drones




Some birds

Black and folded

Like tiny guns

Pointed at the sky

Sit on branches made of

Aluminum foil

In the cut-out world

Where dolls made of paper

Walk firing angrily

At each other

Across

Dunes made of

Sandpaper

This is my face

Its made of pieces

Of raw wire

And sinews of

Newsweek and Time\

The New Yorker is my

Left hand and Sports

Illustrated is my right hand…

Fox News spawns more of me

The people I have within

have

No souls

The drones

empty

Canisters

Of poison

And they run

Through the air

The little birds of war

Slicing through the

Devious night

Firing words

Into tents full

Of fear.

Anxiety

Death of little

Moments

Life never was wasted

Like this before

We had these birds.

The ones from the sun




“These are the ones”

That came from the sun

They rode in on silver horses

And shrieked the sounds of bells

And chimes while dancing

On the wind.

These are the ones

All of them

Talking heads of wise

Ever present thought

That blessed every moment

The ones that flew

And saw

And smiled

Cryptically

They came for the

Autumn leaves

And the wilderness

And the roads

Filled with wisdom

They founded empires

Of light and shadow

And they filled the universe

With their song….

They came on horses of

Stone and horses of bone

And horses of light

And they walked

Defiant though the

Starry sky

Making constellations

Of their triumphs...

Todays dog


Barks at bicycle wheels

And passer by

There is asphalt

In my hair

And I’m

Becoming the road

Life never felt this way

Before

There are barbed wire

Leaves

On the trees

And the middle

Of the park

A stone

Man

And a woman

Carved from ice

Two human beings

Locked in an eternal

Battle

For the Minds of men…



This road is not made of wood

Or stone

Its made of

The bones

Of empty

Corpses

Butterflies

Are drawn

On my skeleton

And they drift

On the wind

Like delicate
Ideas…

Moon reflected moon I lived and saw The gutter turned Around and left The space Where I was There were Two faces That were In the mist and dust Like mules Carrying a burden The cement Floor Of the world Stood cracked And little branches Of green things Poked through The mystical Thought that All things Have a season Maybe is a bit Trite But the people Who walk by Each have a season Someone is bent over a cane Someone else is dying In the street Someone else Breathes Mist and coughs up phlegm The street aches And women slink Down the street Men stutter across The road (never mind the crosswalk) In the sky above Moon Reflected Moon And then some

Tree-rock

The

Men

Inside

The

Trees

They laugh

And dance

The women

Inside the

Rocks

They

Speak

Many words

The earth

Is a dictionary

The world

Is a tree

The universe is a rock

Full of sparkling veins of gold.

Prison






The prison I am in is one of walls

And roads and a grid that I must wear around my neck

Like a barbed wire collar

The prison I am in is one of television

And the internet

And jail

It is a prison of complex ideas

That keep me in the same damn

Rut day after day

This prison is one of cars

And slow poison

Of death to nature …

This prison is one of

Nuclear fear

And microwaves

And the golden arches

And Martha Stewart, Oprah, Trya Banks

Goddesses Spitting insincerity

Prison is Windows

Prison is wall street

Prison is the law

handed down by judges

and enforced by military might

the freedom we have is only \

imaginary/except love

which is conditional.

“spoken” Today in the vaguest of my dreams Winter clutter Small hands A face demonic and blue Gazes from facets Of a frail window My own sorrowful Love Is nothing But 2 keys Dangling Jingling Four wheels And someone to watch over Like the last time I say “Hey” over my shoulder, We look alike but are not the same “when” and ‘If” Somehow they are related questions Crickets and small lady bugs Snails and ants and butterflys Moths bees and flys, spiders\ In the yard there are multitudes Of insects… A spider came down to greet me And said “are those your wheels?”. To which the moth replied “why yes”…. 2 ants blue fingers A golden ghost Walks by me on the bus Bleeding fingers Too many dishes\ Buddha sits On the air And talks out his third eye My broken ear Throbs Noise Is like a flame It sounds better When spoken In verses Lettuce in a bowl And 2 many lost thoughts Discarded Bugs Live in peace With all living.