the morning is tequila-sunrise orange but the dusk takes on the day straight no chaser spins light liquid gold into starlight into poems the dusk is a writer like me I take my mental illness dry maybe a little bit of my childhood for color…

He said he would be back tomorrow He said he would see us the next day He wouldn’t have said that if he was planning this People don’t say things like that if they’re planning on killing themselves Could you ever tell when I told…

Pick up stix Someone once told me if you think in rhymes You have a mental issue I rather differ Poetry is a far more effective method of communication And it helps me be okay with not actually trying Pick up stix Isolating a thought…

The evening sounds of jazz squealing through the New Orleans streets kept the children alive and burning with heat. The unsettling energy was like fire beneath their feet generating instant mischief and moves so fast the music lost it’s beat. The bayou is filled with…

Late evening in the country is colored differently than in the city the smog shrouds the colors that would be in mystery. A mystery that the country sky does not peculate. A wash of dark blues and violets soft in the clouds with undertones of…

The mystery of the time at night when guided by jars of firefly light. As steam rose from the lake in the moonbeams like fog, the crickets harmonized with the baritone frog. Laughter of children filled the evening air, as they played a rousing round…

The sounds of frogs in the evening my summer lullaby jars of flitting fireflies nightlight beacons the mystery was not in glowing insects, amplified amphibians but in how adulthood peculated the wonder – Mark L. Lucker © 2017 http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd

I’m hereby speculating about those peculating children, I tell you what My psychic elbow clued me in to their raincoat shenanigans They’re smuggling tomatoes in jars sending bullfrogs to Mars I’m telling you officer, mystery solved

peculations and price of tomatoes in the papers— the evening fills out with the croaks of frogs on the street two boys elbowing each other raising the steam inside one raincoat  

Tomato plants drown in the garden. I shrug out of my raincoat and shiver, waiting for the kettle to steam. Children cry out beyond the kitchen window, jumping between puddles like drunken frogs, searching for mason jars in the flood; the waters continue to rise.