Mirror, mirror,
On the truck?
What's it all about?
Who gives a fuck?

Is the reflection,
Of what I see,
Where I was?
Or where I'll be?

Does it foretell?
Does it warn?
Who gives a fuck,
On a Tuesday morn?

Sideview mirror. Santa Monica, CA

Where do we sleep?
Where do we lie?
Put down our heads,
Then wake-up, or die.

In a nutty psych ward,
On a plastic sheet?
In a swanky hotel,
$700-a-night suite?

In a lover's bed,
Having an illicit affair?
In a hospital bed,
With no will to care?

Whether a country estate,
Or Malibu canyon tent.
The rent may be different,
But both are heaven sent.

One more thing's for sure,
No matter what bed.
It all will end one day.
And then, you're dead.

The Biltmore Estate. Asheville, NC

A flock of pigeons,
Murder of crows.
Do they gossip,
Share their woes?

A gaggle of geese,
Wake of vultures.
Do they contemplate,
Other cultures?

A sedge of cranes,
Dole of doves.
Do they speak,
Of long lost loves?

A conspiracy or ravens,
Crowd of redwings.
Do they spread details,
of tawdry flings?

I do not really know,
Nor does it matter.
It's just a silly poem,
Sunday morn chatter.

Pigeons on sign. Santa Monica, CA

POP!

struggle.
find shape.
direction.

resist. float.

forces.
great forces.
guide me.

resist. float.

POP!

return.
to where i was.
always will be.

Bubble Machine. Santa Monica, CA

The art scene,
A swing,
Or hoop dream.

On the boardwalk,
Life goes on.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Boardwalk. Venice, CA

Peace of mind, my soul does lack,
Please give it back, Malibu Jack.

Burger and fries crammed in a sack,
Dull my senses, my heart they attack.

I have lost my will, becoming a quack,
So please give it back, Malibu Jack.

Jack-In-The Box - Malibu, California