i wanna be like mr. pike

two miles north of
mexico, in bisbee
aizonia, there was
a man that walked
the streets with his
dog. a cat sat on
the back of the dog,
and a mouse sat
on the back of the
cat. the dog is
named booger, the
cat is kitty, and mousie
is the mouse. they
all belong to mr. pike.
i took their picture
for $5 cash that i put
in a basket overflowing
with $5 bills. in
bisbee arizonia there
was a man with a
tin badge and gun.
the man arrested mr.
pike for begging,
loitering, and doing
business without a
license. the good
people of bisbee came
together and raised
$910 for mr. pike’s
bail. the city attorney
and the county
prosecutor are paid
well. when they saw a
dozen people behind
mr. pike when it was
plea time they turn tail
and run. frightened
by their own stupidity.
mr. pike understands
world peace. kissing
your enemy
goodnight, and
shaking hands with
misfits. someone
needs to tell mr. pike
they’re sorry. now
days you can find him
in san francisco.
namaste to you dog,
cat and mouse guy.

i’m a real nowhere man

i have defeated heaven’s
blue moon. my foolery has
made me wise. there is
humor inside my sorrow.
jubilance in my tears.
gravity pulls flesh from
my bones in a burlesque
dance. should i be no
more or a hallowed being?
pathetic am i to indulge
in this recollection. it will
be gehenna where i breathe
in a world without end,
dream without sleep, pen
a poem without words.
there is no desire in my
heart for this. i desire
only to be unexceptional,
in the occasion that i speak.

thoughts of an absent friend

zinnia, are you a sunflower
or a daisy? you are no rose,
yet your bloom is elegant. a
palette of pastel colors
aside from blue. you
are the messenger of
summer from sunrise to
sunset. you harmonize
with anna’s hummingbirds,
you shelter me from my
melancholy madness of
vain expectations for the
narcissus. zinnia, others
profit from your beauty,
a peasant worker in my
garden, honest only to
god, fearing not thunder
or the serpentine twister
slithering in the meadow.
your boldness attracts the
butterflies. in the victorian
language of flowers your
name means thoughts of
an absent friend. zinnia,
who do you wait for if not
for me? i have manipulated
your soil to germinate your
seed. come winter, you will
be an angelic bouquet for
my bohemian botanic lover.

the brightness of my dark

my nights are longer

than my days. a

waning crescent

moon transcends

remnants of a star.

my veins are frozen

with fire, my brain

a runaway train,

speaking with poetic

delusions. a moment

of calm would be

liberation. a litany

of silence a mending

grace. i have gathered

seeds of friendship

and goodwill from

my garden. i have

smudged my lips

with sage. on acute

knees i have chanted

the mantras and

accepted the

painlessness of

lust. i have woven

despair and joy in

duplicate tears. my

demise will be

everything it’s

meant to be. while

waiting my execution,

i smoke my tonic,

swallow my neutralizer,

and take cover behind

a romantic disguise.

spring cultivates a kind heart

in my backyard,

there are blue jays,

robins and cardinals.

and doves that are

always making love.

trees grow higher than

the moon. mountain

streams are double-quick.

they will flow until

the summer solstice.

my well is deeper

than the well of joseph.

in my backyard,

a forest is being born,

creatures gallivant in

the shade. i pick the

shagbark timber i will

use the winter after

next. beyond that

i no longer will

be anxious for

tomorrow, or weep

for red roses that

don’t return. i

live only in the

crack of this

moment, for

a split second,

in my backyard

it takes light to even see our shadow

if there was no sun,

you would have no

shadow. if it wasn’t

for your shadow, i

might never have

touched you. my

acceptance of

your silhouette

came from my

encounter with

your spirit. where

an ego could hide,

i found none. you

have kissed those

outside your heart.

you accept my

vulnerabilities. if i

am violent without

reason, you are

my wounded healer.

the caretaker for

my perceptions. i

cultivated my

garden in poor soil,

in the darkness of

my own shadow.

thank you, for

taking away my

comfort.