Fallen
I went out with my lost friend Zigman Zibanski. He had been drinking and soon fell down drunk in a field of cold autumn grass. The night sky had also been drinking and fell upon him. The best I could, I freed my friend's back of stars and asteroids and cosmic dust. Bruised but merry Zigman got up, and grabbed the rocky edge of a laughing comet. They staggered together along a worn path and celebrated their good fortune as if they were old friends. My arms tired and hurting, I picked up what was left of the scattered sky and put all of its broken pieces back into place, certain the world would never know the difference...of what happens to lonely old drunks and those fallen comets.

Glitter
I saw a woman in tattered clothes.
She wore a necklace made of gold.
I asked her where she got what glittered round her neck.
She said: "I stole it from a rich lady. Then she stole it back. So I stole it from her once more."
We didn't speak against an empty pause.
Then she said: "Life is golden."
Together we laughed with joy filling our poor and tattered souls.

Content
I stood afraid in a tall field of grass, I could barely see
I sat down. The grass was higher still, as if its blades touched a sky
Never inside myself did I feel so low
But I had become content as my eyes touched soft white clouds
Thankful there was a guiding sun that kept me warm,
I rose and walked freely in a tall field of grass

Noon
When I was a boy I found a stone as smooth as a small poem. I tossed it up and down, catching it in my hand. It slipped from my weary fingers and fell into a shallow pond. The perfect ripples became wider and wider as the stone rested on sand as bright as gold. Now that I am older I know what I would do. I would blend my hand in the water and pick up the stone as a haiku. Then it would lay upon a gleaming shore and dry in the noon sun.

Wall
I'll frame a poem this way:
one verse, then another
a work of art I'll hang on a shaky wall, crumbling by the forsake of rhyme: one verse, then another
I'll react to each line, paint it the best I know
When you frame a poem a certain way: you see the remnants of a falling wall: one verse, then another

Sometimes
Sometimes I go to a restaurant and eat bad Chinese food. I seek it out. The cranky waiter. The lonely fat men drinking cheap beer out of a bottle. The silence, but for those lonely men drawing in their breath or the hobbled waiter dropping steaming plates on wobbly tables. I go to this place to replenish my creative emptiness. A red neon cursive is my beacon. The feel of salt stays on my lips. For when I am hungry for the cranky and the alone, I eat bad Chinese food and watch stories with foreign eyes.

Perhaps
It was 6 a.m. I got up, put on my socks and nothing else. I went out my door and saw we were all nearly bare. These strangers I knew always in my life. All of us naked. I never heard such laughter. Peals of joy pierced the dawn air. What came over us, none of us could say. But it was fun and it lasted till the next morning when we bundled ourselves in cloth. None of said a word, as if we were strangers once again. Perhaps what happened was, we were ready to know joy at 6 a.m.