to death,
Or die trying.
Why is this so enjoyable.

There was once a stingy, little toad
with fire upon its head,
a shrilly voice of ignorance
that left annoyance in its stead.

The rules it made were silly
and gave good reason to rebel.
It wouldn't let the others speak.
Why? No one could tell.

Its disconnect was obvious
when treating toads like flies.
And all pretended to do what told
until it turned its eyes.

It sits upon its lily pad
as if better than the rest--
unaware that the other toads
are, frankly, sick to death.

Are you aware
of the music you make, Cricket?
Can the grass be ticklish to your toes?
Tickled like trapped foes.

Toads and toad bumps.
Frogs salted on salted Slugs.
Creamer for the chocolate night,
Are you alive?

Sentimental over fingerprints,
my wings wandered
three centuries ago.
Where they went nobody knows.

Three lights captured in my eye:
one is the bedroom
one is the trumpet
one is the theatre

Hip bones have red suns.
Flowers crawl on skyscrapers.
Barns and bugs with spotted bellies.

Cracked a mirror on my foot,
wish it stayed the evening
and for supper.

Could have gone home
but instead, harvested Winter
in Mexico.

When the pale Luna, goddess of the night,
Her silver blanket did upon the pond cast,
While gliding along the inky sky,
Near to the milky stretch-mark of stars
(Sign that the Universe is our mother)...
The air was thick with the violin symphony of crickets.

Beneath the knotted hair of a willow tree 
A campfire, asked to dance by the breeze,
With sheer joy crackled and sparkled 
At the sight of the petal-faced imps. 

In a foolish manner, one prodded the other:
"Go you and kiss a frog on the nodding!"
Wanting to impress his comrade,
He sprung up like a grasshopper off the ground,
And like a fox pup disguised himself in the reeds.

There, his torch revealed two sinister gleams,
A low CROAK and RIBBIT RIBBIT came with them.
The boy jumped and caught the wet ball of slime,
It protested in his cherub hands and wriggled in vain.

He moved his puckers closer to the little being,
Nature is the one who likes a good teasing,
He kissed it on head,
Then froze with dread,
The frog was a toad and the taste was displeasing.

My Prince Charming has turned into an ugly, old toad,
but that’s what happens when you choose this road.

The road so traveled by all the toads before;
makes me wonder what you see at the *****’s door.

I would think by now it would be rotten and smell,
but that’s not where my thoughts will dwell.

Why are they always uglier than me?
It can’t be because you like what you see.

Is it because the ****** like to drink beer?
Or is it because they’ll **** on your spear?

You’d think by now all of you would have warts.
You know the kind that stays in your shorts.

You think you’re so handsome, have you looked in the mirror?
One day soon they won’t let you get nearer.


But by then you will not make me cry
and they’ll look like they were put up wet to dry.

They may be younger but you keep getting older.
What will you do when you get the cold shoulder?

What will they do when you run out of money?
I bet they won’t think that it’s very funny.

Or how about when the pills are all done?
I bet a fight will be caused over that one.

Nothing like pill-head ****** to ***** around with.
To get them drunk, does it take a fifth?

An eight ball of coke, that ought to do it.
When it’s all gone I bet you don’t get in it.

I may have been with you through thick and thin,
but I ain’t touching that warty skin.

We did have magic for so many years,
but that was before the coke and beer.

One day I’ll see you all and grin.
For you’ll have caught the clap: what a payback for sins.