[Untitled 1]

The summer water drives me in,
it's welcome all the same -
it falls with no apology
to justify, nor shame.

The cooling gray across the sky
that crumbles into rain,
does rid me of this monstrous heat,
the passion and the flame.

The molten magma rages deep
in yawning vaults of rock,
without the proper medicine
will turn my bones to chalk.

The only balm seems hidden far,
yet plain for all to see.
The saving salve for all my soul
is borne in loving Thee.

For then do I know unity,
of God's soul and of mine,
the harmony of forces
and the amplitude of time.

Whatever Happened to Jean-Claude Van Damme?

Seriously.
Does anyone know?
Maybe he's back home in Belgium,
speaking at a podium in confident French
to crowds of voters, concerned about the economy.
Jean-Claude is wearing a black suit
with a red tie. His face is
old and melancholy, but with
eyes of determination.
He will win.
He is sure.
He always has, and after all,
Bloodsport and Street Fighter weren't much worse than
Eraser or True Lies,
were they?

This is Water, This is Water. . . .

Melancholy bubbles to my surface like sea foam,
green-blue with the algae of
regret. It pollutes me,
mucking up my hair
whenever I break the surface.
So I dive.
Swim down through the various strata of marine life,
past the ugly hammerhead sharks of jealousy
and the gigantic tunafish of indifference,
their scales gleaming blue and pink,
glittering metallic bodies
cutting through the water with
life threatening complacency.
I swim past them
down to the dark depths of my ocean,
where the fish are luminescent and clear,
with steak-knife teeth and mailbox jaws;
down where the water pressure
crushes the exo-skeleton I've built
and washes away the algae;
and I become the fish.
Skin pigment fades to blank, iridescent glow
emanates from my transparent body. I am
Resplendent. Crystal.

IR 2282, Bellinzona to Zürich HB dep 13:06 arr 15:51

“This isn't your train,” I tell the man sitting opposite me in this cramped, four seat compartment.
With his lips slightly ajar and his head pointed halfway to the window,
he stares at me like I'm crazy.
“It isn't. Yours left months ago.”
We are alone in the compartment. He shifts uncomfortably. He thinks that I think that maybe he doesn't understand English. He hopes this.
“Look, you can't just come in here, getting on other people's trains. It's not that I'm offended, it just ain't right, y'know? This isn't your train, is it?”
He must not like rhetorical questions. He's looking out the window.
“Alright buddy, listen to me; so you missed your train, so what? Sorry. I'll stop with the rhetorical questions, but really now, last month's train is leaving here in about three-hundred and forty-five seconds, it'll bisect ours somewhere just North of the faultline everybody always talks about.”
His expression is caught between horror, disgust, and fear.
I say slowly,
“You can get on it then, you know.”
We sit in silence for five minutes.
He is looking out the window. I am watching him watch things
pass us by.
He bows his head and puts on his bowler derby with one hand as he rises to his feet.