Ok, now that I have the pic thing figured out, I thought I'd post a few more poems to catch up.
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Night Of The Burrows

Lying in the middle of a desert road,
or on the hood of the car, feeling comfortably numb,
knowing we'll never convince anyone
we followed burrows in the dark,
we were content with our adventure.
No, they didn't talk, but that doesn't mean
they didn't speak to us.
Full of mystery and humor,
they appeared everywhere, like a portent with a punch line.
Eyes glowing in my headlights like fiery orbs,
appearing in the dark like the Headless Horseman's steed,
but the miniature, circus-style versions.
So much terror-laced comedy, I wondered when the clowns would appear.
No delusion or hallucination could offer such apocalyptic amusement
as a small desert neighborhood overrun with donkeys.
It was as if the inhabitants of the homes had been changed by some curse.
Nonetheless, there was nothing to do but laugh.
No one else saw them; no one else would believe us, anyway.
I smile when I think of them.
You can think we're crazy. You can think we're delusional.
But you can't take our burrows.
They belong to us.

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Where I'd Rather Be...

I look up at the round face of time on the wall
as it mocks me with it's pace of cold molasses.
Rust encroaches my brain and stiffens my joints.
I figure it's now or never, so my mind makes a break
for the fair skies beyond this cubicle.
A day like this is meant for the sand and surf,
I'd even take a chance on the Bermuda Triangle
over that florescent buzzing prison.
It's warm and breezy as I approach the docks.
I choose a comfortable boat for my psyche,
set sail in the warm sun.
With nowhere particular to go, I let the wind set my course
into the great expanse of blue.
Gleefully, the vessel of my conjuring has a stocked galley.
I grab a six-pack, inflate the dingy and tie it to the bow.
Laying in it, one foot in the water,
the sun encourages me to have a cold beer.
This is where I'll spend my Friday;
at least until 5 o'clock.

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Regarding Spring

Lying face skyward on the grass
I pray for clouds for my imagination to mold
into anything at all,
but it's an empty slate of blue
clear of everything but sunshine.

A glass half-empty day,
my forecast was lingering showers
as far as the mind's eye could see.
But then, like an umbrella in the downpour,
she appeared.

Blue, flower print sun-dress fluttered,
shading me from the sun,
showing me her long, dark curly hair,
her bright face smiling down upon me
like the sun hadn't been shaded at all.

Arms swaying back and forth
like a breezy little girl,
She asked if she could join me,
her voice like birds singing the song of Spring.
Without an answer, she did, and introduced herself
before we talked well into the afternoon.

And the sun remained in the sky;
I forgot about clouds altogether,
changing my forecast of rain indefinitely.

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