there’s the fat and funny clowns the shy excuse-me’s the tiny tap dancers and crazy breakdancers and the serious soldiers sent to attack the earth, puddles, rivers of the fallen, the flow of battlefield blood black nimbus’ mean war delinquent grays, spit happier ones drip in sunshine and the sad just want to cry clouds watch more of the planet than the sun, moon and stars together and perhaps like an audience have many ways to comment on what they like and don't

you’d think my sunny marriage two bouncy hearts on eight furry legs and creating poetry every day would fill all the holes in my life and almost always they do but even in front of this fire on this clear cold night I’ve fallen into a desperately hollow space with a certainty that something important is missing as if I was a bird who’s wing has cramped and suddenly can’t fly or a cloud that’s grown too heavy to float and is falling to earth, as I sit here in misery waiting fo

a bunch of quarters thrown on the table and your curiosity might lift one to make sure it’s real, then gaze indifferently at the rest but wouldn’t three or four pennies laid out, pique your interest enough to pick up each one, flip it over to check out its burnished date? hence the reason I thoroughly dislike large parties