30x1 Dripping Syllables on a Sidewalk

A whirlpool of molecules swirling

in halogen; painted puddles
skip gloomily with me
En route to higher learning.
 A Late Night with My Brain

Synapse firestorm surrounds a neuron soup.

I wish I could place it in a jar for awhile;
keep it outside periphery.
The organ that never stops playing.

It might start rattling like a maraca,

demand to be placed back in its skeletal cage.

My brain and I have flown less opaque skies,

we have often intersected and rode the same wavelength.
 Notes from the Living Perished

Brief respite atop my porcelain throne,

Im king of the degenerates.
Return to the clang and clatter of dropped
and raised hydraulic scorpion pincers.

Bend, lift, place, ride.

Shrill clarion cries form a sonorous

and imposing orchestra, like free jazz sped up,
on feedback rewind. Complacent faces
from the crypt hook round the borders

of the dimly reflected, slippery concrete surface.

The assassin who wields his clipboard dagger
approaches with a fistful of digits; latent
heat rising from crew-cut demands.

Bend, lift, place, ride.

The drone of heartsick factory ballads

throbs gently within a clocked, space-aged craft
that delivers you into an ammonia laced atmosphere.
When the garbled mash-up of horns

and grunts from grime covered case grippers

halts, its time to shuffle toward and bust
open the bulwark which reveals a blinding
incandescent freedom, but crew-cut bellows

out, enjoy your hours until the digital clock

urges you to return to the killing floor.

Bend, lift, place, ride.

 Neighborhood Lost

Ice storm grimace links a chain of faces.

Narcotic knives pierce our eyes and ears.

Hermits home sold; dumpster contains

discarded memories. Choir of crickets
chirp mad against vibrating air.

Crab walking possessed are not just strangers

in the fog. Venomous tar promises
to inject eternal glee; this dream

becomes a nightmare where floors are

sprinkled with shattered glass.
 Gambling Mans Hat

Gift shop visor slumps in solitude

on a dresser drawer. A booze fueled purchase
picked from the rack with irony attached to the tag.
Remnant, neon-blue light stored
from all energy draining, Vegas casinos,

still lingers on this dust laden cap.

A slew of recalls floods the head that the
hat once sat upon. I saw much
from beneath my topless, thin-billed awning.
Have you ever felt alone in a room crammed with talkers?

Dinging bells and blinking lights, yielded

orchards of silver into the hands of greedy gropers.
A Palace Bridge featured homeless
beggars who marched much terra to meet the dealer
of scars in Sin City. Hypocrisy unveiled in the form

of inside spenders and disdain

for outstretched fingers.
The hat, with its cheap cardboard
insert, still refuses to unhinge the stench
of a smoke-stick onslaught.

Hat in hand, mine still secure

around my hairline, a worn drifter vamped
a tale of despair into my facial flesh and bones.
The hat scooped the sound up
like a sonar dish.

He was possessed by a thirst for more bills

to feed a heartless machine; the same one
that vacuumed out his pockets and left him
standing in the crosshairs of antipathy. The empty
void still widens across the strip of crushed souls.