Tearing out his own eyelashes, gritting his teeth, Barney grinned at the one story without a murder in it. Wholesome at last.

Stephen put on his favorite bib. That meal hit the spot. The next morning awoke, they still could not find the senator.

The West Coast

The inability to escape

Whatever it is I’m trying to escape

A rib on my lower left side is burning

Listening to Johnny Cash’s Daughter, Rosanne

Driving through forests that were once on fire,

Trying to find out if I was leaving home or coming to it.

Sleeping Parallel

A perpetual lift, and a turn inside my stomach
Relieves my active mind. I am afraid
Of every speech within my brain designed
To hurt that hidden part of you that wants
The best of me before I have that piece
From you. Every little soldier is made
Believing he's a full grown man
And born to fight: your army will not lose
As long as there is war. Waves will crash
On all your favorite beaches. You have no books
To still the ranks who shred the pages

There are some holy threads of yarn no hands
But yours will bend to cloth. Repeating this truth
One hundred twenty times each day makes idle
Those hands that might work some miracle
So I ever fear my tongue, and lie
By locking down in chambers of sounds and silence
Hurricanes and thunder to crack your smile.
If we only knew. We rip the dreams
To shreds, pick them out, and carefully destroy
The very last one, until Hope, Love
Birth, Desire and the opposites stand up
Face to face; we stand there too
And each fights the other to the end.

The Idiot's Daughter

While joyous Ophelia runs up the stairs
In the 1980s, orchestrating her own madness,
The boy tears up all of his letters,
Written in the improper state of mind
Familiar to philosophers
And lovers who loved once,
He spends all of his money in revenge
Loses his servants
Loses his friends
Loses track
Loses all final destinations
To wonder occasionally of Ophelia,
Brilliant smile
From deep within her chest,
Whether that is a lie,
Or his heart still feeds him the truth.

History by the Victors

Sobriety couldn't survive the market
Blacking out time before history.
2,011-plus dead drunk.

Angels

"There it is!"
And they walked away
A flower in the snow
Placed. It was their job.
Robert Frost could make something of this rose
Rising out of the snow. I haven't a clue
Whose job it is to stick a flower in new city snow
I'm not accustomed to running into angels
Walking across third street.
Pass me by,
Pass by your own rose!
Are you construction workers?
I have no job for you...

Spread the news: Angels stick flowers in the snow
And holler "There it is!"
If you hear that news
You may be up for doing some work.
Labor for those willing to work with Angels.
A flower planted above the pavement
Until the snow gives way.