Just beneath a surface

of bubbly, greasy scum

there boils a churning truth

striving to break the surface and be told.


Does the truth lie in the ear of the beholder,

or is it a fantasy dreamed up by weasels

asserting transparent authority with squeaky voices

and trembling pen-strokes?


Simmering at several degrees

under a boiling rage

I curse the complicity of deranged minds,

passionless bureaucrats, and football referees.


I must begin in a place far removed from the current state of disorder.


Long ago the desert sky compelled me with fiery-red brush strokes

splashed over the infinite canvas of heaven,

images which caressed the surface tension

but never pierced it with the sharp strokes required.


Exotic chemicals beckoned seductively and easily,

twisting shapes and thoughts in random ways

never allowing the vision to see beyond,

only pushing the sphere of sight just out of range.


It’s growing clearer to me now

that the slices of time shuffled and dealt

from the bottom of the deck

will never produce a winning hand.


And that once you poke the skin

it’s readily apparent that the animal

has been in the water much too long

and will only break apart in the ripples.

deleted deleted
1 Response Feb 9, 2010

I love the fifth stanza!!!