Clock de Borges does not tick
Rather keeps pace by dripping candle wax
Through the birthing and the dying of the sun
Called dawn and respectively sunset.
These mark the realms of the worlds
Existing in this Phoenix cycle of creation.
Night, as we say, with its muted shadows
Reveals with it's fears of the unknown,
Also the possibilities of who we might be,
If all the barriers were laid aside
And all believed obstacles presented
Were hidden out of our hopeful thoughts' sight,
Allowing dreams to materialize as permanent ideas,
The world of the almost, could be, beautiful future.
Day, as we say, harsh in it's brightness
Illuminates a harder reality, more fixed, set,
Not transcending but transvexed, challenging
Each step, each deed, each word in combat,
Plagued with the returning visions of who we were.
Making the past an overcoat of weak armor,
Slowing down inspiration and response.
Yet this world of fault and failure seems more tangible.
Here in these two worlds of alternating time
He lives and would have us abide also,
Tangled between the tangible and the almost obtained.
Duel citizens of vexed thoughts, ideas, and realities,
Not measured in twelves of purpose
But in the giving and taking of light,
Extended externally and internally,
Lighting or shadowing existence amide duel creations
Painting our lives, surrealistically in varying shades
Of melting watches and meandering verses
Alone in our quest for philosophy and reason.

We're only artists at an art show
Not really alive or attentive
Go ahead, say anything that comes to mind.
It's not you telling your four-year-old daughter
My stuff looks like something she'd do,
But it's the laugh that gives away
How you feel about her art and mine.
Don't worry about my vision or concepts
Of course I'll break up a set for you.
Why not? The corner of your knick-knack shelf
Is more important than all my labor.

By the way, do you have this in blue, or less blue,
Or no blue at all, at least not this blue?

We artists are all like dogs chained at the neck.
Starve us long enough and we'll sell.
Sell it cheap, marked down, discounted,
Close out specials, come on in, we're cutting prices.
After all we want to be what you want us to be,
Little Wal Marts, only with original, one of a kind offerings.

No wonder so many artists go rabid
When they make it to the top, financially secure.
It's our natural response to your training.

What is it that you don't get?
It's a bicycle, a play thing
A toy for us to enjoy together.
I can push you, you can push me.
We can pump each other all around,
Ride it inside, outside, what fun we've found.
Yeah, you could look it up in the dictionary.
It'd say: Bi meaning two wheels, a vehicle,
A mode of transportation to go from here to there,
Take you and me to us, like in the Magic Bus.
I want it, I want it, I want it.
So, why would you say I can't have it?
Oh, I see it is your bicycle.
You want to be in control, be in charge,
Decide who, when, and where
If anybody gets to ride at all.
You're going to lock it up down the hall.
Yeah, I guess you could just play with it
All by yourself alone and not have to share.
Go ahead and see if I care.
You can peddle your bike all over town
If you like with any old clown.
Why don't you stick it where birds can't fly
And Beso me huevos, adios, goodbye.
I'll find someone else who will let me ride,
Bicicleta.

She found it
By accident
Spring-cleaning
Instantly
She flushed
And sat
Reminiscing
The visions
Flashing back
Upon dreams
Held silently
In yellowed pages
Corners bent
Tear stained
Releasing
Emotions
Flooding
Questions
How long
Had it been
Since
She couldn't
Quite recall
Fresh still
As yesterday
As if
It had never
Happened
At all.
Now
She held
It fast
To her heart
As if never
To let it
Ever part
But
Reluctantly
She laid it
Down
Once again
Placed it
Back in
The Goodwill box

Peaceful cows gently graze on the green hills
Naive in the world, unaware of their destiny
Their species will survive, but not them individually,
Complacent martyrs of bovine success.

What metaphors we use to describe lives similar,
In jest we point and snicker in the ear
Assuming ourselves are not so dossal
Pushing away any doubt, behind us.

We need much reassurance
And comforting from our fellows
Identifying with our base group
From which to point.

Our species is surviving, certainly.
What of us individually?
Are we martyred?
In dead end tasks dulling our brains?
In relationships diseasing our spirits?