Harvest

He groped the vines
Reaching inside
For the succulent berries
Parting the leaves to get
To the sweet, sticky juice,
To get it on his fingers
Smear it on his face
Stick his nose into the bush
Sucking in the sweet smell
Stroking, licking, and caressing
The tight cluster
Fighting off the tendrils
That tore at his hands
As his rape of the harvest
Brought him to ecstasy
Leaving the disheveled vines
Hanging sorrowfully
In his wake.

Mike Angel

Mike Angel loaded his Ford Econoline
With paint thinner and paint
Heading for his daily job
Painting ceilings in apartment complexes
His painter’s whites
No longer white but with dabs of paint
Of all colors
Even though
All the ceilings he painted were white
He longed to paint the sky
He longed to paint clouds on the ceilings
He longed to paint landscapes and people
He longed to paint Angels
His supervisor would come by
Once a day
“When will you be done?” He would say,
“When I am finished,” Mike would reply,
“Just once, could I please paint the sky?”
“Of course not Mike, that’s against the rules,”
Mike bought white paint every day
When he did he always bought a color
To go with it,
He would open the tube of color
A red or a tint or yellow
Put a dab on his finger
Then wipe it on his painter’s whites
Where he saw the sky, clouds,
Landscapes, people and Angels.

Wildwood Flower

The alien found that he really enjoyed
What is called “beer”,
He would sit in the grass
When no one was looking
Drinking from the glass bottle
Feeling the cold liquid Earth
Absorb into his system,
Then he would change to his real self,
Sit in the center of the Octagon
Watching the creatures of night
Flitter about while he played
Upon what they called “banjo”,
His green skin pulsing
With the music
As he longed to go home.