by Garrison Locke
“The fourth of May
in terms of winter,”
said the caterpillar to the swan,
“is when you sail the wall tomorrow
here to there and back and yon.”
He told her this as if it was clear
what he meant by the nonsense
he spoke into her ear.
“Sure..,” she said, cocking her head.
She flapped her wings and flew away.
by Garrison Locke
nonsense isn’t nonsense
unless it’s an elephant
jumping on the back
of a train escaping
to Mars after the nukes
shot-gunned, we plant
trees of apple
delicious red
on the face
of Phobos
our souls are reaved
by Garrison Locke
Snow capped mountains,
plains of golden grass,
verdant forests
bordered by zigzag fence,
fields of prairie dogs,
midnight blue glass-top lakes…
One day I’ll buy some land here –
a quaint house,
a small lake perhaps.
Miles and miles and miles
away from civilization.
Clean air.
Endless sky…
When the frontier life calls,
I think I’ll answer.
by Garrison Locke
The Trees of Light stood waiting.
Fire had rained from the sky for weeks
with no end in sight.
Three had fallen;
many more lost branches.
Translucent silver leaves incinerated.
The memories of those connected to the trees
began to fade…
The people had never met their memory keepers –
they couldn’t understand their condition.
The trees wanted to help –
the memories were their lifeblood.
But Yggdrasil’s dew would save them
and extinguish the fire;
the Great Tree always did.
The ash would restore the world once more.
by Garrison Locke
In the dream
I’m running.
The room spins –
a yellow blanket,
someone has a gun –
Awake.
by Garrison Locke
Blackest coffee, sweetest bean,
down it goes, so smooth, so clean.
Latte, mocha, cappuccino,
caffeine, French Roast, Daybreak dream.
I’ll take mine with sugar and cream!
by Garrison Locke
Doom arrives from the West.
Static and deafening concussions
fill the air –
The wrath of God is on display;
Warning us that we are
failing.
by Garrison Locke
Lycanthropic dreams
keeping him awake at night,
howling at the moon.
Yesterday I drank a beer it was marvelous!
Poisonous it tasted…what is that twinge?
Hey look a donkey said the bubble,
what the crap it’s Barney Rubble.
There is a needle in my eye,
oh my God do I feel high.
This poison beer has made me rhyme,
excuse me sir dost thou have lime?
by Garrison Locke
Hope is polished
layers of desire
embedded
in the substrate of our minds.
Exposed when needed –
in times of great vexation –
to move us forward.
