I have never thanked you,
for the conversations.

I have never thanked you,
for the smile.

I have never thanked you,
for asking me how i'm really doing.

I have never thanked you,
for staying alive.

Thank you,
thank you.

We will vanish one by one, until we are gone without a trace
Displaced by grass or covered in titanic snowdrifts
Dilapidated buildings
the silhouettes of ghastly midnights past
Churches and temples laying in ruin
Un-holy vestiges embraced by the warmth of the morning sun.
Reach out now, touch the void
God and man are dead ! Rejoice!
What a joyous revolt!
Divine notes from blasphemous flutes conduct a symphony from beyond time
Dive headfirst into the growing black rift
become eternity
Feel no further reverberations of the ego
Completely alone perhaps
but quivering and afraid no more
Ashes where we had once stood before God and man
screamingly sentient
Once made of rotten creation
life the echo of a shrieking moan
Coming from the graveyard of the universe
somewhere below the moon.
Now drawn into a different dimension
leave the pallid stars behind with a mad laughter.

morning first poem: tropical storm coming north

two days of rain, with a first appetizer of
***** white clouds falling to earth where
renamed, fog, a wonderful guttural word

fog

a curse, a wonder, a summary, an exclamation,
later the rain and the wind will visit to remind
us who’s the boss, if the  blackout whiteness
was insufficient to mind mortals ro their proper
places, basements, closets, and  under the  covers,
thinking of Dorothy, visiting Oz, going home to that imaginary,
wherever it really be, if there is such a place

the avians coat the lawn, camouflaged in brown grass,
and climb the house as an animals-only observation deck,
a big buffet breakfast ordered, (possible delays for a civilized
lunch and a roast beef sup) in anticipation of the change in
atmospheric pressure, which is far more accurate than
the goofy looking weatherman on channel 61, who announces
disasters approaches with exactly the same unwavering, unnatural
damnastic enthusiasm as a gorgeous July Fourth weekend

and here I am watching, observing, thinking
maybe I’ll move the chairs and umbrella into
the garage, you know, be responsible for once,
instead of a lazy whatever pretend poet writer,
but the coffee is warm and fulfilling, the music
randomly licking, hitting my mental G spot,
this creamy easy poesy coming so pleasy so
being responsible just too damnistic boring,
and why start now?

Robert F. and Walt W. wave by, on their way to someone
better, it’s ok, they gave me the old college try,
and the ground is more fertile up North and
tropical storms are not of much interest when
the world is burning itself up and history is
being revised by rose colored glasses to make us forget,
if we clean up ancestral blackness evility incivility

then Jude Johnstone one of America's finest
songwriters sings her Wounded Heart, and I
hear it solo on piano, hear it break my heart,

”Wounded heart I cannot save,
You from yourself.
Though I wanted to be brave,
It never helps.
Cause your trouble's like a flood,
Raging through your veins.
No amount of loves enough
To end the pain.
Tenderness and time can heal,
A right gone wrong.
But the anger that you feel,
Goes on and on.
And it's not enough to know,
That I love you so.
So, I take my heart and go,
For I've had my fill.
If you listen you can hear,
The angels wings.
Up above our heads so near,
They are hovering.
Waiting to reach out for love,
When it falls apart.
When it cannot rise above
A wounded heart.
When it cannot rise above
A wounded heart...”
~
and now a tropical storm seems like no big deal,
and maybe someday
I’ll write so sad n’ soft, good
and
be at last
heart-satisfied,
no longer afraid of the tropical storms
that live within...

I thought we would be happier if we stuck together,
But every day I have more doubt that we'll last forever.

I hate that we seem more like two drifters,
Than being anywhere close to sisters.

two hearts,
each beating for one another,
yet neither,
uttering a word.

I hang dried flowers on the wall in my room.
I have nothing better to do.
I feel like a ghost as a walk to the wall.
I tape the flowers up with bits of my heart.
Together, my flowers and my heart wilt.
I hang dried flowers on the wall in my room.

You we're my sunshine
But then I remembered that the sun doesn't just shine for one person.

Frog on a lily
Jumps to catch a butterfly
Frog on a lily

Let's swim about, Peter
Mimic my sound

Speak my language
You precious bottle-nose

The trouble you have
With the letter M
Sure makes funny bubbles
Beneath the surface

What then should we talk of
This morning?
Miss Kelly, perhaps

Every room
Is an island, my child

Never isolate your love

Let it run to the sea
It's where I will always be

and they never knew
they were lost stars,
building their empires
after many lost wars.

you inhale tragedies
and exhale poetry