“Tap Your Tapioca”
Confronted with the obvious truth within my heart,
I acknowledge my strong disposition toward tapping your tapioca.
I want to drink those dark delicious orbs.
Suck them up through an enlarged straw.
So fresh and rich.
Mouthfuls of flavor and straight coolness.
Robust and slushed,
A chewy drink.
A meal, if you will?
Tapping tapioca twilight.
Until there is nothing left
“In Lieu Of A Point Of View”
I’m still tired within my mind.
Alas, tired as tired tried.
Midnight waking hours conspired,
Circadian lull, quite unrequited.
Expanse of dreams…
Purple charger nightmare driving toward the cliff’s edge.
Ready to be abrupt,
And splash cold water shock,
Across all forms of unconsciousness.
the tangible effects,
Of stolen breaths.
Dreamscape n’ere provides
Butterflies, and doubts,
Holding paralyzed to a fixed point,
Stalled in action.
Forever aware of the impending demise of fanciful turns.
Objecting, to a coming to.
Ambiguous range of confusion,
Thick plumed clouds of opacity.
Finding things never looked for.
Right where you left them.
I heard the birds chirping for the first time today.
A seasonal yawn across the horizon.
A feeling of ready,
Humming all around.
While swirly winds play with gravity.
A smell of morning cereal,
Dirty ice islands.
Melting slowly, remarkable slow,
Full of the ghosts of road salt and snowballs.
Breathing their last.
Bendable, pliable, gradual Spring.
Choking chill from existence.
Guiding the colder shadows to hibernation,
Until next year.
Obscuring the cold dark death of things.