Speech

Two visitors nightly to me do visit they.
From where the squirrel and mouth come, I can not say.

From behind the screen that glows so slow?
Or 'twixt my ears in the amygdala below?

From the other woman end of the phone?
From some past memory drizzled in bones?

The squirrel it leaps and crawls and climbs.
The mouth is large and loud and blind.

The squirrel with tail too many inches long
its body sleaked-furred and morbidly strong.

Rampantly the bedroom-ramparts it coerces,
Streaking the ceiling in towering forces.

Ceaselessly gnawing it chomps with its paws,
Eyes vampant and streaming, clawing with gnaws.

The mouth faceless and sleepless eater-biter is,
Naggingly drips and endlessly griz,

A butcher cacophony knife-zapping, flesh-zipped,
Its emanations darkly and ripped:

Pleasure's all yours, pursue it and find-
Work yourself up, down to the rind-

Bills will come. Go.
What's a few bucks on a couple of shows-

The meter read- The State wants its bread.
Another child seasoned with dread.

Pigs leap three feet high, gunned down in droves.
Remember the girl who took off her clothes.

The sky steeps- The dark deeps-
And on and on and on it goes.

When morning comes a thin sheath left,
Voiceless I rise out of breath.

Moon-Butterfly-Eyes

First draft written on 4/16/17. Still working on this one...

Moon-Butterfly-Eyes


It had been a dark road
the long path of night stretching out
like years. The hills
void-less lumps in the distance
with hardly an outline of contour.

Even driving the speed limit
my wife and I had to strain our eyes
fumbling with maps and missed turns.

The moon is  flying around and around
like a butterfly!
My daughter's first poem rose
from the back seat of the car
alighting on our ears
she wrote with her dark tongue
and dark breath in the dark night
while the moon, a gentle shepherd,
had been following her, for years.

Night, darkness, blindness.
Night's weight conceals the spectrum
of the rainbow
but she chose a near lighter-than-air-creature
that I hardly noticed, that always announces I'm here,
with the early autumn glow of it's wings.
______________________________________________________

First draft written below:

"The moon is like a butterfly,"
my daughter's first poem
she wrote with her tongue and breath
while the moon
 had been following her
like a shepherd.
Night, darkness, blindness.
Night's heaviness conceals the spectrum of the rainbow
but she choose a near-lighter than air creature
that always announces it's here
with the autumn of its wings.

Her mind
is like a moon-butterfly.