The prose of prawns
Once spoiled upon
The lawns fell deafly stride
The dead ears of young
Men called to defend the majesty
Of flag and home but
Whence the nouns the round
Romance verbs absorbed like
Blood into the earth
And aunts and moms
Younger brothers home
Gave up all hopes of his return
Into no poem came faith or honor, no more was the Valor
Rhyme and the cadence glory.
Oh, young,
You that preach how precious
Seems
Heed naught in haste.
Spend lightly send the old
Those in power that bend and proveracate speech in colored
Tones of we
He was my son.  
And he is no more.
What have you done.

a bee
flighting flower to ****
sweet
as honey on a limb
parting petals folds
nectar
on wings total
freedom nature as a thing

A day brought forward past
The lightness into nighttimes
black blue everlasting thrusts
Pale of haunting foreboding
Tales of fear and animal lust
How then can characters be
Heroes protagonists when
In shadows predisposed
Fading into alleys masked faces
Caricatures of dissolved
Braque nudes no longer descending staircases
Just specters behind boxes
Grey skeletal membranes on cellophane wrappers lost
Dogs have licked clean
Avenue names on green Luminencsed
Signs a venue of closed
Restaurants the chairs gone inside parasols all foiled up
Flickers of candles tossed
Into puddles gathered to drench them along pebbled black walks
Feet long absent from
Then as a parallel one window
Above showing the orange of
Glow a figure looking
And you dissolve
As part of the night not worthy to know coil up rebound
Again
On your own

No one knows the leaves
That flow upon the breezes
More than me or her
In gentle touches
Mid glance amore
The turning loose floating
Above nothing else mattering
Anymore
That colored rush the turning
From green to rust
The flutter of a heart
Freefalling down gravity tugs
Together entwined
From heights of pleasures
Into lawn forever beds

I take my self-identity
from the ability to
Imagine the immense
Complexity: and my failing
Ability to convey
It

Low stark warm
The first rays come through
Light upon;
How white
The canvas on the easel
Is again;
Anew a day,
wash away,
The traces, brush strokes
And mistakes

never one to believe
Faithfully
since I found out at six
Santa was not real;
Since I loved that
Perfect girl,
With all my heart my soul,
And she didn't know
Me at all.