I walk these streets,
of which, I don't belong
Ever carrying the scent of
Death,
and vintage whisky
A visceral and demented
MayBerry hell
Still,
It is here, in which I dwell
Everyone plays their part,
Pays their bills
Me?
A mere ghost
haunting these wooded hills
A house,
I possess  
Home,
I lack
I wander
Alone
I belong no where
Everywhere
Just not here
And so.....

I wander
And belong to no one
A wanderess.......

~A

The right winter
for dope and ice
for walks along the river route
home

The right winter
for arctic pin-***** wind
holes in boots
turquoise dress coat
far too thin
for walks along the river

But The Merrimack couldn’t find her way
when fabric moguls migrated south
Fascinated by nylon nasties
they traded their silks and cottons
for those petro-polyesterdays

While she—
could no more manufacture life
than mint their money
So, they blamed her
Pronounced her—“Dead”
Decried her “*****”

Now—
She wanders sadly under bridges
stopping to eddy in an overhang of birches
In dank canals, I found her sleeping
angered only at the falls

Poor outcast!
with current edge she splinters light
from cities sadder still
retching her oily stench 
        past Plum Island
into the sea— into me

What’re a few warm tears
falling from someplace on a bridge
to the icy waters of the Merrimack?
Rivers get lost in the ocean don’t they?

Let them find each other there

& how you
shrug-me-off
words and thoughts
takeanothershot
,...i think,... i know
you see~m
inclined;
but
\don't

inside of me
because

you were already
there

fathoms
deep

inside of me
because

you were already
there

fathoms
deep

In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.

In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
Was never said in rhyme.

I’m angry at the world
For not playing fair
And then mocking me
When I do

I hate all the apathy
That stands and observes
And makes no attempt
To enforce the rules

I’m angry at all
That I have to give up
To wait for my turn
And take only my share

I hate that the meaning
Of good has been altered
To apply to group ethics
That are coated in shame

I’m angry to see
How the cheaters will win
And honesty comes
A poor second

I hate all the smugness
(Check Paul Ryan’s face)
And those who are like him
Cheating their way to their goal

I’m angry to be cursed
With the gene of fair play
Permanent - same as
The brown of my eyes

I hate that I have to
Spend so much time hating
Hate is an acid
Dissolving my soul
                    ljm