~
Weather balloon for a hat
propeller on his back
morning is observably alive

leaving it to atmospheric pressure

he consumes today's newspaper
with the enthusiasm of a bowl
of Corn Flakes

this Heath Robinson contraption
of getting to work first
over enemy lines
is all the rage in his satirical
state of mind

that is until the absurd derailment
of wartime employment

and so he returns home with tubes
and catheters attached to his body
and feeling like one
of the unwieldy machines
he had so often created

full of atmospheric pressure

and apparently thinking it
an undignified fate
he pulls out the tubes
and quietly dies
of his own invention
~

~
Holy smoke!

This is a drag.

Nevertheless,
I've come to depend upon it.
~

Keeper of time
Has lost his mind.
He no longer ticks.
He sighs.
He questions.
He swears a little.
Does he know who he is?
Not precisely.
I tell him he's a law, a sage, a determiner.
He's even the reason
I get up in the morning.
He says he'll get back to me.
When? I ask.
Ah, there's the rub...

Get your feet off of it!
Throw your trash in the proper receptacle!

Boys and girls,
Remember,
You are guests
--Only.
--Entirely.
--Merely.
--Barely.

If you understood its real value,
You'd likely become a disciple,
A religious fool saving whales and pails and discount bikini sales.

Now pay your toll,
If you like, stay until the lifeguard blows her whistle,
But don't forget to sweep up your mess.

Yeah, the shore may wave and tell you 'it's okay,'
Keep in mind though,
This is because it thinks it's an ashtray...

It's hard enough
Trying to walk
In someone else's shoes

But to repeatedly
Get stepped on
And told you stink

Can cause a real hole in your life

Jimmy had a dog named Barnaby.
He was just like one of the family.

He did what most good dogs do.
He kept Jimmy company, even ate his homework a time or two.

But no matter how hard Jimmy tried,
Barnaby would never, ever fetch a ball.

Oh, he typed, he vacuumed, even mowed the lawn,
Yet, wouldn't retrieve any stick at all.

•###•

•the•message•is•so•phantom•

•strangled•
•during•the•thir­d•act•

•illuminated•
•letters•are•the•ciphertext•

•and•they•glo­w•
•in•your•eyes•
•Bletchley•Park•

•Turing•
•worked•it•out•with•­
•Delilah•

•they•killed•for•less•
•died•for•even•more•

•###•

~
Imagine a box
In shadow
Of utter regalia
Iris, dressed as a waterfall
She comes scattered

Imagine an eyelid illusionist
Praying for more palettes
Enters steelbook cathedrals
To a ministry of colour

For the street outside
Cannot offer as
Interesting a hue
As those fascinating within
The pigment of her imagination

It's compelling artistry
Like oil on canvas
A slight of hand
Smoke and mirrors

Her skilled fingers
Kohl mining
For soft medley
And the new liminality
Above the spectator's eye
~

Her constellations move differently

She no longer controls star systems

Only one remaining cluster
now orbits her

But it is more than enough

For they need and love her as their light-giving empyrean

~
Here is an assertion
and showiness
in the expanse
of white skin – from her
high forehead,
down her graceful neck,
shoulders, and arms.
Although the black
of her dress is bold,
it is also deep, recessive,
and mysterious.

He stalks her
as one does a deer,
his palette composed of
lead white, rose madder,
vermilion, viridian,
and bone black.
A dash of light rose
over the former
gloomy background,
you see, and
the élancée figure
shows to much
greater advantage.

Her body boldly
faces forward while
her head is turned in profile.
A profile of both
assertion and retreat.
The table provides support,
and echoes her
curves and stance.
One strap of her gown
has fallen down
her right shoulder,
suggesting the possibility
of further revelation;
one more struggle
and the lady will be free.

Everything converges to
imply a distant sexuality
under the professional
control of the sitter,
rather than offered for
the viewer's delectation.
Her untamed wilderness
remains unseen.
~

time and again,
her steps
are sprinkled
with rose petals,
well-wishes,
and kisses.

her dress
is elegant
and fair,
yet understated,
so as not
to outdo
the woman of the day.

"affect not
little shifts
and subterfuges
to avoid
the force
of an argument,"
she patiently
holds her breath
for everyone
except herself.

she may
hold the line
with her
precarious walk,
and yet,
"there is always
a prepared place
for a prepared
person."

her very next step
belongs to
no one else,
sprinkled
with song
overflowing
unto her,
as the dawn
breaks within
the fenced walls
of her own heart.

--this is her day.

--this is her time to love.

You're only pretty
If you wear this
            have this
            are this

You're only cool
If you smoke this
            drink this
            own this

You need it NOW
            Before it's gone!

A new and improved you

                  (Until we tell you otherwise)

She was winning!
She had the poor sod
on his knees,
one more tongue lashing
and this nemesis
would be vanquished!
Only...
he really wasn't
her enemy at all,
but in truth,
her most beloved.
This raging battle
had so swiftly
mushroomed
from such an innocuous start
your head would spin
(like a top).

A passing observation
fueling outright war,
but he valiantly waved
the white flag of surrender.
Suddenly victory
was not so sweet to her,
thus with sword drawn
and poised at his throat,
she called a truce,
and confessed, "forgive me, my darling,
I was wrong."
Pardoned she was,
and peace ensued.
One lovable turncoat,
she traded in her uniform
to became a cowgirl instead
(like on top).

~
We don't need
Other worlds
We need mirrors

We need thin waists
And a hysteresis curve
To the hips

Let us drink in the sea
And laugh as our number
Comes up

Let us commit
To be noncommittal
And talk nary a word

On age and death
Over afternoon tea
In the bright withered garden

Where the goodness of man
Longed to be more
Than its darkling reflection
~

~
...he dreamt of her,
the one who could dance about
twin suns in cantina lace,
course through the veins
like power converters,
and scare far more
than a pack of raiders on the prowl.

...she who laid out
in the sands of Anchorhead,
and became a seductive sculpture,
her howls mixing with the wind
through Beggar's Canyon,
and turning into flame,
ascended like nomadic campfire
in an ocean of night
as far off as Mos Eisley.

...the one resembling Camie,
who bought farm water
for her off-world thirst,
he dreamt of her, you know,
he dreamt they would inevitably marry,
and settle down deep in the feral
of their desert love.
~

She came in a thousand unsolved pieces

A myriad of ways to be put back together

But none complete her...

~
Where there used to be trees,
but is now a causeway
under the Lord's nose,
reside a constant tourist and his wife
who have all they ever wanted,
light and lure.

They swim in a pool
on the dangling homestar,
overlooking metal decay,
she pinches his cheek,
he smacks her bottom,
summer in Gotham
is now upon them,
gifting different things:
he sees mystery lights endeavor,
she sees herself a dragonfly
on the lure.

Monday thru Friday
they like to ride
the elevator of their love,
up and down it goes along a focal point,
out of him and into her,
when the door closes
they come together,
when the door opens
it lets in the tide of loneliness
and they begin to push buttons.

They dislike home
and its constant secrets,
what she wears is for him,
but less is more,
he invades her often,
but she's become a empty field,
theirs is Neptune's bedroom,
if they don't find
a reason to make love,
they will stay up all night
until irritable frozen creatures.

Invictus interruptus,
with the luck of the draw
they play dangerous days:
a game of blindfolds
and snowmobiles,
a game of hammers
and nails.

The plane of their lust
hunts the morning light
on gloomy Sunday,
the rain wets their hair,
the sidewalk creates a song:
electric skylark,
they dance out of focus,
he grasps her hips,
she makes a beautiful sound,
caught by magic,
trapped by photographic memory
and numbered doors.

Light and lure.
All anomalies.

Sublimation will not return
until the day of the focal point,
in the city where they have
all they ever wanted,
yet here they have nothing
more than microcosm,
the rest is distraction.

Maybe they should
remain a constant.

Maybe he should
just hold her.

Maybe she should
just let herself be held.
~

~
Pristine upturned mouth
charitable sanguineous lips
****** only when they sound as a heart murmur
filtering through dark canticle streams
to the bottom of a kalonoù pond
no more...
~

~
Prescience
of dawn:

a sunny place
for shady people.

Long shadows
on the lawn
of a thin pixelated
crowd,
in parade
of blood red
sorrows.

But your curtains
are always
drawn.

You hide
behind
smooth and sterile
surfaces.

Finish your
collapse
and stay for
breakfast.

Buildings aren't
haunted,
people are.
~

He loved to teach...

He loved to teach her...

He loved to teach her abject lessons
      in elevators and on stairwells.


She hated to learn...

She hated to learn from him...

She hated to learn from him the inherent
       danger of buildings.

The raging quiet
The innocent curiosity
of touching the red queen
Dreaming of her *******
and their youthful color
Turning greeting cards
into ransom notes
Bridal showers
into bloodbaths

Tell me, my dear?
Tell me, my mother?
Are they lies
my bladed teacher told me?

For here in the moment
of his demise
Having already demonstrated
his humanity
his capacity to love
It is he who earned
the privilege of seeing
everlasting beauty
As I hold on for dear life...

Don't bother to knock, she's
not taking any visitors today
--something has to give.

You wanted her
in your picture, didn't you?
But the names they assigned her
were uncommonly harsh.

They hung their hats
on her *** appeal, then
threw her to the dogs
when she no longer looked the part.

She never did overcome
her shyness, preferring to
swallow small silent friends
instead, and for this
she was crucified.

Pin-up or shut-in,
it's no wonder she chose to
sleep it off.

She may have bared
her body, but never her soul.

~
This level crossing--

stick,
sand,
and broken glass,

from naming to numbering,
names tend to define,
numbers are neutral,

they count the roads, follow their failings--

flow,
force,
and absorb,

dictated by a headlight,
I feel nearer to the surface of us,

motion made of visible memories, arrested in space,

mere unorganized explosions of random energy,
and therefore meaningless--

to fall in love with our progress,
and yet be outgrown by it.
~

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?

Technological giants

We learned early

How to command our angels

To ascend higher than our sins

They offered us immortality

In exchange for our planet's wealth

And naturally

We signed on the dotted line

Like spies selling

Secrets to the enemy

But here we are now

With the well run dry...