a cherry on top

i sit tight
stay up to write something

majestic
mind shattering

a talk to stop the clock
the ticking ceases
and everyone freezes

the conversation begins
a peace dialogue to unite

the rich and poor
the religious at war
everyone who just
can't take any more

open the door
remove the floor
and the debt ceiling

drench the people

in feeling, melt

cold hearts

everywhere

this voice, this power
to dip the world
into a vat of peace,
love, and kindness
as if we were merely
an ice-cream cone
waiting for a shell
of rainbow sprinkles

all that is good
and i'd leave a drop
of evil, just enough
so we could still all
have
a wicked good time!

dream summer

estivate vacate
appreciate, stay up late
awake all summer

orphan

misbegotten child
running the solemn streets wild
forgotten and mild

How? 2 tankas and 1 haiku

how many ways can
one word reveal a heartache,
blue, dark, desolate
tavern for lonely lovers
who have lost their raspy voice

a bottle, a pack
of cigarettes divided
half for tomorrow
alone at the bitter end
hoping for any old soul

to find you, to save
you from yourself, to give you
cause to speak of love

lake swimming

swimming carefree
surfing off the dock

young
where do I belong
full of love and woe

where i should go

how will i know
the peace and quiet
the fish feel
underwater

or the riveting rush
of a soaring bird
sailing through
an indigo sky?

how long will i hold
my breath
while I wait for you
to come around?

i'm underwater
tickling your feet and
the fish are nibbling
my belly
i run for cover
under your water shadow,
but the sky suddenly
moves
exposing me
to the sun's light
and the fish rush faster
towards me

so I head for a mountain
and watch the birds fly

we'll go swimming again
another day.

Dear Holden, Love Jane

and maybe you care

maybe you care
if my kings are lined up in the back row
and i'm disregarding where they're
supposed to go

and maybe you
find most people
mundane

and maybe you
really are insane

i've read most of
The Catcher in the Rye
so far i'm in love and hate
you go on,
prate, prate, prate
about life
what of our fate?

 i'll quietly
reserve my opinion
as I line
up my kings
and wait for you
to finally call

P.S. Stradlater never "gave the time" to me

word of the day "fingerprint" or "a trace of you"

I trace your face

in the air

with my finger

it is sealed

in my mind indefinitely

dreaming among

field lilies and fluttering blossoms

I draw your fingerprint

with each detailed line

in my sketchbook

it is mine

i hold it tightly to my chest

the key to finding you

should you commit a crime

but you won't

your fingerprint will stay

innocent and free

sketched in the dust

on the table next to me

where you last

sat down your coffee cup

our last tryst

you will be missed

and if your fingerprint

should dare to follow your hand

to the tip of my cheekbone

i'd fall for you again