Targets never argue
And bullets never lie
Finances and fiancées
Certainly have some value
Yet we underrate our skies
Miles of lost continents
Drift out from your skin
We begin an embargo
Hoping in the future we will win
Metaphysical furniture
Effects the state of mind you're in
The record player is turned down
Heat me up and we'll begin

Weighted heavy with sour green
The tree bows
And the branches graze the ground

There, hidden at its crown
A luscious prize
Softly it falls into my hand
So, I bite deep into the ripe red
But the saccharine juice
Is poison to me

Its flesh rotten, hidden, unseen
Under a covering of rosy glow
Its beauty, only skin thin

These clothes
in my suitcase
are another man’s.
I tried them on,
but they don’t fit.
Their stains
and patches
familiar, perhaps
from another life.
I check my baggage
at the gate
knowing
I won’t see it again.
Turning around
I run
to catch my flight.

My monkeys eat mangoes
While churches topple
And religions grapple
With ancient arguments
Over which benevolent, peaceful all loving god
Gets to enjoy the spoils of the soaring death toll.  

A loud burst in the jungle,
A squabble over mangoes.
Stupid monkeys,
Can’t even build a bomb.

A flower’s
Petals

Our
Smiles

My
Sighs

Same
Fate

in that darkest hour
when even the living lay
sleeping, frost settles
nerves long tensed by the darkness
only now awakening