There are many zones
the popular Twilight Zone
crossing the school zone
with all the basics
like writhing and reeling and
arrhythmias are fatal
for Western students
cluelessness, secrecy, and
incapacity
ignored globe grows dust
and the school's walls have blackboards
dartboards for target practice
the teachers alarmed
walled Glocks that toll assassins
the lambs are noisy
indoors and outdoors
the hung apple's score tallies
The Tree of Knowledge still grows
principal announced
school will close for funerals
the town folks will meet
and begs an answer
school razed for homeschooling
new breeds promise no more graves
twenty-twenty-five
parents, their kid's commencements
gymnasium armed
library screams sh!
nobody crossing zone signs
fronts empty cemetery
The cardiac dance, a waltz of hidden passions,
has made our feeling a vibrant creature in a fraction of time,
O, celestial flyer, from the vault sprinkled with pure light,
You have settled like a meditation on my temple, gently swayed by a soft breath.
Our love has bloomed in the guise of a budding smile,
In the blaze that consumes us, and the breath that tangles in gusts,
Desire, that worn talisman of dream, perched in a bent soul,
With the breathing of a world that pulses in unison with the year coming to life.
We have concluded a dream, an immaterial pact, sealed with the gold of life,
You and I, in a second and a mute line, remaining at the horizon of our lips at dawn,
From the aftermath of the kiss that transfigured us, in a psalm of liberated love.
Our love has transformed into shooting stars over the serene abyss of eternity,
But where have these stars lain, and in what realms have they dissipated,
Which path did the time take that we tenderly weaved shoulder to shoulder,
While the heart sings, with sweet arrhythmias, a longing forever shared.
Mastications In One Movement
Lathering on the ranch dressing,
mixed with honey mustard grunting;
these inhaling engorging souls are
finding the emotional precipice,
high up and dangling,
hanging by french fried ropes,
smothered in thousand island arrhythmias.
here come the fat waiters,
pushing arteriosclerotic meat carts,
spangled in barbecued thrombosis
and chocolate-covered infarctions,
served au jus on peanut butter trays
filled with maple syrup cherries and
white-creamed heart palpitations.
You know what I mean?
You’ve smelled those words before,
tasted their glazed cordials,
licked the candy flowers
as they swayed there, and
sucked the inner pap of the sweet melon
with perspiring brow; now
having a reason to wake up, it is
time for cupcakes and cinnamon churros
with the vanilla-skirted girls,
marinating inside bacon and lettuce taxis,
dipped in onion teriyaki, sizzling
delicious smoke with au gratin effusions.