Table or Booth

The Second Running

they needed their king
to come again
to raise them in
more revenue
more quickly than
competition

a savior described
saving nothing yet,
save this drawing
an allusion to a solution
slowly formed
in recursion

a king in code
iconified in a crown
and created in a flow
that focused on nothing
but a sword of bits
and a deadline

read the writes
and tested in trial
against flawed chaotic forces
he executed in complex choices,
becoming strong enough
to carry the load

entered finally into memory
enter, and data delivery
this user-slave
master-of-code
at last presents
their king

The Motorcyclist

accelerating till suspended,
a quicktime ghost-flight
through one-light towns,
a presence only intended
to slip in and out of scenes,
brushed here and there
with worn out leather,
old boots, torn jeans,
and wind blown hair

his hoss runs hotter
and screams at whip-quick
flicks of his wrist
fueling even faster
the rocket-ride infusion
of speed that finally resides,
burning in his veins until
exploding into seclusion
he rides

shifted, now transcended
into silent surroundings
where peaceful vibrations
have easily commanded
the last worried second
into a timeless trance
floating on a highway blur...
even past this instant
this heavenly glance

Rudderless

in escaping you
i thought,
but coming to mind
was just that anything
but you could not

in escaping you
i could finally fly
but will only float,
adrift and rudderless,
into to your memory

in escaping you