...and so begins Ghazalapalooza!

drifts of ice chunks float like dead skin on the river as
the cool concrete burns right through my shoes.

i only know the alphabet if i sing it all the way through,
aside from that i might as well be thinking Greek.

we rolled together in a field of dandelions: white and yellow
as her skirt lifted slightly i began to dream of weeds.

pain is always on the inside whether physical or not
once it reaches the outside it becomes joy.

grace. grace was fed to me tremendously in the seventies
unfortunately i hid it under the table never to be regained.

i overheard a sick bird complaining to a friend about the end
and how even in the next life he'll have to have wings.

-el vikingo