The Fog Zone

It is unbelieveably foggy outside right now. You can't even see half-way across the parking lot. Luckily I know my way home like the back of my hand. This fog somehow reminds me of a head shop that existed in Columbus, Ohio back in my college days. It was called The Fog Zone. It's radio spokesman, who did all the commercials, was called The Wild Man. The best head shop name I've ever heard was Bongs And Thongs.

So here's a new poem to wrap up the evening for you:

Thought Springs To Life

Cold skies keep the clouds
that hold my inner desires
like a wallet holds dollar bills,
and the rain drops come down-
bits of shredded, green linen
falling through the atmosphere
to land on the heads of those
who know me.

Desires come from wants
which come from needs, seeds
of flowers newly stuck into the
moist ground in the morning
of a warm day in the middle of May.
And the fresh cut grass bristles
green at the thought of my dreams,
hung on the edges of the clouds.

Lead me to fields of new dandelions,
butter yellow heads bowed to hear
the sound of the wind in the pine
trees as they whisper the thoughts
I cannot, dare not speak aloud. Take
me to the side of a stream that runs
cold and quick over rounded stones
as the minnows play, little whimsies all.

Strum the branches of the willow tree
like living banjo strings and sing my song
to the valley from the top of the hill
where my footprints lead west down
the side to follow the tendrils of the sun
as it sweeps across its kingdom, the
burning sovereign it has always been
and always will be.


Everyone have a nice evening.