The FirestormFirestorm they're calling it.
Hour after hour, the sky
groaned with the noise of engines,
buckled with the weight of death.
Yesterday an ancient city,
streets of historic buildings;
with this morning's light, devastation.
Nothing but cindered corpses,
scorched earth, slowly cooling rubble.
Soldiers search for survivors and miracles.
Once the gods alone
could achieve such destruction.
The pygmies have grown.
InconsequentialSuch an irony, to be so close to you,
so accidentally intimate. So sad those costumes
we had borrowed, disguises for those who
otherwise might have recognised our shades.
If only the moment had supported
the depths of our hidden agenda, if only
our potentiality had exploded around us.
As I departed you proffered your hand,
I felt your transcendent smile. You
turned your back, for your next assignment
was closing in on you. I walked away
as the door was closing behind me.
Wasted YouthHe was a lost man, trapped in a web
of expectation spun by family and priests.
His youthful energy sapped, he marinated in his misery.
His heavy shirt of denial clung to him
What if others might see the ailing man
trapped within this garment of fear?
He believed their eyes looked right through him,
that they could see the shadow of his shameful secrecy.
haikuwrimo - July 20081st July 2008
of wandering moths
and I, the moon
2nd July 2008
one glance away
she is gone
3rd July 2008
in the office
oh, a ring
4th July 2008
twilight - damned electric fence
5th July 2008
6th July 2008
dreaming of scissors
7th July 2008
how many have sheltered
beneath this oak?
8th July 2008
all this rain
and still the grass
9th July 2008
the maintenance crews
10th July 2008
the five second rule
11th July 2008
day off -
staying in bed
until late o'clock
12th July 2008
13th July 2008
she asks, standing
14th July 2008
and still not walking
15th July 2008
the crow inspects
16th July 2008
Triple SatTriple Sat: Three Tables in Three Acts
Triple Sat (Verb): A restaurant term where a host/hostess seats three tables consecutively to one server. The server, while still smiling politely, runs around frantically trying to be in three places at once. It's not pretty, the guests feel like they received bad service, and usually said host/hostess gets cursed at behind his or her back for the rest of the night. This also comes in other forms such as "double sat", a frustrating but manageable situation, and "quad sat", which means find a manager for help A.S.A.P. and cross fingers the host/hostess loses his or her job.
Other things to take note of: serving is judging the tables. The last time you visited a restaurant you might have been judging the server, but rest assured the server was judging you. You are just what they happen to catch when they are at your table or walking by. I serve, observe, and fulfill, but never get attached. I rarely catch a custo
Thinking themselves thieves, they feed
on the ripe as the cart owner on the highway
fingers peels, rinds, forgotten leaves and listens
to the voices of his customers like moving cars.
To articulate herself she keeps the cream
in one hand and licks the rust off her
once black kettle. The tea is waiting
on the counter to be drowned as she says to him:
Let me live in my ashes.
Her echolalia says: scissors, sliver as the image
of diseased pigeon wings echoes on her eyelids.
Twenty years of echolalia.
There is a boy who lives in his own palms,
collecting teeth from the children who fight.
At six o'clock he wonders what he is going to do
with the rest of his life knowing:
Words are not worth the time.
He will wake up one day with crushed petals
in his teeth from his mother's prized gardenias.
The gardenias tell the silent boy's mother
stories of noise and white noise. They slip
her nightmares like a
The long road home - RenkuBefore the dawn
my shoes are tied tight
to clean feet
the crunching of gravel
in his bed
a lonely pillow
in her arms
a bundle of flowers
laying in the grass
and the lake is lit
an old man passes by
carrying a chess board
along the way
a blackbird protests
the high tide of dew
recedes into hedge shadows
testing its wings
as the train
slips by the tenements
on a stone wall
slugs follow paving lines
she watches the tom cat
with one hand on her hip
while the kids
play stick ball in the streets
this summer evening
the wasps' nest rolls well
but makes a poor football
left at a bus stop
twenty years ago
she could have stopped traffic
on a streetlamp
the magpie and woodpigeon
but no romance
young man with an ipod
picks up on the chorus
forming a line
people wait to see
an ogre and a donkey
in the alleyway
the rats nibble popcorn
from a window
Haikuthon July 1-31, 2009
the hope of
summer rain vanishes
a neighbor's dog
to water the roses
heat wave chasing
all the birds and blues
from the sky
a cloud of gnats
a child's sno-cone
the petting zoo
old mission archway
black birds napping
in ascending order
lunch at the beach,
and wade into
looking out to sea
the sky walks a fine line
7 haiku renga
on the breakwater...
fishermen and gulls
under the pier
bait in a plastic pail
holding their breath
still seeking shade,
mating crabs in the shallows
the tang of sea air,
rot of a morning's catch
in my nostrils
the old sea dog
with his mutt
scans the boardwalk
at crack of dawn
jellyfish in the
seaweed washing ashore
beyond the breakers,
and a buoy bobbing
sailing into dusk
After the gale
all the woods are smashed, but the house - unscratched.
The air is humbled but his parents fret
as the boy seems humbled too:
Lips chewed tight
Eyes scared open
To break the funk they drive him down to the beach
where children splash and frolic in the exhausted swell.
The bay is scattered with twigs leftover from the storm's meal
and he ignores the boys and the sea
to collect these discarded crumbs.
Stabbing them into sand
he builds a copse,
then a forest.
Last night he gaped from his window
As the swirling monster
Grabbed the trees
And swallowed them in savage bites
Before spitting them out at jag
Inside the LinesThey arrange in rows, vibrating,
calculating the first move.
Decked each in bright colors, look at me
look at me, hi mom, do you see
sunlight glinting from glinting places
around a hundred faces, flush with nervous
waiting, and watching for the signal,
and it comes with raised arm and a sharp stroke
down, and down the rows the thunder rolls,
and so begins
the first movement.
The smells of perfume and incense rake at the air. My hair flows down my back, no longer prim. I stand over the body of my lover. He is looking up at me, bewildered. A muted gurgle escapes his lips. He draws his last breath. I fix my hair. I reapply makeup. For what? Revolution.
Portraits - VII
Portraits - VII
A yellow matte of hair
tangled with worry
an earthen-smudged face, cute
but for the constant frown
too sad for just ten years.
The little girl sits, plays
in the dirt front yard
with a brittle tree-bone
that continually breaks under
the weight of her solitude.
A picture of a family—
even a stick-brother
all standing hand in hand
under a sickly stick-sun;
a secret letter to Santa
drawn in the mud.
call it what you will,
be it minutes or hours of
or babylon’s legacy
passed down in stories and legends,
word of mouth or the slightest touch
the blood of the fables,
flow throughout your veins,
trailing down your arms to your wrists,
tips of your digits rearing your claws,
tearing black holes into infinity,
as your vision looks to leave your own tale,
in this ocean of emptiness.
tide’s out, and it’s been that way for awhile now-
but honey, tides don’t move in the middle of the desert,
you have to build them to flow between rooftop jungles
and hope they’re as good as the originals,
because that’s as close as you’ll ever get
so drown in the sweet smell of silk road smoke,
and bright spices welcoming you to sin city
then it finally hits you,
like a spacecraft crashing down to earth
carrying extraterrestrials and connivance.
the origin may never be duplicated,
but you’re not shooting for zenith wi