Main Street, it ran from one end of town
straight through on route five
all the way to Schenectady
and in the other direction, to Fonda

It seemed like almost everyone on Main St.
was a refugee of some kind from somewhere
from war, economic disaster, socio-paths
who dreamt of running a country with guns...

They saw themselves
in each other's eyes.
Coming together in a
hungry embracing of arms,
lips and swollen hearts.
Eager to reunite, smiling,
She felt His strength
although His hug was
gentle and reassuring.
hesitantly releasing Her,
as a bedroom door opened...
"Daddy!"
little Susan whooped;
sprinting to his side.
Holding up her pudgy arms
for him to lift her,
happy expectation,
which he obliged.
Hefting her and
kissing her soundly
while She looked on

My life: A soda bottle, way too many times shaken
By woes and worries, which made dents and holes
In my tense tin. All the while, they did take in

My substance, a sugar craved in their goals.
Why for so long my voice has been forsaken?
Engulfing my bottled cries, Psalms of souls.

Countless hard twists, tried to cap the fizz
Although I already erupted what I drank!
Now, I gave up trying to down strap the whizz

This phantom I’ve become
Starved for incessant connection
Unable to express this need
Permanently disconnected from myself

Peace and joy are emotionally expensive
I find myself at the toll booth of happiness
With little currency and less resolve
I’m given to choose the road of pain

It’s not that I’m entirely joyless
I suffer from intense bouts of happiness
I find no muse in this space, no inspiration
I can manifest no art if I’m satisfied

trees whip wild in white dry winds
electricity sparks death ghosts whirl in the cacophony darkness
smoke ballooning howls of red the forest bends broken at its knees
Black trunks fall roar through flames creatures run skin blazing screaming

dying

the agony of it

And in the tangled web he weaves
the spider sits so quietly
The victim strums a line that's tight
reflected in the little light

Now the struggle turns desperate
the spider has him in his net

Faced with doom, in the late night gloom
he plays dead, even though he dreads

The moth gone blind with so little light
carefully cuts the line that's tight

Powdered wings touch silken strings
and a secret of his power

He prefers to fly alone, to survey from his tower

Scarcely few remember
Those horrifying scenes
The six o'clock news
Broadcast in our living rooms
The horror of it all
Blood drenched stretchers
Million mile stares
The terror in their eyes
A war long gone by
Brought to us in living color
War had seemed so remote
Fought in faraway places
Until a place far away
Called the Nam
Body counts on the news
Fathers, sons, and brothers
Lovers, husbands, friends
Never to come home
Names carved deep upon the wall

A blue bonneted bandicoot with a sea calf
(amortized in blank verse)
scuttles amongst major malapropisms,
An object lesson of despair for students of the Classics.

In the Month of Hershwan in a study far from that place,
A Hebrew scholar paints calligraphy on a cloisonne
Clock. He expatiates Wallhalla – a Last Supper for his spectacle.

Adored by femme fatale (and others) for its chanced rarity,
They hunt for the preciosa, unbeknown that the bells are tolling.

No painkiller can bring relief,
No psychologist expresses belief,
Though it's in the back of my mind,
An enemy stabbing from behind,
No justice for this unfair crime,
No compensation for the time,
Lost to sleepless nights,
Fear of bright lights,
Tears at upsetting sights,
Those feelings of unrest,
I’m not at my best,
Yet being put to the test,
By this invisible threat,
Whose anguish I cannot forget,
With every return, I face regret,
Having me in disbelief,

Assaulted by unending stimuli
Compelled into merciless awareness by
a collection of rogue characters
consuming your attention
unforgiving and unaware
completely apathetic to your torment