In Prism

The sun is rude.

I keep challenging it
to staring contests
but I've only won
18 times this century.

I am quite embarrassed
--losing to a bloated
ugly eye.

But I am not a quitter.

I practice at night
staring at
light bulbs,
headlights,
and cats.

Cats are harder than you think.

Years from now
when I'm wide eyed and blind,
I will retire
and focus my
sightless Godly stare
on the cat.

Of course,
someone will have to tell me
if it moves.
Because staring at a cat
that isn't there
is plain crazy.

Self Engineering

I am building
myself out of little
pieces of clear recycled plastic.

I'm trying to go greener
this time.

In the past,
I've tried other materials
but glass breaks
iron rusts
and wood burns.

Oh, don't worry.
I've learned my lesson.
I'm numbering
each section.

It won't take
nearly as much
effort to pull
myself together
next time.

Unless, or course,
I melt.

Late Night Atlas

He would count
the number of times
she blinked
when he tried getting
out of fixing the world
and divide it
by the number
of times he put his
soul up for collateral
at the cosmic pawn shop.

It always resulted
in a repeating decimal
that fused with
his DNA
and another sleepless night
trying to convince
a certain primordial
Greek Titan out of
going bowling.

Foreign Tongue

Prick your finger
on the tattooed
barbed wire embedded
in her sweet flesh
and bloodwrite
a new religion
on the crisp
white sheets.

When your
inkwell wanes,
fall aside
for the next prophet.

(She awakes
to a world cluttered
with bloodless men
and a holy book
written in a language

she doesn’t understand.)

Root of the Problem

I keep planting bodies
but no humans
ever grow.
Just some
weeds and
the occasional
ugly flower.

I really
don't like the flowers
but the weeds
are okay.
You can't kill
those things.

Resilient.

Not like flowers
and people.

Casa Marina Hotel

Swept by white lace,
sand scatters
across the wooden floor
as a bride dances her first dance
under a new name.

Waves crash on the beach,
each one making
time unsure of itself.
Memories and futures
weave with the present
and ripple across
aged stucco walls.

Soon the courtyard
is hosting wedding guests
and ghosts.
Al Capone’s smoky laughter
twists through history
choking bridesmaids
and chasing the bride
to the window for air.

She stares at the boardwalk
her heart pounding,
doubt swelling in her blood.
Panicked,
she spins recklessly
in the cigar smoke
and screams
but the sounds slip out
in slow motion.
She watches it ripple
through the window
into the ears of a couple
holding hands near the dunes.
Slowly they turn
and wave.

She falls back
from the future
into the arms of her lover
and is swept away
by passion.

(Later she will remember
the older woman
near the dunes
wore her ring

and her smile.)

Hooked

He took pleasure
in baiting hooks
with angels.

He would pinch
them between his
filthy crooked fingers
and shudder
as the metal barb
pierced their holy flesh.

He would cast them
on trashy streets
and troll
for wayward saints.
Once they bit,
he would yank the line,
set the hook,
and reel in their soul.

Soon the world
was filled
with soulless holy men
preaching to half-eaten angels
constantly looking
for the one feather
that would allow them

to fly home.