Scene

Hello, Deer.
  How's your meal?
I have some grass here,
and beer.
Come. Sit a spell.

Spotlight the night, Moon.
  Thank you.
Could you help me
  shoo these raccoons?

Tents like teepees
  not on the ready,
around the grassland,
feed the scavengers.

Bugs in my can,
midnight moonshine.
Oaks around
circle the deer in the middle.

Night Camping

Whippoorwill? Gotta be.
I hear only one.
Lonesome whippoorwill.


Wind blows latrine odors.
Locusts? Maybe.
Here and across the stream.


Crickets' songs are
their own communication, like
the Whippoorwill, stream, and locusts.


Cicadas sleep now
in cool night.
Long day in hot tree limbs.

Dead Hope

Living room, dining room
white walls and carpet
spiritual indifference
warm cradle of monotonous knowns

thrilling cold of uncertainty
warmed by excited heart-poundings


You smother your aspirations in the guilt you give yourself.
You choke your dreams with the thumbs of someone else's goals
You drown your desires under motherly lies
        You have what you need here
        Stay in suburban womb
You weep away in the bosom cradle of what makes you cry.
    You know you need to leave and you know why.
You don't do what you want to do because it's not what you must do
  but what you must do is what you want to do or you whither;
yet you're distracted by what Else says you must do, telling you
    it will take you to what you want
  and this long in, it hasn't.
        This is my problem.
        I need to have faith in you.
    I can't forgive you for that pathetic hug,
    afraid you were in trouble, meek as a kicked puppy.
                                 My God.
       I was stealing out for adventure, You must come!
    and I took you.
  In the end the decision was yours.
    She gave you those eyes that said You're disappointing and
distracted from what you need to do with words that told you
The decision is yours in a tone that quietly judged you, and later,
        she gave you her breasts that she may comfort you
    for your disappointment in yourself when you cried there
                                for not leaving;
  that you may lay your head and weep for following temptation
  again, rather than the finger of your soul, pointing, saying
  Go! Why are you still here?
And I cry for your spirit that fades and will tell me later,
  like others have, I wish I had.




Devastation when
expectations are not met,
yet they never
matched in the first place.

This is my own fault
for misunderstanding.
I can't blame you for not
following through with what
we talked of for years.

Spontaneity combusts
only sometimes. More often for some
than for others.

Some need added effort to bursting doing; you, when offered help,
instead, accepted running water
and blankets. Spontaneity smothered before
the friction of activity even warmed.

This
must be
my fault. The
problem, certainly,
is mine. I am the
scoundrel, with no goals
to support my ambitions.
I am only ambitious.
I'll leave you alone. But no,
I need to needle you more.
No. I know it won't help.
How then to steal you out
of that cozy
stranglehold
asphyxiation
nearly comatose?
Let's attach for you
a purpose to support your goals, then
maybe
you can
support
your
Ambition
and spontaneity can prove itself some sort of worthy.