We trespass insanity with great stealth  
at the close of day , jot bits of our self -
described tangled webbing to disclose later in prose ,
commit our imaginations to tap on the door
of the 'magnum unknown'
A goblet of red , a whiff of Borkum Riff , a
Moonlit tint producing a curious script
We're improvisational thespians surrounded by
our peers , Fire Ants on a forgotten marshmallow ,
a can of beer left in a hot trunk in Florida ready to
explode , a wind rattled Hound Dog trying to get home

All of my stories that I write are fiction.
The gangster story, the serial killer story, and the child molestation stories are fiction.  Don't think they are true because they are fiction.

Traveling in rising walking strings
you stretch out these soulful sinews
and tune your mandolins of song
of seasons and tall waves on deep
whaling, wailing a home longing
in lungs breathing for both of us
on traditional barks and harbor docks
wanting, waiting, wanting
pickity passion's dancing flocks
of ******'s doves to prompt
voices aimed at golden gates

-cec

the milk of resentment
flows freely
when your children
   to whose happiness
   you have dedicated your life

    which did not make
   things easier

appear to be
   oblivious of it all
go on with their lives
spend time with others
   on days you miss them most
and grow defensively embarrassed
   when you show
   that you need them
   too

it takes the young ones
quite some time
to find themselves

and only then
they have the strength
   to gradually see things clearly
   and to understand

   the effort
   and the pain
it has taken you
   to bring them into this world

         into their lives

                * *

.

*I have written a dozen messages now
(probably more, no definitely more)
I word each one as carefully as I can,
telling you how much I miss you,
how lonely my days have been,
how I am doing ok (not really)
and I hope you are too,  
only to get to the bottom, the final line,
and typing out, I...well you know,
then stare at the screen and
think about it for a few minutes
before hitting delete…

wishing each time I did
it was me that disappeared

Cyrus was a butcher,
the ladies thought him sweet,
and when they spoke,
the gals would joke
about old Cyrus' meat.

But soon the missus told 'em,
her one and only beef-
forget the size
or how he'd rise,
Old Cyrus was too brief.

His brother, Clive, the baker,
a young and heavy lad,
was paid no mind
by womankind
cause of the weight he had.

But soon the missus told 'em,
with a twinkle in her eye,
Forget the size,
or how he'd rise,
that boy could eat a pie!

Pass me the vase, will you dear
I've picked some flowers to place in it
They are purple, yellow, white and red
Don't they just make you smile

I will place them by your bed
So when you retire for the night
You won't miss the beauty
That's painted on their faces

Take a moment, will you
To appreciate their worth
Lean in close and take a sniff
Their fragrance is most genuine

And as you wake, remember
I've placed those flowers there
For you to enjoy and adore
If only for a season