She lived on
the outskirts of sanity,
took up jogging
to outrun the rush
of other voices,
burned a sick day
organizing her own criticisms,
shaved her legs and edges
for practice sake,
trimmed her disorders
as "normal" girls do,
bought a fancy dress
to envy but never wear,
made marks on the calendar
to believe she had places to be,
like the local
coffee shop,
where they serve
a favorite flavor,
somewhat stable,
somewhat frenzy.

We're in the cellar
Aging with the wine
Building a well
With bottled water
So far underground
And scared again
Signs from heaven
Please form an orderly line

~
Gliding along
The edge of night
Voiceless
In their sorrow
Silent in the wake
Of remissive waters

Their call
Their beckoning
A flare
To the soundless heavens
Quiet in the assured
Expectation of faith
~

In statistics
A population
Is a set of similar events
Which pertain
To a question

Life is not so random
The question is often when (?)
Once the box is open
Stem-and-leaf scatter

Snowflakes
Assume symmetry
Burn eyes, connections
Melt skin, memory

Pollution distribution
The outlier
Survives but one day more
The median is simply
Outnumbered

Variance is valueless
Unbecoming
To a populace
Up in smoke

Count your blessings
Night comes quickly
Hard rain
Kills softly

Supplicate heaven
The top of the box
Stays hermetically
Sealed
Forever

(And a day)

Cold and clinging
Kind of evening
At the steps of
The Dakota archway
Are you banging your head
against a wall, Holden Caulfield?
Beautiful boy
(Darling boy)
But the limousine was waiting
Annie Leibovitz had the final image
"And I'm standing on the edge
of some crazy cliff.
That's all I do all day.
I'd just be
the catcher in the rye and all."

Roger of Wendover
wrote of your audacity,
a chronicle, a fable in lore,
whereupon your face was softened
for the Coventry poor.

Tyranny of taxation,
a sovereign's oppression,
one husband's aggravation,
and so he gave to you
but one condition.

After the butterflies,
before the sunlit emprise,
no mask to disguise,
not a thing to prevent
prying eyes.

Only your decree
could now protect your
ladyship's modesty,
keep your name from
this sordid tale of infamy,
yet, what did Tom see?

It shan't be denied, it rests
indelibly in Flowers of History,
alas! along cobbled streets,
all of them you defied,
thus with head held high,
you rode in all your glory.