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.

by Garrison Locke

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.