I like old glass
with bubbles

Pockets of breath
of the dead laid to rest

I break and I breathe and I taste

Their spices
and vices

Kisses from wives
Curses and verses

Songs of themselves
Wine of their wrath

Salt from their baths

Smoke from their fires
Sweet tastes of desire

Shared sighs and cries
Dead butterflies

Air.

I don't like change,
I keep it tucked away in my wallet,
the only space for it,
no good space,
really,

it just sits there,
weighs down on the frayed stitching in
my old jean pocket and makes things
too heavy on one side,

never worth much,
always just the leftovers,
the things I couldn't trade in for something else so
I got them back,
different now,
heavier,
a stale metallic smell,
not worth as much.

in-between cherry blossom
faces,
the dragon.

i contemplate my philosophotheatrics
amidst the anthroposcenery.
i’m a joke
and sometimes i can laugh at that.
i hope the gods unconscious enjoyed their comedy.

me a poet paramore of war
and laughter
afforded a good seat.

buddha without me buddha within me,
i choose the uncomfortable night,
there can be seen stars and things that need doing;
i think no longer will i sing and dance
with all the world ablaze
so enough of your death drum.
give it a rest.
i don’t often meditate though.
i mediate.
and meander towards the spectacle exit inferno
and contemplate
how to make fire burn fire
as a child of fire myself.

The grass is greening
Begins every Spring Haiku.
Daffodils bloom too.

A strong rain
pummels this
silent valley;
my bank account
contains $29.87;
I could really use
a new pair
of shoes;
far from here,
in Afghanistan,
brave men
fight and die
for nothing at all.

These are facts
and every fact
contains a poem,
if only we
look hard enough
and have the guts
to write it down.
- mce