Gone are those diners
where young lovers and lonely old men
might while their idle hours
The couples gather coins to tip the waitress
and the widower stares into his coffee
Spiderweb on my driver window today
left to remind me
we are left standing still
We are no refugees
the world has just left us
Where we will diminish
in analog twilight
Anticlimactic summer
burst with shower
in June’s opening act
Fertile world beyond the doors
We communed with raindrops
Rhythm upon the roof top
like a steel drum
Mildewed and faded
green tarps are loosed
Reveals dusty, battered grand
Bare feet in the dirt floor
gently touched those keys
Sending stark minor chords
to echo in acoustic void
While you danced naked
in the rain
Those notes forever
captured in the timbers above
for generations of pigeons to know
A Darby afternoon
Singular in circumstance
A tale that
when I’ve gone
Only pigeons can tell
the shades fell, bringing darkness
in the night I was blind
the muting fog enshrouded
in silence I was deafened
no perfumes
no sweet, no savory
cave dweller crawling
only touch to inform
know only the earth
become one with the earth
feel her tremble at the foundations
we will only feel the crush
when these towers fall
Alright, just so we are all clear, the pith helmet was NOT developed as an emergency field urinal for British soldiers with a lisp.
The fevered dreams of our childhood
that we should hear the siren’s wail
Underground to waste
or remain to perish
Maybe fight on in a leftover world
Two flavors in the cupboard
Constant fear
or blissful ignorance
Grown up, chose the latter
aided with poisons of choice
The giant hotplate
for a nation of frogs
Graduated from apocalyptic nightmare
to an extinction fantasy
Who will play this theater now?
The stage for all reality debased
We’re left wondering how
to get there, all signs defaced
Follow the march of circus clowns
Disproven theories like confetti strewn
No longer can they mask their frowns
at questions they find jejeune
Blood and money the price of admission
The tenets of a creed unkempt
All non-believers face derision
Heretics deserving only contempt
For they see the facade is cracking
Not money, only truth is lacking
And still the clowns march on
Plum and fuchsia blossoms
all fallen now
Dead and brown in undergrowth
Spark of light
lit the fuse
Green tides follow
ungrateful, unknowing
from whence they’ve been wrought
When two fortnights have passed
the waves recede
Their supple skin to wither
shed to the earth
Languish in the damp
food for springtime spores
Or burn upon pyres
an offering
to unnamed gods
What would we be
to shed our own with such ease
No ash, no dust, only clay
