Poetry

It is against the law
for bombs to sleep on the sidewalk
but less fortunate bombs
are shelterless
or as some say unsheltered
no silo nor anywhere else to go

A shadow’s echo speculates by the bleached wall of papyrus
An incense stick crumbles into ash —  a garden snake sheds its skin
Falling back asleep inside the mirror of dreams
The puddle’s canvas, catching watercolors of the rainbow rain

When famine finds a feast beyond
the depth of fear’s furrowed brow,
I cede and bleed into this font
to slake your thirst that only grows.

In the silence after destruction,
death does not vanish,
just as the river of immortality
doesn't water anybody;
we remain between light and dark.

and venture capitalism , a medulla oblongata rhyming 
each mouth and eye to the arrogant grasping of hands , is 
anything but natural . here , the crush of one thing 
onto the other . a totalitarian wind blowing from the east

No - not the goddess of beauty,
Venus from Gillette, 
Venus from Shocking Blue,
Venus flattened into a jingle:
“I’m your Venus, I’m the fire at your desire.”