under this evening sun

under this evening sun
brighter than neon streets

some unidentified motion
a light in the night sky

caused some great commotion
among commuters home

no amount of media coverage
cold help them uncover

this most mysterious
fantastic flying delirium

how could anyone not believe
such an objective function?

another sunset has past

another sunset has past
without me as a witness

day slipped into the tub
under cover of darkness

the bubbles sizzle
bacon in a griddle

crackle evening breeze
through leafless trees

emerge from the LCD
into this altered nativity

to find my vessel
all alone in an asphalt lot.

pecan tree pigeons

balding limbs are carolling
as they sway in the winter wind
songs of holiday joy

mild giving of trinkets and toys,
experiments in sentiment,
adornments and scents

arranged in flights and patterns
deranged avians of urban heights,
living monuments to dinosaurs.

a patio of uneven bricks
scattered with broken terra cotta
and icing planters white droppings

as they take flight with black wings
frightened by canine insurrection,
alerted by their collars.

in these eternal moments
between a gust and a flurry
everything becomes a fuzzy blur.

emotions connote unrequited intent
carry a weight beyond measure
invent stochastic signals of pleasure.

and to where are they flying,
to whom are they delivering
mixed messages in mottled earth.

they are bottles set adrift,
wash up in backyard coolers and planters
land the pecan tree pigeons.

a lone pecan tree

a lone pecan tree
dangles its cojones
over outstretched limbs

surveys a tenuous tremor
over fallow fields
littered with signs

for suburban developments
which sway like wildflowers
in the breeze.

your liturgical smile

your liturgical smile
connects in moments
many miles of asphault

bracketed by billboards

comments on moving scenery
the silent symphony
the synergy of symmetry

you ride on a highway

built on lowballing
tolling you just so
just enough to complain

to pass your surgical bile

not enough to investigate
another investment in space
another divestment in time

mile after mile for godsake

to shave five minutes
off an hour-long commute
at seventy miles an hour

is this a higher calling?

canyon run butte

power lines cutlass the open sky,
rising suburban sewage tide
washes over the wilderness

in sevens and elevens,
in diamonds and shamrocks,
this retail must be curtailed

as forests are felled,
fuel to this sprawling disease
of so much impersonal property

left in the hands of scaly
cotton mouths and copper heads
with water in their moccasins.

there is no place left to hide.

tears saved for a rainy day

water trickles from rooftops
into pools with plosives
in a steady counterpoint

to passing traffic
streaming rubies that shimmer
as each revving engine

peels out, having waited
at the busy intersections
in the mid-winter bustle,

the preparations for holidays
when family flies in
and people are bound up

like wreaths like packages
shipped a day too late
to arrive by that sacred morning

when paper litters living rooms
and a million smiles echo
the same forgotten feeling

that started it all 2,000
years before in a tiny town
woven into the fringe of an empire.