– A flashback, I can see That skinny 12 year old – that’s me I am that child Same stirring brain Same piercing eyes I am that child again With ghosts of yesterday – so near Inside, explore – haunting memory so dear Yes, I am that child Molded, scolded “Always, tell the truth! Work hard – good grades Obey – believe! Schma Yisroel, Adomay Elaohanu, Adonai Echod Believe, believe in only one great God” My feelings strong and sound As in youth, in spite of all, I hold my ground I am that child “Yes, Mutti, Ja, Pappi I will obey” Your mores values mine This and every day My people’s belief Chis

I want to be a little girl again Relaxing in Mum's lap, sharing all my pain Holding Papa's finger while crossing the lane Playing and jumping with my brother in the rain I want to be a little girl again Throwing tantrums during mealtimes Eating only what my heart desires Feeling pampered day and night Staying everyone's heart's delight Those carefree giggles, those sibling fights Those counting stars in the night Lazing around in the evenings with buddies Sans tensions and worries Engrossing in stories of knights and fairies Dozing off in warriors' glories Merrying birthdays wit

Your Metabolism Gets Me High No homeless Terrans loitering anywhere near the Centauran embassy not even a scrap of trash blowing around and they are hiring, always hiring. I saw a methane breather behind the mall today going thru the dumpsters, it was shaking bad, cyan bruises around its eyes and a wet, hungry look. Amber alert on Embassy Row jittery monsters on the corner smell like farts, stare and stare lick their lips when humans pass.

A mother bird, In its nest - Pushing its brood, Flying - the test. Stayed in the sky, Flapped their wings. Mother - so proud. Brood - ready for what life brings. But my mama bird - A blood-sucking clegg - Pushed me out, Still in my egg. No time to hatch. Fell straight to the ground. Raised, after damage, Death - bound.

Oh, there are some hurts that nobody reckons when a rush of rage, pain and revenge beckons about a wanton act of mayhem and spiteful action, In the silent nights it beckons, oh how it beckons belying my irenic ideals, beliefs and just conviction.

Orange and red leaves, All fall in call to winter. A new beginning.

Oh where, to where, shall I go? Where is the well, to fill my soul? To work I went, toiled for gold. All fell out, I have a hole. So sought did I mirth's delight. I drank, and drank, and drank all night. Yield my spirit not, this plight. Up and down, the streets I ran. Happened on I, a beggar's can. There he sat, on cold concrete. Shook his can, for a treat. "What, oh, what, do you smile for? Don't you know, You are poor!" "Oh, little one, don't you see? The one you envy, that is me."

I know you are here to read to reap me off till I’d reek of lies You are a predator in motion so I watch my gait open my eyes and of course I loved you wasn’t I praying at your heart’s doorsteps? or was that you preying grandmother’s footsteps If only one will live will leave the other beneath a white picket fence

He left the cities behind. He trudged into the wilderness seeking the god whose words are weaved in wood, his backpack like a steely carapace shielding him from the sun. He joined the serried grasses of the field in their slow green war of survival and destruction. He sent us letters, etched with a stubby pencil, printed because we could not read his writing, a loose plenum of graphite bones treading the white water of the page. He wrote that he was trying to live à terre like the king who spends his life in the saddle. He wrote that he was dedicating himself to the transcription of realit

The Annual Scarecrow Festival was cancelled this year. In the field before you enter the village, there is one left over – a sign warning last chance for a hundred miles. Unofficially, they made them anyway, fleshing cast-offs with fistfuls of straw. Gouging out their eyes with peeler, scissor; scoring their face on sack-cloth, pillow-case. Back-boned them on garden rakes. They appeared in detached streets, behind net-curtained windows, waving. Stood in the post office queue and it did not dwindle. In The Landlord's Daughter, pint pots glooming, no one serving the no one drinking.