Internet Outlaw

Robin Hood of the internet
Whose name strikes fear
Into the hearts of the secret-keepers—
The wind whispers, “Julian Assange”
And the elite skulk in the shadows
And clutch their boxes of secrets
As he hides out in his Sherwood Forest
At the Ecuadorian embassy in London
And the policemen surround the building
Like vampires,
Who cannot enter
Because they have not been invited
He receives information
And publishes it to the masses
And he misses his family,
Whom he had to leave,
Just as Robin Hood had to leave his farm
I hear that his Merry Men bring him Twinkies,
Or so the legend goes.

Can’t Write Poetry

Tired—can’t write poetry
Need sleep/inspiration/coffee
Can’t have all three
But a need to see the entry number rise
Like the tide of victory
Is what keeps a writer
In purgatory
Between the keyboard and the bed.

The Mortals Are My Playthings

I look down on them from Mount Olympus
Spread out over the world like
Food at a buffet, sumptuous
And select the most delicate,
Delicious of morsels
To sate my voracious appetite
Leda, I appeared to her as a swan
And Phthis, I was her dove
But you see, it matters not what form I take, or size I am,
Whether an ant, a shower of water, a satyr—
The mortals are mine for the taking,
Playthings for an all-consuming seduction.

Wild West

The wild West is steeped in mystery and charm
A kind of romance, of a time that never really was
You see, I live in Sacramento, last stop on the Pony Express trail
And out here, we should know.

I walked out into the Old City Cemetery, looking for ghosts
Looking for the past, and felt a sense of unease
Which only heightened when I heard about the cholera burial ground
Under my feet

I liked to hear about the La Grange, the prison ship
What a neat, quaint sort of thing, until a tour guide told me
Of how the prisoners escaped, so they were made to wear leg irons
Which pinned them to the bottom of the river, when the ship sank.

And Old Sacramento’s had to be rebuilt a few times because of fires,
And then there’s the floods, the famous floods
That caused the city to be raised on screw-jacks
And it’s set to happen again, the ARK flood, some day

But these are the tales you don’t hear about,
The ones that stay hidden,
Buried like the dead.