Unopened Boxes--Poetry

In the year One Thousand, Nine Hundred, and Ninety Seven,
in a country known for hamburgers and baseball caps,
and in the city named for its wretched discoverer,

I'm a small man sitting tall in
a booth in a jukebox diner.
I am with a woman wearing

three rings on each hand, plaid
patches on her blue jeans,
and red underwear I'm

finally
allowed
to see.

Ecstacy
hides in
details,

in fat medium rare
burgers, chocolate shakes,
and chilly spring evenings.

Under my Buckeyes hat, out the
window the breeze is playing with
the scrap paper, to the rooftops,

to the purple clouds blanketing the rivers, fields and farms
that extend from ocean to ocean, which freeze in the north
and form in bulk the fabric needed for our ice ages.


my head hangs hollow.
    your mad is rum
      in a plastic cup.
   in the bar
     upon greeting tomorrow,
       my head tips back
           to drink it up.
tasty

Sharp shells, dried-up driftwood, cracked coral
and other deceased sea life, broken bottles and
random fragments of glittering glass

Find their way onto the soft blanket of sand
spread sleepily along the shore.

Crabs clambor clumsily from one pillow pool to
another and the seaweed doesn't scratch its
sides on the rough edges of rocks.

The sun glimmers off the scattered glass it glimpses
when it sweeps from the eastern horizon to the west.

Wandering waves lap at the shore misplacing
stray shells and pandering pools as they
pull away.

Fickle fish flutter and nibble as they rock with
the pendulum of the swaying sea.

The jagged edges of the shattered scraps yield and
smooth under the perpetual washing of the waltzing
water.

And the sharp shells, dried-up driftwood, cracked coral
and other deceased sea life, broken bottles and
random fragments of glittering glass

Gradually transform into fine, foot-printed sand that
makes up the landscape of our lives.

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws


	Adam Gray
	"Contract, Expand"
	In the year One Thousand, Nine Hundred, and Ninety Seven, in a country known for hamburgers and baseball caps, and in the city named for its wretched discoverer, I'm a small man sitting tall in a booth in a jukebox diner. I am with a woman wearing three rings on each hand, plaid patches on her blue jeans, and red underwear I'm finally allowed to see. Ecstacy hides in details, in fat medium rare burgers, chocolate shakes, and chilly spring evenings. Under my Buckeyes hat, out the window the breeze is playing with the scrap paper, to the rooftops, to the purple clouds blanketing the rivers, fields and farms that extend from ocean to ocean, which freeze in the north and form in bulk the fabric needed for our ice ages.
	For Two More Poems By Adam

"Contract, Expand"

Untitled

"Sand"


	Casey Parson
	Untitled
	my head hangs hollow. your mad is rum in a plastic cup. in the bar upon greeting tomorrow, my head tips back to drink it up. tasty


	Jennet Kelly
	"Sand"
	Sharp shells, dried-up driftwood, cracked coral and other deceased sea life, broken bottles and random fragments of glittering glass Find their way onto the soft blanket of sand spread sleepily along the shore. Crabs clambor clumsily from one pillow pool to another and the seaweed doesn't scratch its sides on the rough edges of rocks. The sun glimmers off the scattered glass it glimpses when it sweeps from the eastern horizon to the west. Wandering waves lap at the shore misplacing stray shells and pandering pools as they pull away. Fickle fish flutter and nibble as they rock with the pendulum of the swaying sea. The jagged edges of the shattered scraps yield and smooth under the perpetual washing of the waltzing water. And the sharp shells, dried-up driftwood, cracked coral and other deceased sea life, broken bottles and random fragments of glittering glass Gradually transform into fine, foot-printed sand that makes up the landscape of our lives.