What is it like
The moonlight on her skin
Surely it must dance
Some spectral movement
A longing that only
The forest would know
Deep secrets whispered
Beneath its bows
Ancient recollections of
Sweet footfalls amid the duff and
Arcane choired reverances
Echoing a covens embrace around
Samhain fires
Charming the spirits arise and
Make light the growing darkness
But time is cruel and
She alone now stands
Testament to the cycle
******* in the dew
Singing the old songs
In the old ways
Enticing that old wood wake and
Take heed the coming dawn

Far be it from me
To complexify the issue
By propulgating wrongery
Less I subterfuge
My untentions
Toward wittery
And ashoe
Refudiation

A wise pope once said
a man's ambition
must indeed be small
to write his name
upon a ******* wall

But for want of superstition
and tales told tall
I'll play that ancient game
....right after my last call

Preluding my expiration
just before the fall
I'll seek the Devil's fame
and inscribe that ***** stall

By hook, by crook,
or explosive indigestion
Every nook, every sideways look
shall bear my ugly shame
For what better eulogy book
than that old ******* wall
That great temple of the read

Funny
I thought
McConnell's lips
would have been
orange

Pope John Paul II
maybe
Johnny P the Deuce
(to his friends)
empassions an Easter sermon
years before the Passion
or millennia after
to Jane Fonda
feathered red and nicotine stained
watching the city burn
one
station wagon
at
a
time

Entombed in plastic and million dollar magnets a marvel of medical magic mines my mind for defects little pearlescent pearls of impending numbness and degeneration generated by rogue proteins surging through my spine an overwhelming force indiscriminately seeking targets shooting first and never asking
questions

I send words
like **** pics
both decidedly
wanting
and
unwanted

Except maybe by one

but that was
long ago
and who
really
knows
the truth of it
now