Already
each star
has found
a voice,
in the sky's dark-room
dressed in silver
they sing;
the constellation
of open windows
spirals
towards points
far away,
patiently they wait
for an audience.

  [Insert random conversational text

here.  Please.]

No subject
is too monumental or arbitrary. 
No cohesion is required.  Tired
brain?  Empty head?  No worries,
just enter random words.  Press
send when finished, then wait.

I process all prompts promptly.  Shake
things up, turn them sideways.  Dance
them on their heads through mine.  Images
playing at wanting
to become concrete.

I regurgitate, recycle.  Shiny fresh
ideas you never knew
you already had.

Had a date with my Sneaky Pete and the girls
last night at College Billiards,
the local dive joint where circuit Players
come to shoot pool on the Pro size tables,
making hustler type bets,
we're crummy so settled around a
Brunswick in the back top corner,
ordered up thick juicy grilled burgers
from a sweet Hispanic cocktail waitress,
and best onion rings on El Cajon Boulevard
washed down with Pacifico beer.
Cool Rat Pack tunes played in the background
Dean Martin boozy growling
and you could smell the cig smoke coming
out Sammy Davis Jr.'s mouth,
we shot eight ball and chill practice
while money was fast changing hands
down on the floor,
and charming slick-talker Minnesota Fats
who never lost a game
 "when the cheese was on the table,"
in a frame on dingy green walls,
taking in all the action.

Struggling, searching, seeking
Emotions, ancient
Strata’s rubble left behind

At the end of the day, the pears will be ripe
and the horse I loved and died will float before me
in waves of growing beauty.
At the end, when all of this leaves and the nasty mothers
and nastier daughters delve into the tar pit
that closes overhead behind them, then I will breathe
an owl breath, still in my tranquil sky.
At the end, I will find you, thank you for this sick chaos -
myself, a garden, hit by a massive storm.
I will give life again to the little birds, insects that have no
use or concept of glory. I will return with you
to the Buddha waters, happy to know so much love.
I will walk out my door and there will be summer,
early summer, and you and I (though bruised and that much more
world-weary) will walk into the warmth:
ultimately loved, unequivocally whole.

and you may hear marching bands
that aren't playing anywhere close by,
but, faint as you might, hear
them the same 

and your head tells you
something is something worth
listening to 

even if you can't
hear it

Just because you do not listen doesn’t mean I must scream.

Learn sign language 

I did

Communication becomes birds.

Sometimes words are robins

With you they remain crows.

We communicate as well as ever.

Hewn to the wire
rust for the fence,
I watched cattle
trample the sprouts
among the wood,
the ash trees grew
into headstones
abandoned to us.
I see you I see me
clearing the brush
keeping a twig
and pebble stone
for our pockets
to remember
the people under
as we will be.
Wind left the air
low on our faces,
earth left the dirt
over our names,
when we awake
in between
night and morning
you will cry
through separations,
I will die again
miming the leaf. 

I used to be the earth
and you were a flower
I am a stone
a statue and you are the sculptor
A stone resting in a field of many flowers
watching infinite cycles of pollination
Forever frozen and preserved
like the limestone of the pyramids
I rest in my gorgeous prison
Forever the observer
so many lifetimes have passed
I am stone, a Statue and you,
my dear, The sculptor
I used to be the earth