Toss

I was mentally sketching a portrait, I think.

a shallow trough

collects the rain 

of your thoughts.

your brow is placid,

without an echo 

of a ripple.

what you cannot see

is that i am here 

behind you,

moist fingertips

tracing the ridges

of a single copper penny.

Robert A. Eckert

Aisle 1:

Prepackaged sanctuary.

Low-wattage lineage humming;

Slices of rubicund rubber glow.

Son of a dentist,

The other half of you is born

A product of Sinclair.

Nitrates illuminate your legacy,

Preserved in a refrigerator case

By the mark of your Kraft.

Randooooom

it's a shame

when your star

finds a nest

in the tiny pelt

of another poet.

what you're left with

is the feeling

that friday night

is monday morning.

TBC

languid liquid 

dissevers - curls.

insideous ink

vacuous- furls.

blot paper message,

carry my curio.

the edge

of my words

flicks you like wire

and i know

the best victuals are victorian.

Man and Moon

Your tides are rising

Filling, flowing, fogging,

The two disks you keep 

Unlock me.

Stagnant mood emptying

By the swell of the lunar cycle;

Your telling-beams suffuse,

Pouring into my vat

Rippling across the space

Separating your silver plates

From my heart's humming.

Addled by the moon's visit

I leave you in the gloaming.

seduced by wit

victorian at best.

these two lines just popped into my head.

i'll have to use them sometime later. 

-poof-

A Man's Moon Swing [To Be Edited in the Near Future]

Your tides rise

Filling, flowing, fogging,

Two disks unlock me

Stagnant mood emptying

By the swell

Of the lunar cycle

Your telling-beams suffuse,

Pouring into my vat.

Addled by the moon's visit

I leave you in the gloaming.

The Sensation of Drowning

The water in your eyes arrests me.

Falling, Climbing, Ending.

Stern as a Puritan

You mournfully creep

Into my well

And contain me in your look.

Smoky stares

Form an opium silk cross.

Swallowed by the daze of your pool

I gracefully descend

like ashes

thrown into the ocean.

Trickle

i just realized 

that my poetry is 

far too vague

nebulous

like cataracts.

i have a splinter. 

it's driving me to write.

sap between sheets of bark.

my words 

suspend in 

beads of

amber.

time to go to class.

i don't know if my words are preserved or suspended.

maybe later i'll know.