To resurrect a fairytale

The magic of tiger’s breath faded with a 9-to-5

leaving little dreamers on islands of clouds

watching aeroplanes whisk weary travelers

carrying blank expressions outlined by frost.


A big game hunter shoots an elephant

for sport

earning an ivory souvenir

in exchange for orphans.


Splattered blood stains dry grass

as naive eyes wonder when rain will satiate their


and wash away the stain of their mother.


On clouds they will celebrate among the imaginations

of the kin of their malefactors

lest they cease to be in the fortyear that follows

victims of ego

never soaring like a prism

reflecting pain into a rainbow

for others to follow in search of gold.





Along the Gypsy Caravan

Trammeled earth underneath

and dust

swirls behind a file of travelers,

en route to the next oasis.


Ancient traditions reveal in the light

of shared purpose

subjugating personal conflict

to the whims of motion.


Mules walk alongside men

carrying loads destined as dowrys

for mercurial women singing

falsettos of hope, desire, virginity.


Children dance among loose hens

and furry goats

while mothers keep a watchful eye

lest one stray.


Wrinkly-faced men recount bygone battles

between swigs of some raw brew,

chuckles easing the load of destiny

on scarred feet.


When the dust settles

there is no trace of the passing group

save the faint smell of manure

and a hymn of hope

passed down the line.




His intentions flow like lava,

carving blood-red troughs

through dignity and reason.


They dig like veins

underneath a leaf until in chunks

of remorse peter into a vast sea

amid crashing waves

and jagged promontories.


His eruptions entomb bodies

expressioned like mimes in a play

for which they did not



Let the discord of his music

be no mirror to the symphony of

his soul.


No rhyme or reason can explain

the destruction in his wake.


Only time will breed life in ash

while the man lies dormant

hoping his trees bear fruit

before the arrival of darkness.

Contagious Laughter

There is a place

in man’s heart

for only truths.


Where snide remarks

meet with curmudgeonry

and swords pierce fog

on wordless afternoons.


Where callused hands on sweaty shovels

uncover  tenuous deceptions

shifting through the sands

like sidewinders.


Where each stroke

brings us nearer

to a soft core

full of unexpected jokes,

untainted romances,

and contagious laughter.

Shirts that say obey

They walk around wearing shirts

with Andre the Giant prints:





The president?


Better luck with Andre the Giant

or perhaps the new White House Aide

Boso the Clown

who won´t have a job next week

for dis-obedience.


So I obey,

the whims of the present:

fog, sunshine, smells, and intentions.

Moments of clarity:

bees hanging around jacarandas,

waves of whitewater crashing on the shore.

Hourglass Chandelier

Purveyor of time,

do you not singe with regret

at stockpiled bounty

in the face of hunger?


Purveyor of time,

do you not cower in disbelief

at good men drowned

by waves of red tape?


Purveyor of time,

when did love become a nuptial contract

and beauty skin-deep?

When did purple become fuscia and salad organic quinoa?


When did assholes become heroes

by spinning lies as truth,

spraying their homegrown feces

with cheap Giorgio Armani cologne?

One more

Trample me.

Shove your soles with mangled gum

looking like a maimed raisin

on me.


Then make me eat it.


I need one more

bite, talk, fuck, drink, smoke

to make things right

in the life that left me

years ago

when I opened myself

to you.


Without you

our world would have one less



Spare one more chunk

until our stew boils

and the vapor dissipates

leaving air, a raisin

and tepid broth.