Since I've been writing, its been just great

Except for the one thing that I surely do hate

My family says that, I am speaking in rhyme

Not just right now, but all of the time

I can not simply, just ask for the juice

Without a poor imitation of the great Dr. Suess

But wait, on my site, there is prose, so you say

Oh, I was much younger when I wrote it that way

Help me, help me, tell me what can I do?

Surely this problem has happened to you

I just had a thought, not a thought, just a flicker

You could have answered, but I guess I was quicker

I'll think of a word that never can rhyme

And start using that word, all of the time

I know there's a word, I once heard from a fellow

I think it's a color but not red, blue, or yellow

I hope it's not pink, cause that would sure stink

I wish it was gray, I've been rhyming all day

I know you think orange, except that rhymes with sporange

And a mountain in Wales, that a poet named Blorenge

Until I stubbed my big toe, I used to think purple,

And now I can't walk, instead I just hirple

It sure would be gold if the color was silver

But that **** little lamb, also known as a chilver

There's no hope for me, I've been rhyming all month

I'm sure you can see, that I'm totally ??????

Yeah!

Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and
choose the sign of your day
The day’s divinity
First thing you see.
A vast radiant beach
in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by it’s quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the woolly cotton brains of infancy
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones
The time has come again
Choose now, they croon,
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake
Enter again the sweet forest
Enter the hot dream
Come with us
Everything is broken up and dances.

I stare into the shadows
and remember
the Panhandle dust
that made them,
fuzzy now,
around the edges.

The mural that somehow
felt sacred on fire
the tumbleweeds in your
eyes as they rolled to
look into the distance.

How the lightening
struck your hair and
left it white overnight,
and the way you clawed
to find the door to
anywhere
else...

I remember the trip home,
how the early spring wind
howled through the empty
windows, the necklace
around my neck
the cherry red
ball of vines
awaiting my return,
as if to say
yes, he was here,
but now he is gone...
and gone is what he is,
will always be,
but here,
here is a bite of me
to always remember
those tears that echoed
in silence.

7
You dance with me
While the wind gathers
In the portrait where you
Fix your hair in a bun,

Your back arched to the camera,
Your clothes on the floor
Where you dance with me
While the wind gathers.

You watch the sky
As you dance with me
While the gathering wind
Tears holes in the clouds.

We hear something final
In the gathering wind
Rushing through tall trees
As you dance with me.

Wherever you are
The wind gathers
While a dance goes on.
I still hear the music.

Layers of steamy pick ups,
rejoined a staggering crowd
behind the bar,
(who put that thought there?)
I partitioned that wall
for me to bump into,
as if it weren't there
just moments ago.

A shifting maze,
my mind,
it's labyrinth
ever changing,
rearranging,
scratching the interior
of my scull,
fingernails on chalk board
grind stone
against stone,
making my teeth
ache
until I,
I pull them one by one,
like red angry children
lined up for you.

I offer them to you,
without their fleshly clothes,
roots showing as a forest
of ivory trees,
wearing true colors
on bare bleached sleeve.

Ode to a Hen
A Prose by Corset

Just yesterday I contemplated
never to pick up a pen again,
then I realized,
In a different reality
I could be a hen,
and I began imagining life
as a chicken.

A huge **** would wake me
long before the frost burned off,
climb on my back
pull out my neck feathers
make me birth a football
every **** day,
only to have cold human hands
steal it away while it's warming,
frying up my unborn child
and having it for breakfast.

Inevitably, a fox will show up
during the dead of night and
steal my clucking sisters,
but never
the **** bird that wakes me
before the sun rise; and I
having no sleep at all;
will birth another football.

now, I feel better,

don't you?