Poetic Secret Soul Patrol

pastel skies preside

over the migration

through the dusty-dusk streets

a few spare souls

pace the same sidewalks

in a different zone,

seeing the life of everything

auto-gauging at every turn

they tap our hive-buzz

for answers and power

hear and see it all

in mad, bounteous cascade

the Corlear’s Hookers

plying their trade

the scattershot art

the homeless made

the ghostly cat calls

of time zones past

the sonic rat messages

telegraphed

at half mast

the daytime drinkers

in the hoppy-dark bars

and the yearning teenagers

squinting for stars

in the angelic language

of pigeon wings

under cross-examination

of the setting sun

we all tread home

to brighter dreams

and the day is won

Lunch Walk

Less time than a prison yard

but more

to put under gaze.

We seek to be invisible,

dissipate

into the summer haze.

Work piles up

while we breath fresh air

for our only fun.

Let the scene to be seen

turn and blister

in the sun.

Wear eight hats

and pulled

every which way.

We let work eat up

too much of our day.

Someday

we’ll go on our lunch walk

to stay.   

Bleary Epiphany

spy the clock to find

the hours burned by fast

distraction waves

abound

like knowing knaves

bringing head-slump slumber

at the desk

the quiet dark

is false calm

a rude pause

to the world’s rage

churning somewhere

always

but the blue night

filled with child of dawn

sparks the need

to fly awake

and burn brighter than magnesium sun

while the rest of the world

slumbers