Late night, weird radio-shows
Talk about God, ghosts and UFO's
She spoke to aliens, what did they say?
Ya think they're coming back someday?

Talk about secret you-know-what's
Crop-circles, Bigfoot and Commie plots
The parade of fools goes on and on
There's the face of Jesus on a won-ton

Mysterious men dressed in black suits
Little green men, they're so cute
The city of Atlantis, he knows just where
Told to him by a sage with white hair

"feed me"

and I always do
always for the pleasure
when you thrive
within
so I can live without

I know when you are me

and as much I hate
you for recieving so much
attention

I miss you

existance you whisper
harshly
is a cost
to consume

You are an echo
A gentle whisper that comes back to me
When I stand on the edge of a cliff
And scream into the darkness

You don’t try to yell back
Or overpower my emotions
You are soft in your response
Not trying to tell me what to do

It’s more like you are just letting me know
You are there
You are listening
You care

You are an echo
That keeps me from feeling alone

Spots of green reaching
through moist fertile soil they push
vernal plants emerging

rewrite:
Spots of green reaching
pushing through moist fertile soil
vernal plants emerging

rewrite
spots of green reaching
pushing through moist fertile soil
tender plants appear

I used to walk a mile or more
through hot summer woods and boggy marsh
to fish beaver ponds that had no shore
and never thought the price too harsh

At work I'd walk the tops of walls
ten feet tall, four inches wide
while building rooms, closets and halls
and never sway from side to side

This lame old dude even ran track
a lean and thin fleet athlete
even pole vaulted onto a cushioned sack
of energy I was replete

How could a man like me
Ever understand
What you were giving me
When I was thinking only
Of myself

The physical you
Is the ultimate pleasure
A man like me
Can ever pray for
But I didn't realize
That what you were giving
Was beyond truth
It was your realness

It can't be possible
That what I am feeling
Is the delusions
Of a fevered mind

there is a natural succession
to the way we breathe,
as if the trees could sweep the ground
of our buried
instead my dead sits
on closet shelves,
brown wrapped packages
with labels –

but grandpa got a pine box,
six by four confines
sealed
as if we’d really want to see a fragment
of bone and discuss which piece
remained dense,
there was this ironic fascination
with death,
google tells me
what I will die of all the time

Through spin and smoke
they hear him say
"Blessed are violent men...

who protect our graven images.”
Inducements hover above
patriotic subjects

“noble are warriors
uniformed, camouflaged,
destined for death
or better, living champions
parading each holiday
their missing limbs,
their medals of honor
their sacrifice.
Blessed are people made violent
protecting our
golden calf.”

if i press my head on a pile of sand
i can hear the ants
the waking cherry blossoms
mother painting the fences three shades
of pink

this canvas i'm admiring
is last year's clouds
the fat rumbling of late march and thursday
the glass wind chime dangling
from her fingers

when i'm tired of courting sunsets
i think of father
the summer gone fields
mother uprooting vines and soaking sorrow
with patience

I learnt from you
That less is more
Emotional Expression uncensored
Bites to the core

Vitriolic rants damage the speaker
Reputations are tarnished, others keep score
Both friends and lovers are lost
Forever more…

Bjr 31 March '11