Daisies

In the spring time,
I like to lie in the grass
with my head in the over growth,
leaves tented all around,
bottle cap yellow daises springing
higher and imagine
world war three
over the jungle tops,
my Huey nearly eating it
as nature reaches up
and guns blazing and rockets flaring
out in the sunshine,
the pressure of the concussions making
little bubbles of condensation all around,
the end credits rolling
against a backdrop of finger thin columns of
black smoke.  Bumblebees bringing
the ground forces and thup thupping.
I yawn.  Summer is coming.
The real war begins.  For now, though,
my mind plays.

Bar Song

and now I know what dogs must feel
like, when you stand up and kick back
your bar stool and shuffle up to the
karaokers, as though
you've known them all your life
and you sing together and connect
the dots of the bits
of spilled beer on the counter that
match up like sleep creases
on the face of the Earth slumbering
over you like a cheap throw pillow, and
it's just so damn sound
to be in tune with someone like you,
who doesn't wear pants or ties or
agonize over taxes, who loves
hanging their head out of a moving car
and howling at the stars and
chew toys, dear God, the chew toys and
I'm a dog and happy, oh so happy,
to have another like me.

Summer's Con

I know summer is going to hurt
me like the phone number in my black book,
covered over in black permanent marker,
but held up to a light bulb, angled
on another night out ended
so that the dents of my heavy handed
scrawl showed their bones buried in the paper
like arrays of braille
heaped earth to mark their graves
not rain washed even or overtaken by grass,
that I know I am not supposed to call
under any circumstances
because it never ends well, but fire smoke
from fire's places is turning into tree blossoms
and mower exhaust and everything I love
about long nights and short days
is leaving me for someone else and
when I run my fingers over the page
there really is no choice.  Pick up.
I swear it'll be different this time.

Microtrip

When I was a kid in kindergarten
I used to imagine the world around
me in claymation.  Now
things are a little different and a little bit
the same.  I am your core;
humming belief err
through the night,
stunted sleep tear,
the seer licking sights.

Admissions

Your paws are pretty
and the sooner you admit it
the sooner I will stop
bringing it up
when you're not around
to refute.

Dream Stator

and I told her I was
dreaming about her.

The one last night
was about keys.  We were drinking
tea and I cannot remember
what she was wearing
or what my face looked like,
reflected from the
finish on the table, but there was
candelabra as the center piece

between the gold leaved saucers and
it was early in the evening and
the crumbs of crisps on a plate

and we talked for hours
about collected things
while we compared
found Victorian keys
neither of us managed to part
with and sipped
hot shreds of water stewed leaves,

turning each minute
toward steam punk space invaders,
but I left the last part out,
talking to her now,
because that would just be weird.