Gray whale
Now that we are sinding you to The End
That great god
Tell him
That we who follow you invented forgiveness
And forgive nothing

I write as though you could understand
And I could say it
One must always pretend something
Among the dying
When you have left the seas nodding on their stalks
Empty of you
Tell him that we were made
On another day

The bewilderment will diminish like an echo
Winding along your inner mountains
Unheard by us
And find its way out
Leaving behind it the future
Dead
And ours

When you will not see again
The whale calves trying the light
Consider what you will find in the black garden
And its court
The sea cows the Great Auks the gorillas
The irreplaceable hosts ranged countless
And fore-ordaining as stars
Our sacrifices
Join your work to theirs
Tell him
That it is we who are important

How ill doth he deserve a lover’s name,
     Whose pale weak flame
     Cannot retain
His heat, in spite of absence or disdain;
But doth at once, like paper set on fire,
     Burn and expire;
True love can never change his seat,
Nor did her ever love, that could retreat.

That noble flame which my breast keeps alive
     Shall still survive
     When my soul’s fled;
Nor shall my love die when my body’s dead,
That shall wait on me to the lower shade,
     And never fade;
My very ashes in their urn
Shall, like a hallow’d lamp, forever burn.

Walked pass through the garden gate


Traipsing on the evergreens


I stumbled upon by fate


A wicked flower that resembles your skin

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes
That they behold and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by overpartial looks,
Be anchored in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forgèd hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot
Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
    In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
    And to this false plague are they now transferred.

… On a bustling street,
              she shuffles her feet,
                     her eyes hold a desperate heat,
                               eyes darting, discretely charting
                                    a line through the crowds that are parting for her.


In a world of abundancy,
         she sees redundancy.
Where waste is rife,
          her life breathes new life into the rubble
                       from a fickle society’s burst bubble.

Her world otherwise grey,
         she colours her day,
                 collecting, affecting
                         what the world has thrown away.

Single-mindedly transfixed, her target mixed; decayed, disused, no longer affixed.
Refused, unused,
        discarded, unguarded;
              all detected, all collected, all recycled, all respected.

Debris she chases, through a sea of down-turned faces she paces.
Those faces think she disgraces their spaces
           but she shows no emotional traces.
She just fills her cases.

She kneels on a cold floor, search no more, search no more. Through a broken window comes dim light, from an oncoming night, passers-by dare not look in from disgust or from fright or sorrow for her plight. Her face covered in feeling but not for the walls peeling nor the ceiling that leaks, nor the floor that squeaks under a carpet that reeks and is torn and frayed in pieces arrayed in front of her.

She kneels on a cold floor, surrounded by more of the same she collected before. Old cushions: tattered. Plates and platters: shattered. Curtains in shreds, ripped clothes, parts of beds. A massacred lounge, wallpaper scrounged. A casual glance at the floor shows a junk-yard and no more. To her it’s ethereal, much more than material.

Her eyes focussed, near to lust as she begins to adjust her treasure, saved from the dust. Within it she trusts.

In her eyes pieces glow to her, in her eyes pieces show to her, a beauty known just to her.

She kneels on a cold floor with a purpose like none before. Within her scrapheap dominion she needs no opinion she fears no ones minion. She knows the beauty she seeks, the beauty that peeks through the grime as she tweaks, the beauty that speaks to her. As she sews it grows and shows and she knows what was once dispose is becoming her rose.

She loses no pace as the last piece of lace delicately takes its place; a tear of pride slides down her face. Her complexion ashen, knowing her passion has brought fashion from a discarded ration she lays down on a cold floor, search no more, work no more.

Daylight breaks, sunlight that shakes and awakes her. Her eyes fill with elation as she clothes herself in last night’s creation. What she wore before goes on the floor where lay more creations from nights before. She heads out toward the sunlight.

On a bustling street, she shuffles her feet, her eyes hold a desperate heat, eyes darting, discretely charting a line through the crowds that are parting for her …

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander! many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls
That they might answer him.—And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause
Of silence such as baffled his best skill:
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the ***** of the steady lake.

      This boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs
Upon a ***** above the village-school;
And through that churchyard when my way has led
On summer-evenings, I believe that there
A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies!

Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.

The small blue Arab stallion dances on the hill
like a glancing breaker, like a storm rearing in the sky,
In his *****-ears,the wind, that wanderer and spy,
sings of the dunes of Arabia, lion-coloured still.

The small blue stallion poses like a centaur-god,
netting the sun in his sea-spray mane, forgetting
his stalwart mares for a phantom galloping unshod;
changing for a heat-mirage his tall and velvet hill.

Sign here and,here
Authorized personnel only
Exit…

A sign of distress on his face
The normal signs of distress?
No. Signal the white flag high

Suboxone and methadone
Romney and Ryan
The county fairgrounds…

“Lookout for that fox!”
DUI you cant afford it
DUI CRACK you cant afford it

Hand signals communicate
UFO Conference?
No SIGNS of UFO’s tonight

“Where’s your sign?”
What would my sign look like?
Winding road, next 4 miles