Contrary Contract

I see it as is was
Before I saw it as it is
What's yours is mine is yours
What's his is hers is his
So let's make a trade
The heather for the dew
But as what is yours is mine
It comes back from me to you.

Lazy Summer Days

The car is a tomb
Its passengers long expired
From heat exhaustion.

Flowers are Prettiest in Springtime

Foxglove
Makes gloves for foxes
Which wraps around their paws
And keeps them warm
Protected against the elements
A prize for an enigmatic affair
But foxglove is a parasite
That feeds upon the paws
Gnawing at fur
Then flesh
Then bone
Until there is not a foot
For the poor fox to stand
A free prize
That cost dearly.

Summertime

The drowned rose withers
Dripping petals, whisked away
From a naked husk.

A Tune You Can't Dance To

The sky is falling
A rain soaked sound
An unutterable cry of despair
The sky is falling
It will kill us all
As the wind wraps a scarf
Around our throats
And slowly chokes the masses
The sky is falling
A stampede of feet
Trampling their fellows to dust
A sickening mass suicide
Side by side with
Genocide engendered euthanasia
The sky is falling
The sky cannot be seen.

The Truth that Lies in Wait

Between my thumb and forefinger
I took my eye
And slowly turned it
Until it was facing inward
And I could look inside,
But there was nothing there
Just an empty reservoir
Which once had held my dreams
Yet did not keep them
Did not hold them back
As they floated up
One by one
And slipped away.

This Crying Sore

Pouring Dead Sea salt
Into a raw, open wound
Is meditation.

Thoughts Slow Speech

The simpleton
Sits gibbering
Spouting thoughts
Which ought not
To be thought of
Much less voiced
As he rises on his soapbox
To make his next great address
In which
He argues
With the fervor of a wildfire
He argues
With the passion of a general
Fighting a great and noble war
He argues
Diligently
He argues
Opposing the opposition
With words which
Are in perfect agreement
With the other
Party.

Forget-me-nots Brought to a Boil

An hourglass
Upheld by the hand of God
And overturned
And overturned
Until it slips away
Finally
It shatters
A broken toy
All time slips away with it
All the achievements
All the memories
Broken down
To a pile of sand
Swept away.

Upsidedown Umbrella

The breadth, width and depth
Of the shallowness you stand
In is astounding.

As I Walked With Heavy Footsteps, I Saw My Soul Lying in the Bottom of a Garbage Can, Cold and Alone, yet Cared for, Nestled Among Bits of Newspaper.

Monkey
Monkey
Monkey
Monkey
Monkey
Monkey
Blue.

In high dungeon
I stand entombed
In a gap in the walls
Between cells
Trapped by a sign
That reads:
Do Not Disturb.

Butterflies are not a Fruit

Flowers are not for sunshine
As rain is not for eating
And drinking a pool of water
May well be a deadly task.
Mouths are not for thought
As inspiration is not for keeping
And worshiping Apollo
May well result in scorched retinas.
Memories are not for time
As the tide is not for catching
And digging up curiosities
May well lead to not breathing.
I cannot see myself.

Imperfect Imperfection

If words were capable
Of doing their office
Suitably well
Distilling thought into language
Visions into sound
You and I,
Therefore: We
Would not be at an impasse
Unable to communicate
Too eager to try
Though trying to do a thing
While accepting that it will,
That it can only be done
Badly
Is a waste of effort
As blowing on the flames of hell
To snuff them out
Is a waste of breath.
Still we try
Though trying counts for nothing
When mediocrity is the highest measure of success
Though, when it comes to words
There are too many of them
And too few
To truly say anything.

Procrastination and Other Earthly Delights

From front to back
I toss and turn
A knife dangling above my head
From the front
Its point hangs precariously over my eye
From the back
It cannot be seen
So, I impersonate the ocean
With my constant rolling
Until someone comes along
With the presence of mind
To take the damn thing down
Which I cannot do myself
For reasons too complicated to explain
Not the least of which being
That then, I would no longer be under the knife
And where would the peril be?
So, obviously, there is nothing to be done
But lie, roil and
Wait.

Wasted Resource

Unfolding a paper clip
I make:
A circle
A square
A triangle
The outline of a spoon
Nothing of substance
And then
The metal snaps
And
I have:
A broken paper clip.

Maintained Imperfection

Each end together
The center gives way and ruins
A perfect circle.

Indifferent Morals

Upon the path
I came upon a wicker-man
Who tilted: north, south, east, west
Upon the air
He was stuck fast to the ground
Yet it did not keep him there
He held the sort of smile or frown
That a lack of feature might declare
Though he pointed in all directions
He could not tell which was where
As I argued with him heatedly
He smoked under the sun's harsh glare
With unholy delight the fire licked his bones
Until the pole was bare
I barely knew the wicker-man
But I watched him burn both with compassion
And without a care.

A Breath of Foul Perfume

As the ocean sings its misery
Throwing itself upon the shore
In histrionics
Ill fitting its depth and calming hue,
As the sky grows stormy
Dashing fire upon the rocks
Electrifying the sea
While further fillings its depths,
As nature screams her agony
Swallowed up by the noisy night
Rending the air with a whisper
Which would sooner be a scream
A banshee's cry to shatter the firmament,
Stay inside
Safely locked away
Only ill befalls those
Who dare to stalk the steps
Of insanity.

Monotonous, Modern Metropolis

The hunchback
Drags his leg
Shuffles and stomps
Stutters greetings and dismissals
As he looks out
Over the pock-marked scenery
The view of mother nature
Garbed in her most fetching clothes
Obstructed
By a battlefield of acne
And scar tissue
As construction sites
Too numerous to count
Erupt volcanoes
Of glass and steel
Solidified into a desert of ugly,
Faceless monstrosities
That stand empty
Out of reach of the needy.
Monuments to shelter
Without practical value
Cast their shadows
To cover those without means
And entomb them.
Thus is the price of progress.

An Ugly Kind of Symetry

A sunflower
Proud
Beneath a cloudy sky
As it sucks in
The rays of the sun
With ever increasing power
Until the Earth grows numb
Nothing to stop
The impending ice age
Save time.
A sunflower
Wilted
Beneath a cloudless sky
As it breaths out
The life of sunlight
With ever decreasing power
Until the Earth grows warm
A melting pot
On a death rattle
Nothing to stop
The increasing temperature
Save time.

Coveting the Neighbours' Lice

As ends meet
My change purse leaks
Dripping means
Onto the floor
One necessity
At a time.
As wealth is resented
Riches are desired
As greed is admonished
The Ability to exercise it
Is coveted.
I covet that which I do not want
And deny that which I do
All to be
A complicated person
With integrity.
My pocket's chime
With a thimble's worth of complication
And Integrity bought out of a 99 cents bin
So I can preen
With pride
And vanity.

Opps, I Dropped Something

Staring out into space
One wondrous, starry night
It occurred to me
The moon must die
But will not go
Without a blood soaked fight
So, gathering an arsenal
Of marshmallows, rocks
And hand grenades
I lobbed them at the moon
They flew high and proud
Past clouds of smog
And smug, flighty flocks
Of geese, who broke formation
With an angry, murderous cry.
I watched as my arsenal
Ascended ever skywards
Towards my celestial adversary
I clasped my hands and watched,
With bated breath, and wide eye
As they reached their ascendence
Then, the moon roared
Causing pause, before my arsenal
In a furry of fear
Doubled back, diving Earthbound
Grenades first
Fell from the sky
On top of me.

On Ascher

Not for lack of pride,
But perhaps sympathy
Such artistry is made
Of constructed charm
From those who bow and scrape
And lick the floor
Or talk behind their hands
With loud voices
Lesser braggarts
Fighting to over-voice
One who had something
To brag about
And dearly
Deeply
Wanted to be admired
Wanted to be loved
Even while each was grasped tight
In either fist
Before passing;
Endearing and
Slightly abrasive.

I Have a Hammer

These hands
Powerful
Hold a hammer
Hold an axe
Hold a gun
Hold the World
By the throat
Hold everything.
These hands
Pitiful
Hold dust
Hold blood
Hold decay
Hold the World
In its dying gasp
Hold nothing.
These same hands
On the face of a clock
At different times of day
Hold rightousness
Hold regret.

I'm Not Sure if I'm up to the Responsibility of the Task at Hand

Holding the World
Out away from me
On a bit of string
We passed it back and forth
He, Death
And I,
Nothing so grand
As God or Life
Or even Nothing,
Only myself.
The World swayed
A pendulum
Waiting for the moment
When one of us
Would drop it.

Goods and Service Tax

In essence
An emptiness,
All enfolding
Is the crux
Of the matter:
The self destructive
Pattern
Of humanity
To fill the void
With things
Ill sized to
Stop the gap;
Perfectly sized
To bash and batter
The walls
As they pass through
Ever widening
Its expansive,
Gaping maw
With an all consuming
Need for consumption
Which wraps the soul
With want so terrible
Destruction is the only answer.
So, self destruct
To free the self
From salvation
As a story
Without morals
Can have no moral
Ending.

A Twisted Mass in Time

In an attempt
To twirl time
From one shape
To another
I twisted it
Out of all
Recognition
Into a mass,
A temporal lump,
A cancer
On the smooth
Flesh of
The universe
Between Where and Why
That When should be.
I would apologize,
But it's not
Like I meant
To do it.
So,
It's not really
My fault
Anyway.

The Sun Shines Only When it Rains

After sprinkling ash inside
I rolled up the rug
Lit one end
To smoke it
Only to find
That it was too big
Even rolled as tightly
As could possibly be
To fit in my mouth
In turn to be smoked;
A most disappointing outcome
After such effort.
I sat back,
Drew my knees up to my chest,
Stared straight ahead
Weaving all of my disappointment
Into the warp and weft
Of the rug.
Today is clearly
Not a good day
For brilliant ideas.

The End of the Beginning of the End

It all ends here
Which is surprising
Given that
It could have
Just as easily
Ended there,
Or elsewhere.
But still,
An end
Is
An end
If nothing else:
A new beginning
To give rise
To a new ending.
Either way,
Time is circular
And
In the end
It all ends
Here.