Words are both angels and devils
they set my mind on the divine
capture the beauty of Earth
from the budding pear tree across the way
then back here to this room where
words become my servants and masters.

Spring teems green.
Bluebonnets blanket Texas hills
yet I cannot find words for
their delicacy and glory,
nor how these tiny miracles make me feel.
How do I capture the incredible life
coursing through stems, leaves and blooms?

Yet without words no sacred volumes
to guide us
no Rumi, Dickens and Austen on shelves
no Dylan, Jay-Z, Lennon, or Parton in our ears
no Case, Willow, Khoi, Pradip sparkling in our eyes.

Yes demons fly in them
but words capsulize the depth, breadth, and passion
of the human soul
I bow to these small human creations
and how they speak the universe.

Winter will soon slip into
spring, all dressed in 
green; bouquet nights and
the rebirth of love.
Snakes gliding through
the grass.
But for now, we deal
with ice and snow,
slick roads and cold
hearts.

I was on the bus the
other day.
The driver had a
slippery scowl pasted
on her chubby face.
My mask had inched
down on my nose, and she
yelled, "put your mask
on or you will be off the bus."


I was having a terrible day already.
My asthma was acting up,
I could hardly breathe, and I had
just had to put my beloved
dog to sleep.
I miss her, but she slipped
away peacefully.


I rang the bell to get off at
my stop, as I chewed my
gum in passive anger.
I stood up and walked toward
the front of the bus.
The aisle was slick from
the snow and ice.
As I neared the exit door,
I took the gum out of my
mouth, so that I could throw
it away, but things went
horribly awry. 


I slipped on a wet
spot, and to catch
myself, I firmly planted 
my gum hand on the back
of the driver's head.
She had short hair, but still,
the *** of gum was now 
embedded in her golden 
locks.
I'm sure a haircut is
her near future.


Since then, I intend
to tread softly and cautiously,
and just maybe,
she does too.

What has become of me?
I've turned into such
a reprobate.
Watching ****, and
neglecting writing.
I think of Nin and
Henry Miller, turning
lust and clitoral
stimulation into
****** literature.
And here I am...
*** stains on my
laptop, and looking
sadly at the miniature
bust of Shakespeare on
my writing desk.
Even he looks disgusted.

The steeple penetrates
the puffy pink
clouds, and the
horizon squirts
sweet rain.
My face gets
sticky.

I work at a
gym that is 
popular all over
the country, because
of its family values, and
sliding fee scale.
I am a custodial artist.
It's mindless and gives
me time to write.
I get a free membership.

Men walk around the
locker room ****, and
try to have full conversations
with me.
I want to say,
put your **** away,
it doesn't talk.
This is a gym,
not a nudist colony.
I take no delight in
seeing your shriveled *****.


Where is your modesty,
your decency?
Wrap yourself in a
towel before you try
chatting me up about
the weather.
I'm trying to work out,
and then get the **** away
from you screwballs.

I take the remnants of my
childhood OCD,
and I put it to
hard work at my
custodial arts job.
Janitor to be PC.
All the initials make
my BP rise.

And the pounding
of the basketballs attack 
my eardrums in
a mad staccato
beat.
The blue toilets, and
the chemicals assuage
my nasal cavity.

Leggings and tight shorts
get my Nabokov mind calling
******, come, let me
touch your pink flower.
I'm wet now at
the head; can they see
it through my pants?

How many times did
I touch the light switch?
Do I need to blink
my eyes two more times?
Ah, if I could only
swim to heaven in
the blueness of the sterile
chlorine in
that big cerulean pool...
wash this
wretched disease 
off, once and for all.

The mediocre march into oblivion
while watching Tik Tok videos
and never reading a 
book or writing a
poem.
They don't know 
the difference between
an orchid or an iris.

The mediocre march into
madness sleeping until
noon, while neglecting
Bukowski and Mozart.
They don't know how
to play an instrument.
No idea what a C
major chord is.
But they know all
the emojis.
The sad sheep masses
don't
know the difference
between a Van Gogh or
Monet painting, and a
digital reproduction on
a coffee cup.
Their phones look 
like grotesque growths
attached to their ears.
Everyone should
contribute to the
cosmic dance,
Carpe Diem
*******!