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I once was so sad
I came here and found a community
People like me
Restless and needing understanding
Lovely people
My account was hacked and I lost everything
I didn’t even get to say goodbye
Or even copy my poetry
The seen and the hidden
I have missed my friends so much
If anyone remembers me
Please let me know
The hugs will be endless
I have suffered the loss of you all
Deb
the rain won't lift.

it moans a low,
lonesome sound,
gives no mercy.

a window opens.

"i'm a little lost lamb," she tells me.

and I look up and she smiles at me,
she always smiles,. "Maggie," I sigh.

"what are you doing out on a night like this?" she asks.

"i long to dream in black and white
of deserted city streets
to waltz down at night in a cold rain."

it's summer and Maggie's
hanging out the window,
streetlight in her eyes,
her long ***** blonde hair
getting wet from the rain
hangs down around her face.

the dreamer of all the good dreams.
i have to tell her, "Maggie, you're
so beautiful."

"come up. I'll tell your future."

I shrug my shoulders, "I know the future. you die."

"not with me." she laughs softly
like a summer breeze
and her smoky voice whispers,
"your getting soaked, come up
the fire escape."

"so you're the lost lamb," i laugh,
"then what am i? the beckoning scarlet knight,
the golden moth drawn to your fire?"

"there's no music, Jack, but you know
the song too well."

"who chooses who we are,
what we become?

"no pity for us lost lambs."


whether lost or found,
the way a bird knows the sky.
i always know that where ever
I drift
or whoever I might become

I'd can always
find my way back to Maggie's window.
Bootleg ***** in America has gone by many nicknames, from Blue Ruin, Moonshine, Mountain Dew, Coffin Varnish, Old Be Joyful, White Lightning, Rotgut, Popskull...


Queens and fathers, merchants and poets -
all seek appointments with Dr. Popskull,

when these days brim with fresh anxieties
that won't stop piling atop last nerves;

when sunrises now sizzle, haywire,
bringing bills and bad news, too soon by half;

even the weeks and months are mouthy,
won't shut up with their stubborn griefs.

Blue ruin brewing in the clawfoot tub -  
Old Be Joyful swigged sweet tot by tot -

bay *** blind in the corner store -  
Dr. Popskull fills prescriptions as fast

as dollars. Evening varnish vanishes -
happiness is borrowed from a future self.
Have you ever just wanted to eat sugar straight from the bag?
To open your mouth wide and pour?
Not stopping for air.
But gasping for more --

Sometimes I have these cravings,
galore --
I wanted to feel it
The joy of being understood.
On the white screen dance the stringed dots
Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts
Slowly they emerge handholding lines
Not always yielding intended designs.
Something was brewing inside the head
Coaxing to weave and take it ahead
The drunken horses so wildly gallop
There is no leash to make them stop.
Nerves are taut and they won't relax
Till all is vented they reach the ******
It was thus fated the moment it was sown
What's to be grown could never be known.
As the fever wanes arrives the new child
It may be adored or it may be defiled
The canvas is washed clean as in the rain
Something is brewing to be vented again.
for
she, an unending gift of inspiration,
a thank you for learning me a new word
Hungry for the sharing

<>

Cloud-busting: Mare's tails -
"Horse tail clouds," also known as "mare's tails," are a type of cirrus cloud characterized by their thin, wispy, and streaky appearance, resembling the tail of a horse. These clouds are composed of ice crystals and form at high altitudes, typically between 5 and 10 miles above the ground. They are often associated with approaching weather changes,
particularly warm fronts, and  may signal
the possibility of rain or increased winds."

<>
With newly acquired knowledge,
Comes new responsibilities
No longer is a fleece flecked blue aureola sky
Just a harbinger of good tidings,
Its inner working require further investigation,
And a new concern must now,  by instigation
to be attended, by instantation

So it is.
With every column, differing opinion, advice, new knowing,
comes
Those **** burrs, that irritate but don't break the skin,
Concerning, demanding discerning, and unthinkable.
Now
Attention must be paid.
Ah,
Paid.

Perhaps trivial, perhaps not, but
The less the ignorance, the more the bliss?

We turn to each other,
And only to each other,
Whisper great fears of what yet to be,
Things so commonplace now,
As to be unthinkable!

Will our descendants ever know
A dry faucet?
Days when electricity is only available but for a few hours,
Toilets that are illegal to flush?
When when,

those
systems that with witch we pay so little heed,
we do not concern us now,
Routine, unseen, and someone else's responsibility,
Be luxuries in the future?

Can I with conscience clear see a most excellent daylight,
And not seek out, worry about, the wispy warnings of
Horse tail clouds?
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