You are so funny!
You make me laugh, really.
I understand your humor,
though I'll never understand you.

You are so funny!
You are always on cue.
When you look in the mirror,
do you see me looking too?

You are so funny!
Like a man who slaps his knees.
The jokes you tell, are a spell,
and I beg you for more, please.

You are so funny!
A "tour de farce" unsupressed.
You are so funny!
Especially when I am undressed.

Why fight me when you are unwilling
to walk away with no lingering thought
When from underneath it comes spilling
an effortless need, we two have wrought.

It is no more than a road with two lines
down the middle because it goes both ways.
Highway has surpassed ancient railway ties.
A visit is no more than a bit of one's days.

It is no more than a gasoline tank,
Cars no longer use a crook with a crank.
Yet I remain here and you remain there.
With time, resource, and emotion to spare.

Our connection requires no correspondence
not by wire, nor post, nor letter by horse
Yet illusion creates our boundary by distance.

What blanket must cover this mind's eye?
to compel hesitant steps to walk beyond flames
to locate where pleasures and sweet affections lie.
Perhaps we'd begin by exchanging our names?

The geese raced across the sky this morning
as winter chased the birds' path unyielding-
Sixty-five miles per hour, twas I perpendicular
forging my own path toward my particular- destination.

When the geese have arrived they shall settle
and be cradled by warm breeze in a cool pond-
They shall fornicate the way animals do
and generate their progeny between the reeds and dew-

I shall reach my own destination.
Where I'll stare at electronic light.
I'll frustrate then force my own contemplation.
And about the geese, I'll write.

Which creature's journey ended best?
If product alone is the only test,
I say, God Bless the Geese!

The dogwood tree
was built for me.
Not too tall
for I was small.

The limb started low.
As though to show,
how one should go.

Time to climb.

One sneaker lace untied.
I spied.

A nest-
three eggs at rest.

Speckled blue for robin red,
whose bird-wife is brown.

Time to climb down.

Sailing toward the words in a brain fog.
Maybe something I write will inspire me
to write something else- Another stream
of thought- Different from the last five
thoughts I just had-

There is no inspiration. There is just you.
And you aren't even you. You are just
a phantom imagined over a long time.
Imagined so long you have taken on
a form of your own- No actual reality
could ever improve upon who you are.
This is known- Known by you and known
by me. This is why we can never stand
face to face. It is impossible to stand
face to face with a brain fog.

The fog can only surround you and trick you
into walking deeper into it with your arms
stretched out trying to feel for something you
can see clear as day but as you press on further
nothing at all presses back. No pressure. I need
pressure. The pressure of a hug, a hand, warmth.
But you are fog! You are mist! You are cool.
Too cool, and so deep. I could travel into you
forever and freeze to death.

I do not want to be lost in the mist, or the fog.
There are no light houses guiding me or sirens
to warn me that I am about to crack my wooden
legs on the sharp rocks in rough seas. So, I will
do the only thing I can do. I am turning this boat
around and sailing in the other direction

That imaginary smile holds sway,
over a hopeful heart hearing music play,
within a wish that fades and shines,
within the recesses of a marveling mind-

And yet, some clarity, like a new November breeze,
cools a face flushed with adoration's embers exposed,
while the night's black inked fingers grip, and seize,
the salubrious stars that sing such bright songs composed-

And I, follow thee.
Obsequiously.

All on One Shelf

Little Women
Anne of Green Gables
Anna Kerenina
The Merchant of Venice
A Prayer for Owen Meany
Rights Talk
Barrel Fever
Me Talk Pretty One Day
The Sparrow
Children of God
The Green Mile
Thursday Next
Ham On Rye
Catch 22
Whitehorn Woods
The Complete Poems of Emily Dickenson
Hillary Rodham Clinton
Extreme Measures
The Arraignment