They will come, you know!

some day
They're gonna come over that
border fence
stepping over their
neighbors' dead
bloodied
but unbowed
bodies
that you shot dead
with your sniper rifle
aiming for their faded blue jeans,
printed t-shirts,
or the neck scarves
or hair coverings,
the faces with sweaty desert dirt,
their bright angry eyes,
all heads held high at that last moment
before the impact of your steel tipped bullet.
They will come, you know!

everybody hurts

everybody hurts
if only they'd tell the truth
watching the balloons come crashing down
burning down the town

fighting on the floor
mad as hell at soap operas
when a doctor doesn't know his lines
and still pays no fines

traveling circus
jugglers with great balls on fire
the ringmaster with his big black hat
great fat lady fat

at the popcorn stand
hot butter flowed like honey
tumblers and clowns and the magic tent
money paid the rent

as the big top closed
the audience fled the room
breezes blew each head into the night
soft as candle light

everybody hurts
if only they'd tell the truth
watching the balloons come crashing down
burning down the town

tossing the summer dog his wishing bone

X-ray
in the landing zone
her sleepy eyes
tossing the summer dog his wishing bone
blowing on a tenor sax
in an all-night shift
waiting for the passenger car
to give that girl her lift
in a famous back room seat
outside the machine gunners' door
hot shells are exploding,
bouncing off the bouncing floor
in the tropical air
her hands dancing everywhere
i took a full nose dive
coming out the other end alert & alive:
colors on the bedroom wall
i tried to count them all
but the high noon sun was bright
her hungry grip too tight
i wanted to eat but lost my appetite.
X-ray
in the landing zone
her sleepy eyes
tossing the summer dog his wishing bone
blowing on a tenor sax
in an all-night shift
waiting for the passenger car
to give that girl her lift.

i never tire of watching

there was a young cowboy
who wore a Red Ryder hat
and carried a small gun
into the nearby woods
where he found an old fallen log
and sat
with his faithful dog
by his side,
alert to anything that might move;
they pondered a future
when snow might cover their tracks.
in the space of seventy years
the small gun has been lost
but the dog,
with a new name and a new license,
maintains a nose for interesting scents,
and a keen eye for any movement
far removed from
the global financial markets
or fluctuating interest rates.
the dog loves digging
into dirt
after the chipmunks
as they dive for cover;
and squirrels of any color
always provide an exciting rush
as they scamper to the nearest tree
scolding the pretentiousness
of the canine pursuit,
which i never tire of watching,
even in the dead of winter.