Poem: Ophiocordyceps camponoti-balzani for All

Possessed by a foreign agent,
we all zombie through life.
Selfish genes guiding our urges,
or a mind controlling fungus
either way freewill is tossed.

From our short existence,
another life extrudes into the future.
Offspring to their own recognizance
or spores released to the wind,
the future is a culmination of singularities.

Given the context of the end,
the location of the gave is inconsequential.
An ashy disturbance on lake,
or rigored tightly under a leaf
makes no difference to my mood.

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Haiku: On a Plane - I

The clouds from above
have the structure of mountains
breaching a still lake.

I prefer silence,
public spaces crowd my thoughts.
My seat is too small.

A mist of vapor,
we are pointless as a cloud
except less buoyant.


In an airtight can,
A swarm of wet molecules,
I blaze through the sky.

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Poem: To write (For Jim Whitehead)

He was known as Big Jim for most of his life.
Standing six feet plus a few and well…big.
He played college football further down south,
and ended up an English major–then professor.

In the halls he’d ask, “Going somewhere?”
“Headed that way,” was my pat reply.
He was really asking of my conviction to the word–
to writing.
He had seen my weak heart and weak pen in class.
His method of motivation was honesty. He would say,
“This is God damned terrible, rewrite it!”

I don’t imagine Big Jim looking down on me with favor
or scorn from a cloud up above; I don’t believe in such.
But, when someone asks me, “Going somewhere?”
I now say, “To write.”

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Haiku: About Bonsai - I

Bonsai, tree in pot,
Can out live their creators.
Family tree, heirloom.

The roots, so shallow
On my weeping fig, I dream
At night it dances.

Every Autumn day
The tiny trees feel the change
But in a small way.

Hands hold the blue sky,
Green leaves cradle the white clouds,
Slow muscles stretch bark.

Pruning a Bonsai
Teaches one to look forward
And forget the now.

The Colors of fall
Reflect ever so slightly
On a potted tree.

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Poem: I Can Move Things With My Mind

And I live by myself.
My dead grandfather watches me
through house flies.
I have many books on parapsychology
and the occult.
His audacious flies harbor the wanting
to touch my face.
I haven't had a girlfriend in six years,
not even on the Internet.
When I found him dead, he had flies crawling
over his mouth and slipped upper denture.
They came in through the hole in the window
following the scent of a free meal.
The flies want inside my head to tongue my grey
and tell me about the afterlife of decay and dissemination.
He used to talk to the chickens in the yard
and keep a hand written daily record of the weather on spiral bound, single subject, college rule, notebooks
with red covers.

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Poem: Jazz-Fusion is the music

At odd syncopated moments,
braless in a tank-top, and long hippie skirt,
she would bend knees and bob her head forward
like a hungry chicken pecking the yard.
A lean young man in a back turned cap,
and long T-shirt spots her dancing
and bounces over, hands in the air, waving
(not caring).
They synchronize movements;
she pecking, and he waving.

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Poem: Circle of Protein

All life takes a breath
Under rainy earth the worms
Wiggle up to gasp

Opportunistic
Robins enjoy a plump feast
Hop, stare, grab, and slurp

Gorged, too fat to fly
Robins huddle boughed by shrubs
Unaware of threats

Crouched in the wet grass
Tabby watches for a chance
Stuffed birds are tasty

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Short Fiction: Red Light, Blue Light

Two guys are in a car. The passenger's phone rings, "Hey man, what's up?"

"We're on our way. Yeah, Chateau le Terrace."

"I know all the number are missing. Neighborhood kids keep stealing them off the doors."

"I don't know what for; look man just look for the door with the green light. Right?"

"What do you mean there are five of them? Dammit! That's my thing; I was first."

"Yeah, I know I could get a different color. That not the point man. It's that I was the first green one."

"I know that's not helping you right now. I guess I could get a blue one; that'd be pretty cool too."

"What? No. I didn't consider color blind people. Look, man just wait in your freaking car til we get there okay?"

The passenger turns to the driver, "Can you believe that shit man? What an asshole. Hey man, the light's blue; you can go!"

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Poem: Abuse

A sunbeam has weight;
can you feel the pressure?
Speed is defined by the photon;
reactions by nature must be slow.

Silence has depth;
can you see the bottom?
Isolated by fathoms of quite,
muffled voices still cut through.

A thought has dimension;
are some too large?
If you cannot contain a concept,
then you are defined by its opposite.

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