Piggy Bank Heart

Everyday I put a few coins in its porcelain belly.
The rattle is an enchanting sound. Reminds me of
childhood and shaking a can with rocks inside.
Now the bank's so heavy it rings with every
shake. Oh! The dreams of wealth hidden from
all eyes. Shall I build a castle?

These days fill my heart with heavier coins.
A smile, laughter, or her voice fills it. My heart,
nearly full, swells with new treasure.
Riches that exceed all dreams ever minted.
My chest thunders with each beat.
Am I bursting with fool's gold?

Pet Thoughts

"Mental furniture gathers the most dust." 

1. Laughter solicits our insides. The solicitation makes us regular. 

2. Don Quixote contains the best critique of Descartes' "Cogito ergo sum" avant la lettre("The Story of an Impertinent Curiosity").

3. Hoffman's "Mademoiselle de Scudéry" is an apology for Jean-Jacques Rousseau's sinister influence on the French Revolution. 

4. Every star is a Celestial Womb. 

5. Science ends where Religion begins. 

6. Consciousness has overtaken every stance on Ontology. There it fails. 

7. Day and Night are an aspect of the mind/body problem. 

8. Each word is placed with the rigor of a picky woman arranging the furniture in her new living room for the fourth time. 

9. The Ted Talk/Focus Grouped messianism of modern politics begs the anger and nominal polarity that digs too deep for its shallowness. Most are dissatisfied with the political realm(excluding political pacs and corporatized party machines). But it is fashioned to displease, hence the perennial appeal. 

10. The Brain is a parasite with a stem(Spine) and tendrils(Nervous System) which controls its host. Please do not prattle on and on about spirit or soul.

Brushfire

"...the same wind which extinguishes a lamp will fan a fire..."
---Beaumarchais, The Barber of Seville.

Dreamless, stirred by the doleful call of mourning dove, 
I woke to an urn emptied world. 
A Bingo Parlor pall decked morn with a dirty shift.

My nose itched and seconded my lungs,
I coughed.
Above it all, perfectly circular,
waned a piss-orange Sun.

These skies, the likeness of Bellona's pyre littered vault,
"The smoke-kissed tombs of heroes"
as Lucan, the Matricide, sang.

Though glutted with ash,
day's sharpness stings.

Maypole

Bellona rises
after another
radian of
Luna's cover

Blades bend to 

paring eyes,
she tills flesh 

for spoil.

Blood jets from
Maypole ribbons
lashing spring air.