*** in the morning
Death in the afternoon
And it was dark

Milling about stacks
Of paperbacks and out of focus snapshots
Some of her in the shower

But pay heed
She's an iceberg
Warm her up on a bed of nails

Until she's a plaintive waterfall
And then tie her to the scaffolding
Of a clean well lighted place

What remains out of sight
Through omission
Through silence

Through childlike syntax
Shall float to the surface
In its own due time

In the clearing
where lambs graze
our daughters also
walk at their leisure
toward school
...
there are no fences here
the shepherds allegedly
keep watch in the darkest of hours
but when steps from
an intersecting path
lunge forth as
the unsuspecting wolf
a twisted creature
upon our precious girls
these herdsmen are
certifiably blind and mute
neglectful staffs
striking the air
...
listen closely now
to the gathering winds
their transformation is actually
echoes of our own children's
eternal cries

Just as over the course
of a year, the seasons change,
inevitably, over the course
of life, a woman's body will change.

The photoshopped
supermodel on the cover
of a fashion magazine
is an 'ideal' that does not exist.

While the allure of
youth & vitality cannot
be denied, neither can
the appreciation for time & experience.

It's the honorable path
walked by
all maidens
& matriarchs.

A path that comes with
blemishes,
cellulite,
scars & stretchmarks.

Wrapped
in every
shape,
size & skin color.

Yet, it's these so-called
'imperfections'
that render her
fascinating & unique.

A paragon of feminal
physique, so luminously
patterned &
intrinsically beautiful.

Evening is on the take
The sun herself senses it
Her heat is slipping away
Eclipsed by cold, arctic tendrils
Rilling through the fragile geography
Earth is a strong fighter though
Able to restore itself in serene defiance
Light she brings to keep night in its place

Earth comes out of its greenroom

I bend at the window
looking through the glass
down upon its vastness

something out there is wrong

the future's not what it used to be
a shadow tells me

I feel mysterious today
a stranger to myself
I don't recognize my voice

objects outlive us
but we are more than an accident of stars
someday we will be infinite
breaking into the distance

by serene velocity
by delicate transitions

bringing us closer
to a renewed interest in happiness

I love you I need you I want to do all sorts of things for you to you with you and only you

Swaying curtain in the window,
airguns after dinner,
broken doll on the highway,

a promise is a promise.

The small winters
in the corner of her eyes,
Mom and Dad, they hold serve
in the garden, at the office,
no one is watching as she reels,

hurt whispers on.

Walking past stones and trees,
the bones of things,
coming at it all wrong,
this time she makes a promise,

under a name that hides her.

If the earth is flat as a pancake,
how come the sun and moon, and pretty much every other celestial body, are round like a Belgium waffle?

If the moon landing is some giant hoax of trick photography,
who did it? and how?
I mean, Industrial Light & Magic didn't get it's start until nearly a decade later!

Come on!

Draw nigh
wounded starling,
dwell among
the woodland fastness;
come under its canopy,
upon the bough's
fractal patterns;
mend your wings,
rest your thoughts;
in time you too will mentor
fledglings, the jackdaws
and sand martins,
teaching them
to safely yonder fly.

a glimpse of
what might have been:
the candle
and the blow

pacing the floor
mind filled with nighthawks
stomach with bitter pills

snow on the window sill
--the long winter
of our love

it comes out of the blue
like dead reckoning

thoughts of us
unfinished

a hand withdrawn
the final wager on goodbye

She is such a pretty girl
With such a pretty smile
Everyone loves the way
Her lashes curl

She's got ribbons in her hair
And a ring in her navel
Why she even has on
Matching underwear

Her look is smart
Her scent a distraction
Her Instagram pictures
Are a qualified thing of art

But here's the rub
Despite all the bells & whistles
The girl is a chocolate-box
An attractive cover

That will knock your socks off
Yet, there's nothing inside
She's absolutely empty
You'll discover

To Ellac, I bequeath a nifty hat trick:
     The Treaty of Margas,
        Which Rome will probably now
          spit upon,
     The Sword of Mars,
        Once taken by your unscrupulous
          cousins, the Vandals,
     And Esperanto,
         For talk around the water cooler.

To Dingizich, I bequeath my Alexander the Great
     Commemorative plates and the Gaza Strip
         --have fun with that one.

To Emak, I bequeath the Goths
     --Visi, Ostro, and Joy Division.

To all my remaining children,
      I leave you a year's supply of
      Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco treat.

To my many, many wives, too numerous to count,
      I leave my fingers and toes
      Or a portion thereof.

And to that one particular wife, you know who you are,
      I bequeath the title
     The Scourge of God.

Queen for a day.
Prisoner for life.
Her 'crimes':
New mother and wife;
A woman of color
Thinking for herself;
Just leave her be, please,
Lest history repeat itself.

When buying into love
Make sure to purchase
The lifetime warranty

The staircase that leads to her heart has no hand rails. No grab bars. You must measure your steps carefully, finding the right balance between what you want from her and what she really needs from you.

No man is an island
But some are a cul-de-sac

Is the sky falling
just because she's
soaked to the skin,
half-naked,
and with pixie smile
knows so little
of the affect
her bloom has,
here in the open fields?

Her evanescent day,
caught between
the suppressive cloud
of a mother's
mindful shaming,
and what it should
rightfully be,
an ingénue
let play in the rain.

Serafina was a skydiver
And she was always falling.

Jimmy was her instructor
And the next in line.

"The thrill of love," she said,
"Is about how high you can climb."

If the moment's spent
She parachutes out.

A risk,
No doubt.

But on she plays,
Crossing her fingers

This idée fixe
Never comes crashing back to earth.

I.
Love has a pulse
A rhythm method
Sometimes
Hand in hand
Others
Hand-to-hand
Best wedding gift:
A book of matches
For those times of
Darkness ahead

II.
Coming out of the ether
The gravitate to "we"
Is no longer in
Simulation
We are space
Outer and uncharted
Breathe deep now
Once again
Let pressurization
Begin

III.
Spontaneous
Combustion
Magic hour
Learn by repetition
Crouching tiger, hidden dragon
Tongue on the verge
Circling the rosebud
Like the rise of an empire
Blown by the wind
Every which way
The blissful vein
Is tapped into

IV.
Localized storm
Waves against the sandbags
Not quite filled enough
Water gets in
Does its damage
The insurance policy
With no flood coverage
We are now indeed
An island

V.
Sacrificial offering
Open palms
Bowed heads
Recite your sorrows
And count the losses
Forgiveness comes like
Piecemeal
A little at a time

VI.
Something new
And loud and wet
Love has a different hue
To its sky
It will be cloud free
Never again
A hunt for a nap
Or dreams of napping
In this maddening mosaic
That blurs the line between
Caretaker and sleepwalker

VII.
Endurance wins the race
Not good intentions
Home can survive
The change of seasons
We plant the flowers
We water the lawn
We rake the leaves
We prune the trees
This is our garden
If we don't tend to it
Who will?

The judge threw the book at him,
And awarded his wife with
Everything but the kitchen sink.
That way he could still
Drown his sorrows.

It must have been the dictionary...

Oh, turpentine
meet Caroline.

She's diverting and lovely,
but no painter.

Completely misses a warning
on the container.

Her skin is pale
and thin as paper.

In contact with the flame
she turns to vapor.