Lured by the slurred
word that she heard
which plied with lies
that made her hum and purr.

Late for her classes
she moved like molasses
and stopped at a hot mud spot,
to sit in the slop
letting the filth
flow from the bottom
of where she was squatting
up to fill each crack and crevice.

She thought the wet dirt
would only hurt her white skirt
as the slick liquid was sliding
up and down her body.
In that moment writhing,
She had the feeling akin
to being pleasurably pig skinned.

How strange the change
as her belly engorged
and her limbs grew short.
Then from her lacy drawers
a corkscrew tail emerged.

How weird was it
when she heard
squeals of concern
spew from her snout.

She began to doubt
her humanness
as her dress
vanished
and she was grabbed
by a drab brute
with skoal breath
and lots of flab.

Pork patties were made
of this maiden led astray
by the wiles of a worthless
**** that made a feast of her
soft pork belly.

My brother came up to collect our mother’s ashes.
At the same time, he dropped off her old vacuum cleaner.
I don’t know why exactly.
I hadn’t asked for it and didn’t need it;
I guess it would have been a waste to just get rid of it.
The thing is, 
it hadn’t been emptied, 
and for some reason that 
broke me 
all over again.

That grimy little time capsule.
That cyclone technology urn.
Contents:
Dust of a home you can never go back to;
Fur of a cat now settled with a new owner;
Dead cells of a dead woman.

Remains.

I created my only little world order
a comfort collected against disorder,
cause though I know entropy
will eventually consume everything
I like to think
I make my own purpose.

That I write meaning into
this universe I view
by the force of my creative will.

So, when the shadows come in
swallowing my well being
I have a foundation to fall back on.

Boy I was wrong,
the king of meaninglessness
the projector of  
poetry that says to everyone
that nothing really matters,
got a little silly
and caught up in
all those distractions
from reality.

Thankfully, all it takes
is a pandemic to shake
me from my stupor
and put me right back into the corner
remembering how much
I really don’t matter.

I have forgotten how to write
without flowing flourishes,
without the rhyme that nourishes
each tight woven and cherished
poetic line.

I have lost the ability
to lose the structure
playing games with
the worlds of words I love.

When I was younger, I did not need
anything,
but the words to come flowing
from the fount I found,
spewing rose petals of purple and pink
and I did not feel compelled to think
what is the next word
in the next verse
that might link and light past lines.

I miss the curling lips
as I let the words just slip
and lay where they may
not caring how they would play
with similar sounds.

I feel like a poetry clown
who cannot break the cycle.

I am binary,
two beings in one,
a black hole
and a blazing sun.

I am solar rage
and a hunger
as powerful
as Galactus
ready to devour
all of us.

I am curious,
needing the seeding
of seeing and thinking
of drinking
and perceiving,
what is truthful
and what is deceiving.

I am ready to withdraw
but willing to come out,
full of confidence
but hold wisdom
in my doubt.

Like a dolphin
swimming in
the sparkling
ocean,
I am part of two worlds,
underwater gasping for air,
and limited in movement
when I come up there
to take my breathes.

Asleep when I awake,
in a daylight dreaming state,
but as time moves on
silence speaks volumes.
I see isolation
and find sorrow
in this lonely nation
of homebodies.
I am conflict that creates
some things I love
and other things I hate,
ill-defined by this frame
that holds the mind
from which I sprang.

Mostly, I am confused.

They are a bright curly few
who come swirling through
the beautiful light blue
daylight hue I was trying to view.

These camera caught clouds,
were finally brought down
and captured in clicking rhythm
as I took and sent them
to a digital prison,
only to be released
for creative behavior
on the social media site
I was designing for later.

Could it be
sweet dreams of thee
that break me
from the shell
and take me
from the hell
of ignorance.

As merry sprites
split in two
and come together
again in view
like night lights
or those flickering few
glow bug butts that
fly crookedly in the air.

Could it be soft stirrings
that bequeath
a wreath of
rapturous love.

As Puck surveys
a sunny to
rainy blue
beautiful day,
preparing
for the sharing
of tricks
he plans to play.

As cold skin
starts heating
with lust’s
full intent
and the furies
are tame
compared to
the passion
I bring you.

Oh Ariel
what a tempest,
in a midsummer’s dream.

As golden strands
of fantastic plans
unfurl,
I see the girl
who could be
my whole world
but she is
as imaginary
as all of Shakespeare’s’
strange characters.

one cannot help start wondering
about some leaders' meandering
rather than take decisive measures
they pander to their selfish pleasures
claiming they are in full control
and never mind the rising toll
of deaths, infections, unemployed
during the crisis
                              they avoid
acknowledgment of actual danger
instead fan hate, divisiveness and anger
ignore all human suffering
but only aim at buffering
their own political survival

it seems high time for the arrival
of real statesmen who can stall
that deadly downward spiral
and save their nations
     from being driven
full speed into the wall

How I long
to love and be
loved as greatly
as the poetry
I write for humanity,

to be consumed and seen,
as I live a dream,
knowing that showing
the true me
will not end badly.

How I long
to know myself
and share that
with someone,
to let the tight brace
that carries my pain
be undone
cause I no longer need
the crutch that clutches
too tightly.

Like the ocean
that loves the moon,
as the night dies
far too soon,

like the snow
that melts
under heated passion
becoming
liquid love
and steamed breathes gasping,

though, I know I shouldn’t
I long for
the one thing
I want more
than life itself.