"Why would he see it coming?" ...

His urine, like an amber ale,

streamed toward the shower drain:                  “Oh, god,” he said,

                                                              “The night is dead;

                                                             long live the day again.”

Dark coffee beans, from far-off-coasts,

he drilled to a powder fine,

                     then drank the black tea 

                        pressed from them:

                                                          “What a bless-ed life 

                                                                is mine.”

One tap awoke his glowing screen;

across his palm he swiped:

                                              “Where shall I go?

                                           What need I know?

                                          Ha! Friend—

                                               your post 

                                                      I like.”

Into a half-gas motorcar

he plugged a pod, so then,

            through rim and bumper

                tweeted and thumped her

                                                     voice: 

                                                                 “John, 

                                                                make me grin.”

And singing with her, 

   on slight delay,                           “Hey-Yah!”

like a child too cute to blame—

he slid off his molasses

                      glasses and

                      merged 

                      in 

               the 

  freeway 

lane.

Raw (Sonnet) ...

When bone became 

          inside my jelly clear;

My fin, 

 an arm; 

       my gill, 

          a lung enclosed;

When dryness 

spread across 

my face 

and, near

             The sun, flushed red           while pigments rose;

When air from nostrils 

  spilled hot over my lips,

              A thousand hairs erupted 

                              from within

             And overflowed                  like nails from fingertips,

                    Then felt useless, 

                 oppressed by clothes, 

            and thinned;

When “joy” and “hate” became 

       of moans and barks;

When words grew over              every sense 

                                               and made

My chest-rise 

                         a “spirit,” 

this sunrise 

            an “art”;

    When patterns 

locked between mouths, 

and that trade

  Turned one habit, tradition; 

        another, law—

              I find no layer 

                           denies me: 

                                             I am raw.