What a nice name for a bird.

I bought a bird.
Tuesday mornings seem to fly away now.
Thursdays often nest in my eyebrows
and every second Sunday I could find reason to sing.

The bird took my soul.
and flew away with my money.
I should have never bought a bird.
Feathers ****.

Next month I shall buy a dog, or perhaps a horse, maybe even an armadillo.
But the dog will run, the horse will trot, and the armadillo will roll;
All away.
Pets ****.

Next year I shall find a wife,
and the the month before a band of pearl,
but what If I should run away?
what if I would ****?

Where are you off to? A pickup game inside a palm?
Punishing heaven? Well why didn't I think of it?
Perfectly absolutely incredibly perfect...kind of.
Because John says excuse me every single time you poke him in the head.
Because the lemon juice-making machine is frozen for now.
Because I can't reach my grapes or my Florida anymore.
So cheers to you.
Cheers to your weekend gettaways
and your Friday gettaways
and your Thursday gettaways
and your wens,tues,mondays gettaways
They aren't here anymore.
They've left.
or you've compromised for Saturday
Florida has made an appeal for mercy from the
ghhhh
grand jury.
...close enough.

Well once again I've lost.
Once again the die has tossed
it's-self again.
For now it is too late to call
con quien?

Fewer than none, less than a void
I be seedless as grocery store grapes.
Empty as the grave I have yet to be buried in.
I want
I need
I burn
I am
not done.
Not yet...
I should throw it all away
every scrap that is left
every parcel and shred of evidence
of memory
that is my enemy now.
Too close to call it a tie,
I've been foreclosed upon.
That's it, pack it up.
They're useless now
just let them die.

And he handed me the carnage of so many wasted and poverty stricken corpses.
And I scrubbed.
And as I scrubbed, I watched the water
turn into tea
and then into coffee
and then into a rainbow-shimmering sheen of crude oil.
I scraped the burnt-on remains-off
so the worn, rusted,
yet impregnable metal pieces
could be a bit more
presentable: lamentable.
In preparation of the first-world ones
who take a bite at pleasure, and then discard.
Who borrow by bond their treasure
and waste the world with all their lard.

So let's write ourselves a silly lillo quee
cheer ourselves up and forget all our troubles before we go off
to our shelters of grand construction.
For feelings without thought are too soon in the making
to pass onto the battlefield.
I ache, but what good is my ache-knowledgement of this?
Can analysis be worthwhile?
I love you I do. I love you... I do.
My fractured shins and ankles, toes and knees are broken.
So t(here) I am
unable to move.

Here in my lair of mind
I am set apart, but
only for the moments that I stew
in the smoke of my thoughts.
Fresh air that comes with each passing day
enriches my soul and gives me patience, perseverance, and the forgiveness
I do so require.

Hold the lamp shade for me dear, I have need of it's feather-dusted stature.
Tell me closely the refrains of that song you've killed me with so many times.
Does it not go like this?:
"Smokey softly smokey like a cloud unworthy to be turned around.
Smokey softly smokey everything is burned down to the ground."

Let the fire in those words drip like lava down your chin.
The burn-holed beginning of my baker's street body
that baked all my fears alive; cleansed of it.

The race of men with their flaming tempers makes for quite a study.
The quantity of corruption found within.
Their stated lusts
in fires burnt,
their corpses left to ash.
Great fires fought by careful study;
yet the fire fought will always win.

I lay in the light of the light that I lay.
And I shed the air
and I shine all the light
that promised to be shed
anyway.

Unto you a chill is given
unto you a shame is born.
Because of you the earth is willing
your silence has caused the stones to swarm.
Show me soul
show me mind
show me space
show me time

It's hard to change a people.
A person is quite enough.
So am I and are you so
good to me  greater to be.
I see.

You don't want to know what you want to know.
If you knew you could be
what you know you are, and you see.

Because it's obvious.
seriously, it's sitting right there.
like a dead puppy on your lap

meaning- less
meaning- lost
meaning- found
ational

I am
shaken.
I'm sorry.
I really am this time
even if I don't believe it myself.
I know I have to be. How couldn't I be?
I look in your eyes and see so much misery.
I just want to undo it; want to undo myself again.
There is no easy way for me.
Bound am I to wander and return.
Like an orbiting moon,
Lost in the ethereal like a sailor destitute.
I paint my own with two brushes
I reach for one that is dark
I reach for one that is light, and then
I fall for the mixture of it's composition
So real, like the contrasting brilliance of stars at night.
It is lost; this way we dance between the lines.
In the the dusk of our own confusion.
In the forming of our minds.
I am in need of your spring.
In need of your dear warmth.
A newness like
no other.

French pressed fun a with french kissed tea?
With tell-tale signs of want, on me?
You should have a
dactyl mackerel
for breakfast. It'll clear out your eyes
so that
you can vom'et
In my face before you finish speaking.

I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.

I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.

Unlike the rest they’re in the among the dust
to mute the way pictures often drip with silence.
In that unseen spot my eyes will never trust;
so often burned with red remembrance.

A picture worth a thousand words is true.
In so many ways the thing may come to light;
so bleak, the words are left with what they knew.
Without the seeing I still shall find the sight.

I do not look for comfort’s sake; comfort it doesn't bring.
Perhaps it is but my mistake, I hear the shadows sing.

Such things I should denounce, dismiss.
I hear the sound of trees that do not fall
to death, and with the ground they do not kiss,
and I find absence here: nowhere at all.

A pearly luminosity, and five endless lines live in perfect functionality,
but make the picture of a signpost hold the dust of dim-lit destiny.
It seems to have nothing in the day,
and only once night has come does the charm of this
common intersection show its color.
Grace in form and abundance in solidarity.

I walk across the moon in bare feet.
I stand looking at its beauty in the street.
The days go by, the winds, they change,
and part of me is yet estranged,
but still gleaming on is that lamppost;
Never to want or to die.
Never tasting joy, nor ever inclined to cry.

The pavement goes forth in solemn, straight lines,
like the unquenchable flow of space, and of time.
but just for one moment I see a face in the night.
It calls out my window and beacons with light.

Right right right they stand, save Catherine,
on the left. She’s set herself apart;
unyielding to command.
Nowhere else has a lamp-post been such a lady.

The Moon shines on in my eyes.
The air is cold and crisp on the face.
The luminescent pale face overcomes all disguise.
Three circles affection; forms for to trace.

My muse is made perfect for such a moment
and my saunter slows to a stand, still stopped.
Bathed in the dark light; so pure is my atonement.
Yet the height of my desire has not dropped.

The depth has deepened, and the width has widened
to encase such a pure celestial sphere.
My soul has cast a requisite to be enlightened,
While yet derived and bereft with fear.

The face I loved is gone, and the nighttime clings so tight.
My moon, which is blue, has stolen my gaze... again,
to give a new face for me; the visage of night.
When the morning shall come I cannot tell. I know not when.

Yet in the turpentine of my misdirection it's best to stop and stair.
for where the wind blows, only the wanderer will care.
All of life is a circle, flawless yet unfair.