The Savage Grid

NO ESCAPE FROM THE SAVAGE GRID
the ethereal ideas of Milton
and heartache of millions…
where leave s        do      nt tur                 n
and skies don’t shine.

SENSORY STASIS
but constant change
lies about illusions of a mirage
games about wars
where fac     ts    tu          rn          fict     io                    n
and science becomes religion.

NEURAL PATHWAYS
become extended
into McLuhan’s wake and burial
mounds for dreams
and realities          ho        ld      t               ur                 ned
hands of electric aliens.

WONDER IS WANDER
Journeys taken seated
Where Life becomes logic
love becomes come
and poe        sy try to          turn

to Great       Pyramids.
A small pumpkin

PIE IN THE EYE
a high fort     he                fa           ll
right    through a mind’s glass                            sky.
Welcome to now or tur         n to the                         n or whe          n?

HERE OR THERE
WHERE OR CARE?
my her               his         she’s       t        urn

Oncoming Tunnels

headlights shine like
little monster’s
Autumn eyes
lit by silver moon’s
unspoken-to-the-brim

revenge.

On womankind
he can smell them
in the blood soaked soils
in the bark of the oaks
and hears her

notes.

When they fall
like so many
words never

said.

Stacked, Crunched, Smoked

Jelly Jars overturned
an old l-shaped writing crow’s desk.

Unsung Songs of the street
depopulated by countless deaths of dreams
defanged by debts and bricks.

Stacked, Seen, and Delivered
to unknown destinations
postcards from trains
unpaid and planes not flown.

Where We All Go at the end of a day
but only some can repeat in the ‘morn
and relive for love never born.

He Hates to wake,
but loves to walk
under old oaks
crunching the unborn seeds
of hundreds more oaks
the mobile modern abortionist.

he hates To Smoke,
but flicks that end
still lit
and dreams of lives unlived
hundreds more hours
if he had the gift.