Sweeping arm spews dots
of storms and winds and plagues, not
quite reaching the ground.

• • •

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The thing about Plan
J is, if we already
need it, we are screwed.

• • •

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The spiked urn, the mask
of war, the ancients live on.
Outside, it rains on.

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The Bard’s eloquence
shines brightly as Bollywood
spice heats up the night.

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Phantoms disperse as
we saunter into the dark.
Her lips haunt my lips.

• • •

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When people of the
world come to the neighborhood,
we cheer them with beer.

• • •

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You tell me what to
do. Who asked you? You talk, but
no one’s listening.

• • •

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Assorted weeds, clumps
of dirt define motley yard
begging for green thumb.

• • •

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We may share same stage,
but we live on different
planets, idiot.

• • •

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Son of Birmingham
stuck with hometown, which has stuck
with him. It’s y’all good.

• • •

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Beep. Beep. Monitor
ticks off faint heartbeats, his life
in green pulsing blips.

• • •

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We banter on the
meaning of photos, only
to expose ourselves.

• • •

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The tent harbors a
micro-gallery of art
while the painter hides.

• • •

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Steering wheel scorches
hands turning mighty beast through
stampede of rabbits.

• • •

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Who knew we’d be at
war, that we’d be bankrupt, that
torture was OK?

• • •

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