I am a Wasp

I am

a

wasp

I

reserve

my sting

I only wish

to chew my paper

and sculpt my nest

But here I am, being

shooed out of

a four-door

sedan;

chased away by a

rolled up

magazine

I have no malevolent intentions

I reserve my sting

yet here I am,

my wings are broken,

and the ants are carrying me

away.

Old poem #3

We've got our analogies

and metaphors

and similes

and

allegories

We've got our red clay and yellow silt

We've got dust and grime

dirt and mud

and what we lack

is clarity

we have stones

when we need crystal,

we have leather

when we need glass

doors

instead

of

windows

There's no maps, no direction

no guides

nor a destination

we've traded lenses for gems

and our telescope is blind

"Expires 10-29-06" or (Old Poem #2)

I feel like a carton of milk

that can see its own expiration date

I won't apologize for curdling

and I won't feel bad for ruining

that little kid's

cereal.

But I will feel bad for

is spending my whole life on a shelf

even

when i can see

my expiration date

But I'll still spend my days dazing and dozing

in the

fast

flicker

of flourescent lighting

and I will regret much

because

my past

is clear

and I'm already starting to spoil.

Old Poem #1

we ignite

lifting

raising

shooting

flying

burning flaming

combustion

all propelling through

our atmosphere

breaking clouds

and the sound barrier

shattering the water vapor

veils hiding

our deep pools

and

dark forests

fuel's gone

dipping

diving

dropping

descending

free-falling

far down

breaking the Sargussum

surface

sinking

swimming

floating

wading

deep in

sapphire

pool

we rest at the bottom

A Pillar of Salt

Standing in the midday sun,

a porcelain

tower

showers her face

in light

and throws

her

hands to the blue.

In a foggy afternoon sleep

she dreams of

circuitry kisses

and in

the open throat

of night

she glows under

sodium flares

and phosphorescent

lakes of fire.

There is

a thick and tall

jail-bar shadow behind

her growing presence

in the sand sea

of desert.

Here, hiding in it is

a beetle

of black empty space,

coursing

in the sand

with legs of

oblivious nothing

and sleek wings of

zero.

Rats in the Cabinets

I hear the butterfly's

scales

falling from

its wing in

microscopic

prism snow

A burial at sea,

no

worms and

eternal

sunshine

for the

sailor.

Candle bug

kamikaze

into a pretty

girl's hair.

Piercing the stuffy

southern night

with

simple syrup

and whiskey

screech.

Straight above

the asphalt

a squirrel

is balancing on

his hind legs

on a power line

while eating

a peach pit.

Stinging spring wind

and

a sniffling

bike ridden

noses

all about

the hospital

and

sidewalks

and empty lots.

I have the

nerves now

all I need's

the guts.

My Apocalypse

It was

an apocalypse

There was an end

to something

great

then there was

a revealing, an

opening of

a new book

But there

was nostalgia

for the

way it was

before

and there were

saved passwords left

and

bits of clothing

or

remnants of a

scent.

It was

like peak oil,

we consumed

until

there was

nothing

and we

fell away into

a pre-industrial

solitude

where we came from

a long, long, long

time ago.

And it

is only fitting

That I

have nightmares of

World War III

and

our Ivory Computer Tower

in flames.

It is only fitting

that I

fill my head with

fission-fiction, with

nuclear viral holocausts

and

roving

street gangs.

Because now, here,

in the aftermath, I feel

I have only been

preparing

for

this loss

and

this nostalgia.

I miss

the way

it was

before