Friday, November 27, 2009

The Pilot is Out

I think if there was a real possibility
that there could be a possibility,
that possibility would go on the back burner.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

A Ruby At... Remembrance

"Write what you know
in the life you have lived."
All else is false pretense...
words wasted in a fleeting dream.

Thank you Grandma... I remember.

Monday, November 23, 2009


There is a blackened balance
in the silver scales
of the yin and yang,
when the dew of foam
meets the ticking clock...
in that moment
of shorn wool and velvet plumage
time freezes still...
upon a gilded frame.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Harvest Home... Revisited

Somewhere there is an Eden
of sorts... utopia for
the purveyors of science fiction.
It's an overflowing
of the ancient cornucopia,
a horn of plenty...
not for the Roaming elite,
they're never happy.

It's a celebration of harvest
and plow... the reminder
of workin', and playin',
and livin' in the now!

No smoking of your fallow deer
or boiling of a parrot pet...
entertainment is what you are...
not slaves brought in
from lands afar
performing in exotic dance,
enchanting songs
and limericks,
to a den of gaudy knaves.

The lazy elite won't understand-
their kind will fall
out of supply and demand.

The peasants, as always
will celebrate...
they ask for so little
but their thanks are great...

to Whom, who cares?
that hierarchy
can certainly wait.

The revelry will continue
as the lazy feasters
lose their guts to

No wonder history repeats itself in a burp of belch.

Friday, November 20, 2009

A Second Coming

Green eyed leer above
a camel colored peach
with it's nectar dripping
into sweet rivulets of juice
at the edges of a full moon.

A teasing of honeysuckle
to an entreaty of tease,
a rollicking surrey
with fringes that bow...

to a red-lipped oval
that quivers somehow
and the earthshaking
beckon that shivers below.

A second to gasp
a vowel's uttered praise
a panting,
a psyching,
a musing...

Cupid's spurting arrow
and Kewpie's sultry gaze.

A wolf will wait his turn to pray.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

The Conquest of Nothingness

What do I know
and what do I see?
Nothing and everything
in sweet mystery.

Eyes have the nerve
to connect to the brain,
windows that mirror
the human terrain.

Ripped from their sockets
they're just balls of gel,
the heart gives its meaning
that the brain tries to quell.

Beyond physical places
where a human abides
something remains
when the body subsides.

A flicker of flame
beyond the intention
ignites intuition
of etheric suspension...

submerged in a shadow
of a dark lonely quest
lies the answer to meaning
of a pulsating jest.

I know I came
in sweet memory
to conquer nothing
of all I can see.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Autumn Spiral

A golden spotted leaf
with wry crinkled edges
spirals to the gutter
and takes it's rightful place
amongst the decay.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

The Littlest Voice

In a leaf cupped world
that swirls to a fretful eddy,
Thumbelina in a grimace of gas
and the need of a Mother's suckle
opens vein lidded eyes and mewls
into a window of brown-eyed hope.

Music as poetry in entrainment
mirrors the water colored view
of an artist's communion
and summons a pink sleep
that coos a lilac prayer.

Maia is waiting to fulfill the hope
and then flit with gossamer wings
to cornflowers and bluebells
where she'll tender the hearts
of an unsuspecting clan.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

The Return of Mr. Roboto

It was a frivolous disco moment
on a dance floor of absurdity.
We laughed at the face of a technology
yet to to come,
a robotic voice speaking
in a condescending schmooze...
how cute and kitschy.

Now in the kitchen
with less food in the pantry,
and jobs gone overseas,
and families in chaos...

he shows up in a phone call,
the Do Not Call list
is out the window.
They plead in wealthy tones of white,
"vote for our contender."

I slam down the phone
on the robo call and fume
as I screech...
"Fuck you and your techno lies!"
just leave me alone with my wallflower stare.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


The jury is out
in dark chocolate
vanilla creamed tongues
are waggling a noose;
a saviour is smeared as a wanton
spender, as an insurance policy
is cancelled by foamy mouthed liars.

The paling is rampant
with pointed fingers,
blaming the mess
on shit on a shingle...

Hello, it's white sauce,
and chipped beef on toast points,
and houses foreclosed
in a white collared debacle.

The spirit lives
in sacred darkness,
your papal drunkenness
is our only schism.

Up from the ashes
of a smokey pier,
zombies will applaud
the darkened angel...
and the meek will indeed
inherit the Earth.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Not Even in the Moment

I read Toffler this summer
and could not believe my eyes;
did he, could he, predict a time
when you could not, would not
be in the moment of your own thoughts?

Now, the Facebook of movements
births quirk and savvy... hey I'm adaptable,
did he study Ericsson?

And then a moment of humor
was lost to a foreign homepage
that took days to download...

Frustrated, I thought, I'll go to
tweets on twitter;
as the trump feed of a brain fart.

Now, if everything has to be captured
in a shuttering speed...
I'm done...

Friendship is worth more
than the parabolic permutations
of a bitwise life of shocking snickers.