I flirted with
the sun as it
blushed
pink
through the trees,
their naked branches
spread wide,
wet with dew.
Sticky sweet
dawn
winked with the
promise of a new day.
Swans mate for
life
and die in the spring.
And she
lied a little less than
the moon, and
the fog, and the
wet cat drunk on
feline dreams.
Her eyes looked like
they hated her face;
like they
wanted to
leap out, and
roll down the street,
find a mountain brook to
wash off all they had seen.
She saw too much...
felt too much,
as the fractured dawn
laughed
and flew away like
a mockingbird.

I once knew a woman that
could roll herself into a perfect ball.
She rolled all over town.
It didn't seem that unusual; sad,
but not strange.
Lots of people are all balled up.
I caught glimpses of her face.
It was often expressionless.
She had a flat affect.
Sometimes, she'd come out of her ball,
and smile.
She was gorgeous, educated, and
had a great sense of humor.
But when I'd get too close,
she'd get back into her ball
and roll away.

Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.

"I'm not hungry"
How many times have
I said that?
This time, it's the
recent woman in my life.
She wants to savor
the buzz.
Food would interfere.
I know it all too
well.
The hell of not
eating to maintain
the high.
Food absorbs.
I used to go
six to ten days
without a bite.
The light goes out.
The brain begins to
eat itself.
She's starving.

It won't be a silent
night this Christmas in
the Psych Ward.
There are some real
wack jobs in here.
One guy grabbed his crotch,
and said, "I have a hold of all my faculties."
The nurse asked him what
drugs he was on?
He said, "It's not the drugs that
are the problem, it's the women."
Maybe he's not as crazy as I thought.
I shouldn't talk, I'm getting
EST's  (Electra Shock Therapy)
One of the side effects is
memory loss.  I hope they make me
forget the last women in my life.
Life is so odd...
I'm locked in the nut house,
and she's home in her apartment,
cooking and cleaning,
crazy and mean as a
****-house rat.

I met her at
the Corner Pocket.
She was bar tending.
Her nose was
pierced, so was
her tongue, and
her heart.
She spoke of
a Utopian city:
A town of tree houses.
She was in her
third year of
architectural school at
Iowa State.
Some dreams are
best left
unsaid.

At day's end, your love is like a
ditch full of weeds:
a rotting pumpkin, a returned letter,
a dead yellow cat in the grass.

At day's end, the *** drowns in the river
while trying to bathe.
The soul is deep in atrophy, and the
goldfish floats to the top of the bowl.

At day's end, your accusations attack like
cicada killers.
Your eyes are soulless, and the
clown is a killer.

At day's end, suicide is a viable option;
the light has been murdered.
Jack the ripper got away, and
the night goes mad with horrid dreams.

At day's end, the sailboat sinks,
the horse breaks its leg in the backstretch,
and neither your dog nor your hope will fetch anymore.

At day's end, there is a shadow behind the orchid.
Your ****** has teeth, and the bull becomes a steer.
At day's end, the planets fall to the sea,
noon is an illusion, and romantic love
is gored in the streets of Chili.
At day's end, my Alice won't leave Wonderland,
the dormouse drowns in his tea, and
the Dodo still can't fly.

At day's end, Don Quixote burns at the stake.
Robin hangs in his lonely closet.
Peter goes out upside down,
and old Ernie shotguns himself through breakfast.