I Dream in Breathless
night. My body
smothered in darkness,
radiates a solid that should not be.
I struggle against invisible
ropes more stagnant than my skin,
inhale the smoke generated
by imaginary friction.
Sadly, I know there is no hope
of bursting into salvatory flames.
A Fly Buzzed
and then it died. Its last moments
erupting with inebriated burst
of champagne from the glass I left
on the counter. I smiled as I watched it
wobble, teeter on rim, free-fall
to marble-countered doom. I imagine
how wonderful to tip a toast in that final
instant, before it all goes to Hell.
The Merchant of Death is Dead
the headline screamed, mistaking Alfred
for his brother, doubling his grief. This forced
moment of retrospection changed history.
Inventor and manufacturer of dynamite was reborn
as philanthropist, poured blood-tainted fortune
into hope for the future, created Peace
Prizes.
I Am Living
with ghosts of a yesterday
I do not remember.
My mind is a labyrinth of half-
formed lies, has confused fantasy
& reality, has merged them
into dream-like stature. Too enticing,
I fall through its ephemeral
embrace, land face-forward
on the concrete of a bitter today.