In times of need
your friends will feed...

History is a myth that sustains
our justification for all...

I cook with a plain wooden spoon
that has faint colors...

Where have they come from
these scars cross hatching my hands...

Sure words crisp photo
are lost in still translation...

My craft, my life, my self
depend on meanings...

Armadas of facts
wage my war against "us&quot...

When I was young and not yet schooled
my mom would make me accompany her...

300
Three hundred Spartans held a pass...

Traffic light cycled
no one moved yet no one honked...

A chance sweep of my left arm
in yellow and blue flannel shirt...

Bank eroded by wat'ry hand
river current ripples sinewed...