There's an all pervading feeling like white chocolate.

To lay next to your letters.
The smell of your perfume lingers in the air and in my soul.

This feeling I can't escape.
Your image flashing back in my mind as I try to rest.

Sweetness that threads my heart, punched through by the stem of the rose.

I toss and turn as I melt.

You chase away my pain.     Yet.

To have you near as I rest if only in my dreams.
I yearn.

To wish and pray and hope for what might come.

Where these hearts beet as one.

**** the postman.

Far off if to be.
Some day some where.
Sweet mystery to me.

Honey-flowing rivulets of jazz-beaten syncope,
Trumpets blowing smoke across the room,
‘Curveball’ Sammy hustles bass behind the bar,
Snares his songbird in a played back loop.

Harlem shufflers work the floor, breaking safe,
Clave rhythm scufflers with a New York twist,
Black keys write with borrowed brass on iv’ry walls,
Pick the lock on a swelt’ring southern riff.

kindly Kimberly
stay wrapped in my loving arms
for eternity

We, the people, is inclusive.
It's me and you and whoeverelse shows up
under examination.

The unaxamined life, ain't worth the time, t'm'mind.

We, the people, embody liberty
it's a cultural-environmental-asentien-told-tale,
an ethos-pathos, super positioned meme.
Our endowment, as it were.

It is living. Alive means it is living, in short form
where it is a
named variable earlier in the duration of events.

okeh. quotes and things
around phrases are de
meaning to the words in the phrases, so, mebbe,
for real spells,
we only use
invisible links, right

"to effect a thought"
slogan mantras from others into
now, if the phrase might be called stolen,
if we fail to say, who said, say
mebbe
John Kenneth Galbraith said that...
Name dropping as an ethos move, scene setting up pathos

or it could be a tribal signal. Are we in send or receive?

I know some of those. If we read the same books, we are related.
Valis might mean something to you.
I might cure your apophrenia and ****** you to my side,

don't push me off the edge this time.
Finding oneself in the book of life is ... as hard as you think it is.
Would you know your name if it were called?

wwwuwu freaky online poet person messin' witme.
crazy, the idea, is not a bad state of mind,

past the cool of the day, as the last shred of doubt about
reality has been besomed into the dust,

matter for matter, dust for dust,
here is where the part of crazy that is only Escherish
begins to twist itself
into a Mobius strip with Pluribis backing us on fife,
Higgs on the bass, and
Hopf spinning sticks between perididdles

The entire idea of Universe, emerges
inside out, and

all over the planet, all hands clap to forehead, as one.

I’m sorry if love didn’t work out.
There are other forms of worship.
Or maybe that’s why it didn’t work out.
You made him into a jezebel.
He wanted to be skin, bone, breath,
touch, sinew, sweat. Not God.
So now you’re stuck with an imprint
of a person you barely gave time
to settle in — how could that happen?
Residue even when he walked on air.
Sourmouth lingering there when you
close your eyes. Every letter of his name
spelling a fragrance that betrays pure-grade
everlasting peace. Your heart choking on its
own spit. His ***** inside you hardening
into a lair for a nightmare still brewing.
I’m sorry if I never held you the way
you wanted to be held. Sorry for starting
aerobic sessions of always wanting
more. For expecting you knew how to repair
a body addicted to electric shocks.
I told you. Didn’t I? I promised ruin; you pushed
unblinking. I wanted someone to invent
a new period of day between morning
and nighttime, but the only thing we ever
came up with was dimness.

the hawthorn lays down its ghosts, thick
with dulling pink; the stream quivers,

its blue shadows sunken, gleaming,
at low ebb, breathing like a mirror

in the sun. beneath the trees it
is dream-like, cool, dark and

magical, the leaves little harbours
of breeze, voiceless, white as bone.