WAKE

In every dish left to dry on the rack,
in every idly spinning window fan
refracting the TV’s light, in every
whisper of a book’s pages or
dimming of the stereo, there is
a soft trilling, a touch of collective
cacophony dialed down a notch.
The storms of August have passed
for now. We hover, uncertain
in their wake…

MUTE SIGNAL

A firefly was trapped
in the TV room tonight;
its’ lonely teletype
flickered fast dances
above the screen
as our eyes strained
to catch the sub-titles
and the rain stood outside,
waiting for the next downpour.

AFTER/LIFE

The roiling black-ink cloud
consumes the moon and sky,
and I was laying on the beach
once, high, watching the sea gulls
peck at scraps, and realized,
“They’d be eating my eyes out,
if I were dead!”
I guess we’re not so alone, after all…

WHAT THE BUDDHA KNOWS…

that the stars go out
that the sky is a Crackerjack surprise
that caramel is the most fleeting
of elements, that our lips can open
like a wound that knows a good ending…

THE GOOD SENATOR BEESWAX…

proclaims it’s none of his
but that the honeycomb was so sweet
he could not help but gouge its’ sockets
his paws so steeped in treacle, how
could he refrain in good faith
from not lapping up
his talons’ misdirected nectar?
But that the bees, no, the bees
have a mind of their own…

THE HUNTER/GATHERER GOD SPEAKS…

Adopt a scorched earth policy.
Don’t mind me. See if I care.
I’m just telling you which way
the wind blows. Please keep
in touch. My verdant spear
is lagging these days. Oh well.
We’ll always have the harvest.
The husk of my divine visage
left behind to anoint the pilgrims’
feet before they cross the river.
I hate reruns…

CONTRACT

I think we live with the demon's maw
snapping at our coat-tails, and angels
loaning out wings to get us further
down the flight path. I think I just
wandered off the reservation, and you
might suggest a way back. I think
the blood of innocents makes a decent
disappearing ink, I think you left tracks
wherever you went, in the fine, pearly snow…