bitter folding over and over and whoops there she goes against the odds but our sanity greater is love.

White as youth

And flapping joy

A butterfly

Across a field

Of purple fruit

A tattered rag

Drifts like life

Like weeds in the wind

A flower patch

The green ones grow

The brown ones die

Like butterflies.

Squeeze out the hour like

Damp from a cloth

Make the time last

As you drain every drop

Purpose is precious 

And night's all you got

Daylight just proves

You're not at the top.

I bought a bird with a broken wing.

Yes, I bought a flightless flyer.

I saved and saved

For the pricey thing

Flashing flowerbed colors

In a pet shop window.

But I bought him,

unknowing,

And I brought him

Not knowing,

Home to prep school standards,

And for all his filled-in style,

His Joseph's uniform,

He still failed the final,

Leaving it blank.

And I ask you:

Of what worth

Is a broken handle?

Of what value is a 

Needless knob?

What can it turn,

Alter, or open?

And since it can't,

Then why should I?

Why should I turn?

Why should I alter?

Why should I,

The buyer,

The owner,

The *consumer*,

Why should I open my heart to receive

The tattered garment,

The chipped glass,

The creaking gate

When

It

Drives 

Me

MAD!

Knowing what I never know.

I will never know

The rounded vase,

The curving statue.

I will never know

The well-tuned lyre,

The swelling chorus.

I will never know

The softest look,

The welcome whisper,

I will never know,

The friendly breeze,

The floating birdsong,

I will never know

The perfect peace,

The grateful slumber.

And I will never know

No, I will never care to know

At what price I was bought

Or ask

whether I, too, 

am broken.

The day they moved my pencil was the day they took it too far. 

It had all started with a few curious stains immediately to the left of my keyboard. Dark and strangely linear in pattern, they caught my eye one Wednesday morning when I went to set down my mug after returning from a water and bathroom break. Normally, a landscape of ochre swirls located in the relative vicinity of my left elbow betrayed their designers' rather intimate attachment to coffee, but on that day my mug was filled with nothing more than good old fashioned H20. I had been catching increasingly sudden migraines at the time, and just that weekend had made the fatal decision to wean myself from America's favorite beverage before it became - like most things American - too engrossing to be healthy. Thus, you can imagine my surprise when, upon returning to my desk, I should (like a withdrawn crack addict) apparently hallucinate a mirage of my so recently divorced mistress - the same one who in times past had so persistently threatened to become my master. From what I could see as I stood behind my swiveling chair, these unknown markings were still wet. Fresh. Glistening, even. I set my mug on the unaccustomed right, and bent over to examine my desk. Blue. Shiny, beaded droplets. Opaque. It was ink.

five glittered streaks

smeared on black felt is

the skyline

an empire city

fabricated against

a backdrop of

redundant nights

a rubix cube

drifting across unlit oceans

ever and darkly lapping

"I AM."

five glittered streaks 

smeared on black felt is

the skyline

an empire city

fabricated against 

a backdrop of

redundant nights

a rubix cube

drifting across unlit oceans

eternally lapping

"I AM."