Music of the Spheres

Circles of crystal
on a small, round table.
Her eyes are imperfect:
draped in lid and lash.

The waiter orbits,
brings another bottle.

Nearly two oceans between them;
She traces music,
anxiously filling
the absence of conversation.

He does the same
and for a moment
their sounds intertwine,

growing higher and higher
till the evening ends
and they find their way
to the heavens.

I, I, I, I

I rode the bus
and considered killing myself.

An isle of icicles;
an intimidating front.

In a Time Capsule

Dear Future,
Did global warming
kill us all?
Did our president
do better than
our last president?
But more importantly,
where am I
in all of this?

I'm certain
my time machine
is completed
and, if you would,
please hand this
letter to me.

Dear Jay,
The time machine
was a wonderful idea
on paper.

Gin Blossoms

Corks pop
and flowers bloom,
flail wildly
to the top 40.
Hours pass.

In he end
we are drenched
in a sense of family
but we'll be sober
in the morning

Evening

The sky outside shies
away from darker tones;
An old world groan
stalks our sultry streets,
greeting dim, red light
with non-committal white noise.