With What?

Japan is taking a nap in pajamas.
Man fell in Nam.
North Korean nukes.
Iraq has a query?

That Smacking and that Snacking

Napalm in war?
Or is that sweet potato souffle?
The dishes served
Are perverse.

A pineapple grenade?
Really, is that what we have become?
I doubt that there is anything
To salvage from the terror.

Banana clips?
Does this a great breakfast make?
Limbless or lifeless
The food cannot replenish
The damaged, the feeble, or
The ones left behind when
Life sighs.

No Music at the Scene

When he died there were no horns.
No triumphant trumpets announced the departure of life.
How about a smooth silence with a rustle now and then?
Yep, that's it.

There did exist new light bulbs, though.
All the crackers and model cars were discarded and distributed.
The television was ironic for our scene.
The lady on the screen kept saying "we're live."
I thought that was weird.

Anyway, we didn't shout or anything when he died.
The experience was heavy but everyone's actions appeared to be rote.
Whispers guided speech.
And arrangements arose out of adults.

No music, though, in that room existed.
Hushed grievances and quiet joys rolled down cheeks.
A monitor on the left side of the bed blipped as a deaf man
Tried to speak.
Then it blipped no more.
Especially not that monitor that everyone says registers the heart and brain.
Heart and Mind, ehm.

Yeah, well, everyone else says it indicates the absence of life
And shows this line that's called a flatline.
It makes a sound like uuuuhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
Maybe I'm wrong.
That was the music.

Their Mylar Floating

The festivities stirred with laughs.
With loathing curbed, full-throated joy broke free.
Occasional fits of music levitated in the sun.

Blues whistled.
Reds waved.
And whites hummed.

While hues on hand made such noise,
There remained the leaders.
They sat and pride had a hand on their backs.

With chins up, they handled the ways of the world
Easily, no, simply.
What they did was make it look easy.
Instead of settling for simplicity, they chose to live
Simply.

With faces held high they found the clouds and stars were chatting
And they also peered at their Mylar floating.

Their Mylar with the gold or white or red or a smiley face
Up there like Icarus but at least it's known his wings melted.

Where did their Mylar go?
Who found their Mylar?

The days ahead are sure.
They'll remain true.
They're looking for something pure.
Even if they never get back their Mylar.

In Front

In front of the people, she's like,
"Ladies and gentlemen..."
Her hair is over her ear and her teeth are clean
And her self esteem is there, too.

She shivers and a gray day
Plays in her head.
The mouth speaks and the soul lifts.
Her eyes are even following the paper.
But her mind is dabbling in paints.

She holds her arm up to match the words:
"I say that we, the youth, are winners."
She says this, but her mind has woven a
Tapestry of spiders with furry gray hairs.

The watchers are clapping with admiration.
She though, is dancing in her imagination.
Stars are slate and the streets of her thoughts
Are the color of pencil lead.

The crowd relaxes at the ebbs of her sayings.
She still sees (even while talking)things
Like flowing platinum ink in motion
like Flash animation.

She quotes: "Thank you, and God bless."
They become observers of a great speaker
And show their trust in this idea by giving great praises
To the messenger and the most high.

The gray pedestrian crossing sign in her mind turns yellow.
She smiles, bows, and walks.

The Ball is Work

The ball is work.
When you pass the ball to a teammate, that's
You giving them a job.

Shaq's pass to Wade is giving him work.
Wade's slam is the cashing in on that work.
Some people are myopic and their Abdul-Jabbar goggles
Are fogged.

They think that those points are the end of it.
The big picture, however, is this:
Those points win that game. That game contributes to wins for that season.
That season gives way to the playoffs. Those playoffs are for you to win.
The finals, finally, must be won.

The end goal is not a saffron ring with nylon teeth.
The end goal is that ring with the year you won in the NBA Finals against the
Second best team.

What awaits you is a yellow cup with a glowing orb frozen on the end
Signifying to the rest your on court opulence.
Put all of your war paint on while you grind in the paint.
Go hard for boards and crash the floor if necessary.

Dash and dish
And add assists.
Your assets are your teammates
And they are the advantages to adavancement.

When you take up the work, cash in on demand.
And since the ball is work,
Always remember that's what takes your team to the Promised Land.

It Turned Kite

It jumped from the ground.
The body of it in all its green and white leapt and
Flew into the wind.

It flew.
The tent flew into the air.
It turned kite and flew like a flea.

It flew, it flew, it flew, it flew.
The tent, it turned kite.
Well, it leapt from its stakes
And flew.

Like wings into blue
The green and white went and
The whole tent flew.
Picture wind carrying white strings
And tarpaulin into the sky.

It flew and flew and seemed to want
To break free of the ground.
Stakes were returned to their original posts
And their trials were set back on track.

Strings strained only for a few more moments.
For the tent which desired to be a kite
Flew again.

The metal structures lost thought
And those poles were stripped from sockets.
That tarpaulin assumed a roll shape.

It flew, it flew, it flew, it flew.
But the tent never flew in the garage.