The planes: the shortest distance between corn
Repetition is a common prayer dangerous to a driver
boxed in, under an open sky, a rectangular prison
as rain arches across the planes.
Did you know the shortest distance between corn
are straight lines though its poles’ and electrical power lines,
an overturned microchip, the ticks on a rail
road of boxes and cylinders city-bound
around square miles of deserted farmland.
Forbidden cricket song
hills of grassy fields without mowing,
resonate a gushing spring worth welling,
your hairy shanks tonight slide
against me, hidden by cuff of jean,
vegetation’s swelling I know
mother nature’s maestro
no feline stomach could play
poetry scraping me to sleep.
Of cricket-song
I saw your leg hair tonight
and it turned me on;
I thought of the intimate beauty
we will have–how it will go on and on
no matter what they prescribe
oh–the sound of them scraping
more beautiful than a summer
of cricket-song.
Scarved leaves parachute
scarved leaves parachute to block my way,
oblivious to my important conversations inside,
“We’re dying” they say in solemn faces drifting–
ignoring me ignoring them?
and being a Goodfella, I grind their uncovered graves into the newly laid concrete,
bloody gray– “Bloody right,
we’re dying.” I say
and walk on.
Another helping of rain
Can’t help hoping for another helping of rain
narrated by thunder and barn’s bang
as hues transform twilight and night slowly covering
a saturated sun setting behind dark clouds hovering,
swinging the spectrum on a pendulum that humidies hang
tragically, intimately close to my heart’s pain.