How many blowhards talk too loud as they spout long-winded platitudes meanwhile dissolving, like a cloud, depleting themselves with attitudes? They heed not the passing terrain as they spend their ephemeral lives spouting gusts, gales, and spittle rain to topple temples and shake bee hives. They’ve much flative outrage to vent as their stormfronts tumble overhead, the thunderheads soon having spent their fury unto silence, instead. TV broadcasts them far and wide, their squall line of faces puffing up with outrage from which none can hide as tornadoes spin in the teacup. Sirens wail, the vortices spin, and the National Guard is deployed while we cower in shelters when the blowhards battle, and are destroyed. Then the radar clears, and the map, as red pixel patches drift and fade, but I can hear the thunderclap of yet another blowhard’s tirade…
Haiku The blinds half-open, neon light, her nude body striped like a tiger.
Rhyme Blinds half-open, the neon light clawed through to the wet, steamy bed, her bare breasts were striped black and white with hot light and cool shade. I said, “Do you always play with your food?” She giggled, wiped froth off her lips and said, “When I am in the mood.” Legs spread, she gyrated her hips. Lounging like a tigress she growled as she pulled me atop her pelt. “Feed me,” she said, her moans so loud, and the moist jungle could be felt.
Lingering ghost, wraith without a head, standing beside the four-poster bed, reminding us of the missteps made and things left undone, the bitter trade of thrills for comforts from a routine to thwart the unknown, the unforeseen so our lives are secured by the rite of habit, of caution, day and night. She stands there, as headless as our lives while steadfast in scheduled nine-to-fives, the ritual headless, saying nought, yet we know she would say that we ought to have done more when we had the chance, but each night we lament circumstance, for she attends us at our bedside— attends forever, our deathbed bride.
A petty thing, a little line between yours and mine, that can sting, a nicking mark seeping such blood as to bring the flood for the ark; to cut in twain and drown the earth beneath frothy surf and the pain. What can I say of this red line? The scar will define what it may and what we are as we carve space out of time and place, near and far, dividing life, dissecting earth, knowing well the worth of a knife, and of a pen, of the red ink which makes us all think we are men. For we worship law and order, border to border, and we drip from cuts we draw along our skin to demarcate kin, tribal law.