The White Buddha

The White Buddha sits
like a soft-boiled egg,
shining rusted copper
in the snow.
Covered with
a blend of
powder and tears
the White Buddha
ponders
life's true meaning.
As people come and go
and winter turns to Spring,
the White Buddha
is no longer white,
but
green, green,
                   green.
The Green Buddha sits
a smile stretched
between
two copper cheeks.
The White Buddha
sleeps.
While the Green Buddha dreams...

In A Blink Of Eternity's Eyes

Alone, but well
           buttered down
the path of Hell.
           Warning shots
ring out through
            the peaceful sound
of humming's blue.
            Silky smooth,
my dog's Chalet
            wandering around
the path that frays.
            Speaking openly
like velvet cake
            but our sorrows
bound to date.
            Calling up,
calling down,
            our soft fruit cobbler
is bright and sound.
            Strokes of
heavy lines
            of gray
spiral inwards,
           without a month's delay.
Taking Time,
           feeling no doubt,
the teflon heart beats
           pound, and pound.
Filling up,
           without a sound.
Those knives
           of steel,
a brimming creel,
          the photo-reel
of feelings
          to feel.
Smooth and slippery,
          sliding down your throat.
No thought can vanquish
          the tasty look,
of a future so dandy
          (You'd better not choke).
The skins are peeling off, inside the treasure lays.

Naked.

Exposed.

Unleashed
beyond the well done dying days.
            Days of shame,
lost to time,
            as the sweet belt tightens,
another bird enlightens
            the words,
shot out from the dark,
            we do not part
from the wacky
           ways
              of summer
                         days
of rhymes
           unheard of,
and pheasants slathered
           with oil,
olive oil.
           What a toil!
To bake in the sun,
            and to run
into
           the life you'd never thought you'd have.
Until a blink
          of a chicken feather goes by,
(And you know why)
         when it tumbles all dry
to see the lad,
          in the precious bed
who's sleeping on
         the concrete fence.
Just cast a pence,
         and let it all make sense

in a blink of eternity's eyes.

Cold Eyes

Those cold eyes
staring blankly
through the heads.
Stuck, secure, and uncertain.
Hiding from what's true,
and what's not.
The pen, smooth and undetermined.
Too proud to be
too long to see
the cracks that smile
      between
those stone-cold
blue ice eyes, like a lake
in Alaska.
Between the bannana peels,
and the hand that quivers.
Stuck between
the teeth and jaws
       of time.
Laying, unsuspected
under a white, scruffy shoe.
Never ending,
dragging on and on
      and on.
Dripping sincerity
melting from
purple, green scaled skin.
That long hair,
black as night's star-scattered robe,
flows into a fan.
Spins, and jumps into the awaiting jacuzzi,
      bubbling
pink, blue, and orange puss filled bubbles.

As those cold eyes
     disappear,
they swirl
into a vast vat
of stamped-out
     bottled up
strung within
on a 5-cent line
and gets squished
under millions of
bare, innocent feet.
And then those cold eyes
see those horrid
feelings
        and
           turns
              them
                  into
                    wine.
Those cold eyes smile,
turn to the sky
and ponder life, 
                  for a while.

Surppressed Feelings

The decompression
of air in the sky
I don't know why,
I don't know why.
From within
the press of sin
so thouroghly thin
has bound to win.

The grasp of flair
of pure delight
scratches and stares
upon your withheld fright.

Two fingers crossed,
in steamed leaks
to decompress
and trickle out into the town of morse doubt.
From some, liked
but not green paints
brush upon those white holes of darkness,
those starched, caged feelings.
Physical bodies call me to say
that from inside the unrhymed pages
is mistakes, never made.
Is plays never written,
songs never sung,
malicious weather just biting
at the tip of your tongue.
Skip a line,

no, skip a few.


Once power leaks out, no power comes through.
The rusty wood cracks into lines,
the turntables of time
pick up
      and lick
a dying dime.
Pale freckles pond
across
dimpled chills,
and the plastic heat jumps up to spill
the contents out.
No hunger, no needs,
other than coolness, other than seeds.
Alone, in a room
that's heating up fast
the soul-coned lovers
that try to grasp.
The future of sighting
the future of sound,
what's to become,
of that saddened-wrecked clown?
His stripes
turn to dots.
His hair,
turns to stone.
He calls up his wife,
but nobody's home.
Your stale open book,
that's bound to be read
drowns out
the humble throb
of penny-less lead.
Lead topped of the house
lead topped of the face.
Bristled and brushed
'till hair
stays in place.
Wishing, you now
that this poem
made sense,
so the heat of my head
won't get covered in red,
and die painlessly,
staked on the fence.