“The least of these shall not speak the name of Gods unless commanded to do so. Do not call upon the Gods. They shall call upon you.”

That means money. Shekels. Coin. Tax.
Cash in the God’s hands meant opportunity to work in order to provide more.
Some call it prison.
The God’s call it respect.

“The least of these will remain silent in the Days of the Great Return. Once he has descended onto the fold, your mouth shall dance with flavor. You shall be anointed with the grace of the Prodigal Son. The One who knows. The All Father. The seeing eye.”

It was in a context of words only bound when spoken into existence. Then it became law.
Then it became the Word of Gods.
It became verses to memorize.
To live by.
A thing they coined as “the Narrative.”
Nazareth on steroids.
The birthplace of Saviors judicated in full force.
Henceforth, the Family Bible was conceived;
which was later put through much arbitration to become law.

I am sitting next to Captain
another man is sitting in a shadowy corner.
He has a gray beard that reaches down to his man ****.
He eyes me, takes a mental picture, and proceeds to smile his way through his conversation on how blessed we all are that a mother is here.
Who the **** is this guy?

Paralyzed. A man is watching me.
I just know. From where, I do not.
He is watching my every movement.
My every breath. I need to see him.
Just a glimpse would suffice. No. Breathing, regularly. In and out.
So NOW I’m hungry? Look up at the ceiling.
Tell yourself everything is okay.
There is a ceiling for one. That is pretty okay.
To the left of me I spy a coffee maker.

It’s a cut of prime rib,
that I slice to your size specifications,
served with a heaping side of horseradish.
I hate this ******* clip on bow tie they make us wear.
La Cave. Underground niche joint,
where all the cocktail waitresses and servers wear
******* clip on bow ties.
We specialize in meats and baked potatoes with endless amounts of butter, sour cream and ******* chives.
And don’t worry honey, I’ll be sure to bring you a whole plate full of baked potato sides.
Quantity is very important in La Cave.
The quantity of your tip depends upon it darling.
Sultry, red misted desperate dwelling of men
who dampen even the highest of spirits.
Where is my pronged fork for this huge slab of insultingly low grade prime rib?
It comes with all the sides you could ever want.
No questions asked.
And that **** little honey of a gal, that waitress right over there will cut you off a slab as thick and as cheap as you want it.
Happy Hour can **** it.

You would think having roommates would be difficult.
And you would be correct.
There is nothing like a good old roommate. Or roommates.
That word.
Gets me everytime.
We are supposed to be friends. We have rooms, and we are mates. But, mates could be mating.
I’ll put it to you this way,
being single and alone for a hot minute of your life is paramount.
Do this and you will have zero regrets.

His arm is over my waist as I sleepily adjust.
Bristles of an old, worn curtain against my hip.
I can feel that.
That scratchy cloth barely grazing my thigh made me feel more alive. I knew I had to be alive.
No way I’m dead.
I would like to be the first ghost who feels a breeze.

There isn't any air.
Nothing is going in, and nothing is coming out.
The middle horizon stays a middle horizon.
There isn’t a sunrise nor a sunset.
It’s perfect, considering its methane country.
Explicit sirens sound off, with tales of emergency in the skies. Swinging and reading this newspaper is my apparent new pastime.

It’s time to go there now.
The City of cement, sleet and dark that makes itself visible.
Stacked sedans fill a highway stretching to Jersey.
Rain turns to splatter while I operate this vehicle.
Yep. I’m driving
I am in the driver’s seat, and I am driving in a gray sedan on a highway next to gray sedans.
Inches of ancient dust that could perhaps be classified as cataclysmic residue of a previous apocalyptic expanse has seized the City.

We count our blessings,
We love them so.

We leave at luncheon,
Linen and all.

Cradles have done rocked,
They have fallen.

The comfort of cloth and swaddle,
Is to be embroidered onto edges,
Yet to be unfolded.

In another pitch,
In some place between you,
and me and thee.

Placid.
Pope.
Pious.
Dope.
Drugs.
Police.
Smug.
Faces.
Mugs.
Acid­.
Lemon.
Ice.
Space.
Dimension.
Grace.
Alarm.
Grass.
Petrol.
Harp­s.
away
Task.
Eyeballs.
Zebras

Candy perfume
Cotton candy clouds
Unicorns drinking tea
With an umbrella made for three
Teddybears in suits
Ladybugs weave glitter
Blades and chocolate
Butter and veal
Soft and sweet
Timid and mild
Golden tipped chipped china
Eggs on goblets stand
A tap
A knick
A spank
A kick
And all you add is pepper
Until you sneeze
Baby candy bears
Minty chocolates
Melting fudge away
Breathing in peppermint tea bark tea
Basking in the muddled blend
Of pink and blue and stars and diamonds
The nighttime dreams to begin
Nonsensical tantrum of sleep
Of unnatural restlessness prevades
Another place awaits you
Deeply packed in salt
A well taken care of spot
Renewing the smell of steak, medium rare
Reds and white galore

the echoes of evil
Live on in our parents
will never stop
unless we remove the walls
upon which to echo.

waves crash like scrolls
on tan depths
holes in sand
demons in heaps


Starfish cartwheels
in ocean tides



relinquish    



All the points propelling
nosedive banks
dunes of lands forgotten
   never there
   always changing


a spare seaweed
to cover squares
of liquid candor and civilized speak
   a language only mean swans
          And tides can provide.

mind melt
into obscurity
meld mind
into whisps
wisps
wisp
a tiny sliver.
No one will see
the smallest of light for few to view
strike hands
and knives
for all to see
stand naked with
shells in hand
gleam and glean
about the wheat and chaff
make noises til our mother laughs

amid the sea: grey, gold and fire
the embers of waves in twilight
bloom and die and live
in atoms once created
now forgotten