Your reluctance to greet
the loudmouths who've come
to silence themselves with a
combo, pulled from a grease lathered iron shelf
is palpable, even with
the smoke pouring in
from the hissing grill.

I can't resist to wonder,
behind this façade of yours, what is felt
in the hours you ****?
Is your mind content
idly whistling to the tune
of a humdrum existence?

If these inquiries parted from
my incessant curiosity
are met with your resistance,
I insist you breathe in,
breath out.
& either
a) find virtue in persistence
or
b) leap into clamor, run out those familiar doors, with no doubt
that this is the end
& the beginning.

A woman of many fine

Words, made two sandwiches

One for Nicholas, one for Freida


On this day

A woman of many fine

Fiascos, made her last

With the drop of a plate

The turn of a ****


The oven concluded

the world had been robbed

Most poets construct fences
Of ambiguous and lofty blabber
To stagger, ambitious eyes
Clamoring for another

Hit line, that drags the body
to the grave and greets
Your mother with
A bird, contrary

To the--traditional wave
And jejune grief

Instead, I'll facet windows
With various cob-web cracks
And baseball mishaps
Till I collapse

Alone in this world?

Faceted with double edged

Swords


Whispering solemn chords

to muted minds
                
           quivering

Propitious clouds fill the horizon, blocking cosmic rays
Emanating from a lingering celestial beast.
On these grounds of substance, humanity subsists with a curiosity
Unquenchable mouths and minds
-- we begin a rampant search for meaning.
The vibrations of our search loosen the crust, exposing the fleeting nature of being
Bewildered by this discovery we blind ourselves with faith, as if we deserve more

Unable to see, we flee in a direction unknown for the chance that it may remedy our pleas. A shadowy remembrance of these requests ripple across arid aspect. Heedlessly stumbling upon past, present, and future, we careen towards the eminence of death. Desires fumes overwhelm, collapsing beneath these earthly plumes. Our last breathe exclaims,”Life is pain, for we are submersed in the mundane!”

Sensationally-- as our hearts begin to tread their last beats
Droplets of clarity deluge our dire thirst
-- propitious clouds that once smothered the horizon
Bequeath themselves of all significance, affixed at high noon

Exposing anew the celestial beast that emanates a sanguine gleam
Reflecting in the pools that surround our pulpy minds

It is 6:57. Startled am I,
by the nights dream.
Son of Jocasta, King of Thebes!

I head t’ward the morning steam,
To rid one’s eyes of the malaise
A few stabs
And my mind is clear.

Abruptly, like fire on the agora.
Desire veer me to vices!

A cup of Columbian roast, with stoge in hand,
I perch upon the balcony,
With no intent to slip, I s’pose

Each inhalation and sip
Fulfill temporal desire
beneath our aging celestial fire.

7:54
I am out the door,
out out with it!
It being me, me being it.