In place of shadows
sunspots and creases
an embankment the gray of day seizes
      nailed to peril as a savior
      pushes out all traces in its labor

Dust and smoke
--the heartless void
above the faded ring of hope
      say a sated prayer
      for your fellow wayfarer

I'll shield your body between
the rays and surface
I'll be your dark clouded step
     when your own feet fail to purchase
     into the ground they sink

Her fingers brush her hair in front of your disclosure,
Immeasurably not to cause you any misery,
Lowering inhibitions to bring you flavor,
Not restrained attempts to bring you skin liquor,
A snail's head bobs up as its with less terror
and a tail-gate of passion ends flirtatiously.

A water's tap pours out or less with pressure
And no doubt a measure is the treasure.
A joker is the one who clings to leather,
A jacket of the one captivates to fever.
The hunger wild to salt & the sugar
The player's set himself up to as the hustler

If truth or dare never answered in postcards
her sincere flair wouldn't be wrapped in scarves,
If commodiously of two parties sharing,
into the night, steaks wouldn't be raring
to be a taste of other blissful strangers.

tail-gates...

Some days say
They need a change
And will gladly give
Their spot away

Feeling tired
And uninspired
With this weekly gig
In which they’re hired

All Monday knew
How to do
Was start the week
Off with the blues

Switched it up
With Friday
Who'd had enough
Of partying

Tuesday and Thursday
Stayed in place
Not much for them
Would really change

Never been known
For causing waves
However early or late
In the week they came

Wednesday left
Its middle ground
Taking Saturdays spot
To piddle around

And Sunday itself
Pretty much kept
Its sacred spot
As a day of rest

Not quite sure
If you ask me
How this will work
Throughout the week

My best guess is
Before too long
They'll all go back
To where they belong

Giving Monday back
The basic blues
Where you find in life
You don't always get to choose...

I had a dream.
I don’t remember most dreams.

I was cleaning the floors of heaven.
It seemed a mixed blessing,
I was in heaven, after all
but I was cleaning the floors.

It was a part time job,
I knew that intuitively.
I don’t mind house cleaning, heaven cleaning.
It’s calm work, kind of Zen.
Are we supposed to think of religions in heaven?

At first I scrubbed on my hands and knees.
The floors are soft in heaven, like golden gym mats.
Then I thought of it, and suddenly I had a swiffer-wet mop,
just like that - and the pad never wore out.

After a while, I had an iPod, and AirPods too.
Then a daiquiri - a banana daiquiri with a pastel rainbow umbrella.
They make rapturous daiquiris in the hereafter - they never run out.
‘Heavenly,’ I thought, snorting out a dizzy laugh.
.
.
Songs for this:
The River of Dreams Billy Joel
If the Lord Wasn't Walking By My Side by Elvis Presley

Fully cooked batter,
Sprinkle of half-baked sighs.
A recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Throw out the salt;
Add aged cheese,
A dollop of sugar,
A dash of chilies.

Don’t mention the sweat,
Nor the quiet cries.
Because
It’s the recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Serve the truth,
Or leave it dry.
Maybe a pinch of water,
But never a lie.

Driven by red
riding hood,
wheels of eternity run
hot and cold
along the tracks
in her arm.

Around the bend
there are jigsaw
pieces of a puzzle,
scattered as destinations
once towns and villages,
now fodder for
the migrant beginner.

According to fable,
there's a wolf at the door,
home is no longer
a worthwhile rendezvous,
but a trap of origin.

Misery is a train ride,
a stray fantasy,
lingering in the wilderness
of her fractured mind.

She sells her gold bracelets,
for she needs
the dark coal,
she seeks
its deep freeze.

She can then
be many things
along the journey,
just never
a connection,
never a permanent signal.

I'm really running
Tripping really
Slipping in the rain
Through any puddles
I can find
Keeping clouds above me
Whichever way they go
And wind in my face
Or on my back
As long as I can still feel
I can forget
I'm running out of time.

These halls seem somewhat hollow
A certain sense of sorrow
Now graces ancient stone.
Replacing familiar faces
With defaced family paintings
And cold ancestral bones.
Thrones thrown upon a pyre.
Fate becomes the folly
Tomorrow the unknown,
The brows of time are furrowed
Past spent, lost, or borrowed
Flowers forever bloom alone.
Rats, the last lords of ruin
Rule cruel shadows from the walls.
Twilight sighs at daylight's rise
All seems dark till darkness falls.