Tribute to Morpheus

Two tablets, nothing written,
a monochrome army, portraits of men
who I'd dreamed of being, portraits from
men whom I'd dreamed of being like,
fluorescence buzzing, white palmetto
and moon on the field of blue,
dripping from the drunken roommate,
misplaced aluminum disguised as silver.

My self in fifteen by fifteen by twelve
and awake too late for sweet dreams.

Lithium Jukebox

May the man in the worn-out wheelbarrow
blow his wreathed horn for the five-hundred
kids whose retconned Alex Mack melted like she always did
when the tough got going to the Scarborough fair.

Parsley, sage, Rosenberg, and time-traveling Tenderloin
natives who'd steal your CPU-cycles just to watch
the threads whirr.  Addends dissolving into series converging
and compacting into closed sums of interim feeling.

John Denver, Dubliners, Danny Concannon, dendrites form,
stopping the charge flowing in one fell sugar substitute
and then diffusion into a slow dream if only I could
If only I could If only I could If only I could.

Snap Number One

I walked to the memorial today
over the sullen, obedient ground
whose nine-year-old's calls for play
and vertical handshakes have slowly waned.

My excuse?  Well, I've spent a long time
playing at heroism.  Crafted my craft,
become at least half-competent at bridge
and curmudgeonry.  Binged on Scrabble.

When I was around seven, some kindly woman
explained that I had to stand up for myself.
Well, I'm an adult now and I can
take it on the chin if I want to, Doctor.