Seasonal Allergies

The prognosis is post-mortem,
shivering trees, falling leaves
turning color, covering
footsteps shuffling toward a
bright, bloody sunset.

I've decayed tenfold in
the shifting cyclical.
The brightest to brown,
to pale frost and rebirth,
to the apple dangling
from mother's extended bough.

New life to grow in this rotted host.

To be picked and admired,
fashioned into beautiful
bright crowns for elated
children to dazzle and fixate.

My dying wish to instill
some sense of wonder in
wildly rooted saplings
sprouting from their
mother's bosom.

Only then will I know
what it is to live.

Cute Poem

Funny little blisters,
runny red noses
like weepy blush
from a bride in blue.

"the fork goes on your
left." a sigh escapes
from a long face -

Some are not made
for such order, nor
abdicated borders
dancing on dotted lines.

The upside down cake
was an honest mistake.
But you left the oven
on! Not so easily is

such negligence forgiven!
But how I will
love you when
you melt me

to the floor. How
you will scoop me up
and continue baking
most imperfect cakes.

The Plot

A toast to morose
circumstance and
bitter is its taste in
ceremonial splendor

as Death is mourned
in garb of black
as the crowd hovers

heads bobbing,
sobbing for piety.
Procession moves
on, funeral march

of flats sucking
sound from a
still swirling
world outside

the dense macabre.
Faces flash, white,
vacant behind veils.

Mouths agape,
swallowing waning
light of dusk.

Inside their bellies
does it grow. Hands
clasped, lips pursed,

empty socket eyes
look downward
toward a plot of
Earth. Gracious, warm

embrace wet
from which all
have spawned,

where all shall
return in decades,
and back again.

The Trials of Performance

Character building exercise
diagnosis: Dinner Theater.
Such succulent
conversation cuisine!

I slip cyanide into
the manicotti I am
damn determined
to finish.

Face planted, a squish
into my Italian dish.

Artistic Merit:
What's With Music
These Days? 
...A resounding snore

A gentle breeze blows
me to the ground,
thud onto the
turquoise shag carpet

Breadcrumbs dance
to shallow breaths.
red sauce, tube shells
cheese cling to my face

Whodunit, two
murders deep.
An audience,
blood, control.

Self-Portrait, Prose

A...medley of...
unconscious hum
graceful, tone deaf,
deafening.

All day's worth of thump -
of note, a headache.
bored of orbiting
a great sun.

To change trajectory
is to lose a place,
an etching on someone
else's epitaph.

I am not suited for
such consequence,
much sooner my own!
What is fate but

a bottle for my
fussy grumblings?
All in for the
reaping of persistence!

I'm stubborn to
sensation. The prick
and prod, push and
pull mean little.

Without water,
drowning - reinventing
the flail. The relay
to inhale.

Point of Hostility

I am inhibited by
a disgust...perhaps.

See, she's a real sky
I hate to see her cry
The gray in her blue -
a storm in you.

All wrong.
Semantics, exposition
in constraints.
I am bruised in
bloodied mudcaked
galluses - the night before
the night before last

last night
entry dated - 5/12/15

Parody Dating

The expression he wore-
boredom, abysmal
"faking it for you, honey!"
cool effort disguise.

Pity masked affection,
inflection clear to
sharper, like groaning minds.

Read em and weep
entries - logging many
fruitless hours cataloging
the inane and natures
of poor context.

You remain an adult-
toiling, wailing,
the hope it all
works out with
zero effort, feet
in the air,

swollen eyelids,
heavy cylinders

spelunking to
the depths of
your despair:
a loaded, lopsided
mystery unraveling
into nothing's abyss

Possum Crossing

sensory delay,
love was unplugged
before the best moments
were stored, saved,
sealed with an embrace.

With distance between
disorders shrinking,
two figures trembled
before love and
its grandiosity .

The air was thin,
the figures took shape:
recognition - he studied
her with calm desire.

Exhibition

What's to a few more worthless lines?
Sit
    you
           ated
Be
    tween
The
      Greatest
                   Pros
In
   Our
         Area?

reMission Statement

He writes songs of mockery:
Burning with desire
Drowning in irony
Baring his soul
yada yada blah blah

He tries in vain
to tap into his
emotional vein,
but finds dust
and spiders in
place of the fluids
he thought sustaining
his righteous gimmick

He fancies himself
integrity's vigilante,
weeding and smoking
out the phonies and fakes

But what's to come
of the hero with no
ideas of his own,
when he stands
face-to-face with
the man who taught
him everything
he knows?

Starch

If you only knew,
could you put two
saltines by sardines
we could feast
by candlelight
remembering the
names of off-brand
cereal, as we pick
out the marshmallows
we'll name our
children after