We've succumbed
To the pandemic
Of awkward confusion;
Where the rabbit,
Not magician,
Is half the illusion.
We're topsy-turvy,
I'm getting sick:
We're highly toxic,
It's acute, not chronic,
We've set the cameras
On ego-centric.

Excuse me,
Could you please
Watch me
Take my picture.

People are smiling with the back of their teeth;
Hookers are toiling themselves off their feet;
The cops avoid the crooks on their beat;
Scammers are conning cause we all want to cheat;
Fishes are breathing on the banks of the creek;
Government fingers can't stop the slow leaks;
The searchers stopped searching, there's nothing to seek;
Voyeurs are seeing without sneaking a peek;
The strong are loosing to the strength of the weak;
The jocks are surrounded by the number of geeks;
The circus is posting jobs for the freaks;
The Colonel's chicken has twelve secret beaks;
The beds are empty as no one can sleep;
The weeds are filling the cracks in our streets;
The guards are chained in castle keeps;
And all about us grows weary and bleak;
Our tongues are loose,
Still nobody speaks.

It has been said
that when a gypsy witch sings,
the moon's silver tongue
speaks illusion in haiku,
and its beams tickle
feathers in your dream catcher.

I am no witch,
but in the darkest moments of night
where shadows dance uninhibited
with Milky Way stars,
I find serenity in your songs,
and I blow sonnets
of silver sensuality
over the contours of your beauty,
to tickle your dreams.

Aztec Warrior 7/28/15

· · · – – – · · ·

Stardust drips
in Southern Cross directions
lost at sea
floundering in the nothingness
counting seagulls
and island torches
branding the sky
with delirious connections
traveling beyond the speed,
22 knots to nowhere
and sinking fast

SOS carved
in summer clouds
threatening distractions
floating silently in our heads
as we bail out,
tossing salt water worries
overboard as
barnacle beliefs wait
beneath the surface
of our dreams

A lone timber,
nails protruding,
rotting slowly
is held for dear life
as tridents and trishulas
flail in withered hands
breaking seas,
angry waves bend
dissipating into
misted blankets as
foghorn signals
bellow in needled warnings
like a skipping album
drowning in its
own repetition

the only control on offer
is the mastery of yourself
changing the world by proxy