The political
landscape has no horizon,
just an endless fog.

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Blurry mornings blend
into hazy afternoons.
I’ll sleep when you’re dead.

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Crystal slivers pierce
pale surface, drawing forth thin
rivulets of life.

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Art crowd swishes through
tight humid corridors to
gaze at tragic works.

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Hands shake, with thoughts of
contempt, cold-blooded murder
on the brain. Code black.

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Sinewy trunk splits
and rises. Smooth bark mixes
black and tan in shade.

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I run for your moth-
er, your sister, your wife.  I
run for you and me.

• • •

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Basket of apples
bounces unsteadily in
bed of old pickup.

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Tees and shakers shine
with the hues of two nations
on the gridiron.

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Engorged consumers
waddle down aisles brimming with
surplus luxuries.

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The steering wheel guides
aimlessly along the slick
rainy road to hell.

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Heaps of mountains dot
sea of horizon like huge
bowl of earthen flakes.

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Peel the silk, reveal
the husk. Boil briskly, serve
hot, buttered and crisp.

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Cyber. Staycation.
Brand management. Pre-boarding.
Green. Operative.

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Mind is willing, flesh
is so-so. Soul is full of
grace. Posture is poor.

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