My city spews poetry like smoke,
In vicious columns of abstracts,
Of unspilled blood, untold hurts,
Unsung love and unrestrained joy.
Neck of an old refill snapped
absent-mindedly,
Sploshes a tiny blob of red ink,
On the table cloth,
And so flows musings and rants.
Smell of twilight rain mingles with
Incense fragrance of evening prayers
Triggering a burst of longing and love.
Electric bulbs and rainbows coexist
And emit more than just light.
My city breeds more poets than
The Lakes ever did.

I've never really thought,
about when I do the dishes,
I see the crumbs and specks,
here and there,
is when I come up with wishes.

That old dryer machine,
is making a little noise again,
the cabinet needs a fixin',
and the fridge is breaking down and then,
the car needs a tune up,
but that can wait a little while,
I'm worried about the kids,
as they pick up the Hollywood style.

Washing the dishes,
as the water goes down the drain,
I'm thinking of the flowers in the backyard,
how they bloom after it rains.

Roses are read,
violets are blue,
these dishes need washing,
and there are other things to do.

The water, it pours,
it sploshes, and drips,
the dog is running on the hard-wood floor,
and is having trouble getting grips.

Washing the dishes,
I think about the times,
when life was good,
and somewhat easy,
now this poem is...
getting rather cheesy.

It's kinda funny,
about what you're thinkin while you wash,
you start to take your time
and then the dishes are done.
Oh...

I.
Snowman in the park,
not there yesterday
but watching all this morning,
eyes that don’t blink,
black as a crow.

II.
Children **** him
with a vegetable,
a tartan scarf throttles
his frozen throat.

III.
Button-like holes
form a grin,
a banana of circles
fingertip-made.

IV.
Sphere of snow nearby,
an unfinished friend,
project abandoned.

V.
Went to see it,
the skinny veins
of our footprints
a chain around
its podgy white body.

VI.
Sun sploshes the face,
squeak as we touched
its cheek,
residue on our gloves,
signs of decay.

VII.
Doesn’t talk
but sits ignorant,
questions not answered.
Kids get bored.

VIII.
Why will he vanish?
Everything is temporary
a parent explains,
cold as a cube of ice.

VIIII.
Days later
we see it crumble,
great clumps that slump
to the ground,
shedding limbs.

X.
Gone until the next time
I say.
Gone and forgotten,
I bring the scarf back in.

Thumping heart of the world,
gurgles and sploshes, urging
to pursue a fit life
for eternal paradise.
The wind rages in unified
choir with stoic rocks
in agreement as the whole
of nature seems to scream
"Go to your desires."

Nauseated, I ran
hundreds of miles away
on reflectionless, black rocks
invisible in darkness
pummeled by wind and wave
full of profound realizations
commonly known but deafening
to those lost in paradise.