I'm ******* with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron or Yeats;
Each and every one you see,
(if you're ready for some truth)
Took their themes from me.

Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's left me
Mean and bitter.

Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.

Although they're merely dust and bones,
They don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown:
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I said that before Robbie Burns).

Let me make this poeticaly clear;
If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare.

A House of Cards
Should only have
Two Jokers...
Right?

Four you already know,
But I can't, I won't,
Put them in writing... allegedly.
The Fifth is my favorite.
Adrift on the Bering Strait,
On an ice flow,
Followed by habitat strained
Polar Bears.
(We'll give him an oar)
Upon landing on the opposite shore,
To be met
By a voracious, ferocious,
And *******,
Russian bear.

My friend's Father,
Who's just that,
Has a Papa Francis.
And her entire congregated family
Won't acknowledge her
Very existence.
How can she communicate.
There's a crack in the crucifix,
And it's splitting, running up the wood,
Past the cruciform,
To the Head.

Francie really is my name.
Uncle Francie has the same;
Uncle Francie is to blame.

Francis is my legal name;
But I was never called the same.
Francie is the one that stuck,
Don't talk to me about Irish luck.

But when I turned twenty-two,
I introduced myself as
Fran,
Sounding more like a man.
I got tired of re-repeating,
Francie, you know, rhymes with Nancy.
I was exhausted of always hearing,
Could you spell that for me Dearie?

When I drove a limosine,
Clients called me Francois.
When I faltered, when I drank,
I told the cops
My name was Frank.

I believe I'm the same
No matter what I'm called by name.
And even though
My ego's fraying,
I'm pleased to turn
If you call saying,
It's good to see you well, Francie.

I've lain on this horrid couch for days,
vintage in hand
ever staring
at this hideous popcorn ceiling.
A cheap white, low lying coffin lid.
You can never rehabilitate the dead
We are dead.
Yet, more alive than any of the sane people.
How I pity the sane.
Boring.
****** to a life of hell they are.
In these popcorn ceiling caskets.
And routine,
is hell~A

Yeah I get it Woody
You ******* show off
You're a ******* archaeologist
Go dig up a new thing to impress me

So I see you love dogs?
What's a ******* wolf, *****?
"Uh I don't know isn't it a canine"
So too is a wolf
You love us?
Come get some

She calls on the cardinal in winter.
All that remains of reverence for a god who has gone--
And he appears to her!
A lone spark lighting the static of snowscape
Like a bolt of lightning traverses dimensions to strike a dream.
He delivers lost loved ones as she washes the dishes.
Ascension of memory is as steam on glass.
The child raises a finger and draws the sign of the cross,
And through the clarity of its lines, she sees the river change its mind,
Stop short,
Swirl in Inertia’s moment of uncertainty
Before scrambling frantically back toward its
Source.
She washes the dishes,
And watches through window of steam and snow for a sign from God.