The politician loves his own campaign
He’s true to word, and never needs to feign,
He loves to play detective just for fun
And likes to speak in riddles and in puns.
He needs no platform to proclaim his views
For none of his ideas had gone askew
From what the country’s people always wish.
His perfect record was without blemish.
The only data he could ever need
Was just his rivals’ platform and their creed
For this he hired the loyalest of men
And paid him cash from helpful citizens.
His face angelic and wiped clean of sweat,
He greeted cheerfully everyone he met,
With gleaming eyes and perfect golden teeth
And showed what truly he was underneath.

if moons revolve around planets

and planets revolve around suns

and suns revolve around each other

in a spiraling galaxy,

then do galaxies revolve around galaxies

that parade in circles around the universe

not caring for time and space

and marching at their own pace,

and do universes evolve and revolve

and play their game

of where to have an infinity of infinities

or a single singularity

which might decide that

these games are not fun

and is tired of being picked on

for being infinitesimally small...

...or are they all just dreaming?

lines let loose like little lies
floating freely, flying by,
apathetic angst and art,
silver-tongued, senseless sought
good girls grinning, gathering 'round.
what is lost is never found.

underwater, i can't see her face clearly;
as the number of ripples from the swimmers shoots off to infinity,
so does that of the facet the image is shattered into.
she dives in: the curve of a tanget, barely touching anyone else in the pool;
shoots off into nothingness on one end and points skyward on the other--
perfect form.
trailing that sinusoidal stream of bubbles, she does near kicks in the water
and draws a third parallel to the surface and the bottom.
the carrying capacity of the pool exceeded, she shoots up--then levels off,
grasping the opposite wall, she climbs out, with head and knees bent in the effort to not slip,
integral to my life.
she shakes her head at the speed of light, her hair a thousand graceful fibonaccis,
a million drops interrupting the almost-seamless field of cosines
and i can't differentiate between her beauty and that of the broken glass.

I poured a pitcher of punch one day
at a pompous and pricey party,
was startled when the punch said to me,
with a grin, pleased and hearty,
"Why, what's your name, and where am I?
Who freed me from the freezer?
I know my flavor--it's fruit punch--
and I'm a party pleaser!"
So strange to me was this surprise, I stood and stared at it.
Looking the catcher in the rye,
I couldn't decide to drink a bit.
"Either way, let's shake hands--
at least the best I can." I told it,
for the greetings, "Thanks a bunch!"
It rattled its ice cubes--"Pleased as punch."

weakness.
why are we afraid of it?
does it bite?
does it snarl?
or are we afraid of our real selves, the vulnerability, the bareness of our flesh
that only emerges when we, in that quiet sanctuary, away from
friends
rivals
even family
peel off, layer by layer, these makes of false bravado and pride
that fit our faces so perfectly that even we don't know
where one ends
and the other starts?

we see another person
with his mask halfway off
giving way to a strange mix of
insanity
anger
uncertainty
and we are unconfortable
but why?
what is wrong with being
what we are
who we are
who we want to be?
why do we try to bury our "self" under that mountain of masks?
are we really that
grotesque
shameful
ugly
that others will stare?
or do we simply want to be the same as everyone else,
wearing these mass-produced masks
that roll off the production line
all the same
uniform
imitations of each other
so that we
think
speak
act
the same way?
should we be more disturbed by the disconcerting same-ness,
how everyone look like each other, how everyone is afraid?
which do you prefer?
and earth full of clones
or an earth full of differences?
think for yourself.

What is life
if not just a mockery?
What do we gain, in the end?
All we do is plod
one foot
after the other
after the other
after the other
tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow
looking back becomes the same as looking forward.
Too slowly
yet too quickly
creeps in this petty pace from day to day.

Sinking below the waves,
I can't hear the crashing and rumbling above me
nor see the light from which I'm falling from
It seems to fade
out
out
like a brief candle.
Life's but
a walking shadow,
a mockery,
a poor player
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
hurrying to do
all he can,
more than he can,
and then is heard no more.

I draw comfort from the darkness.
No wind to chill me.
No cries
no weeps
no sobs
no energy to swim up but I don't care the least
or do I?

A moment of panic.

Suddenly everything disappears.
Don't worry
Someone just turned off the lights
It's only that
No need to be afraid
I'm not afraid.
Not afraid
Not afraid
Not afraid
And whoever says I am is a coward.
See? I'm not afraid!
Whoever--

...whoever?
There is no one.

In a flash of brightness
that I would have seen
and that would have blinded me
if I had eyes anymore
that would have deafened me
if I has ears anymore
I realize that
I am nothing.

And yet I
was
am
will be
everything.