that trendy ******(e) addiction
becomes you- and your fiction

goes well with the pale
-skinned thin western booted
blue-eyed shooter
riding sidesaddle
on your scooter

does she kiss like me
and bring you coffee?

i could lay you both down
in the in-betweens
and make heaven-

til hell is heavy as a monday
track day in albuquerque
while she sells your jewelry
in sante fe where it's trendy

-i'll be waiting
on the blue mesa.

r ~  9/19/14

Isn't it magnificent,
That the purest of joy.
And the most evil of hate.
Are just combinations,
of the same thing

That every good deed,
and every bad.
Has been just a random mix,
of this set?

That every novel,
every conversation,
every poem.
Is just a pattern,
Within a limitation.

That giving thanks
and throwing a curse.
Are only seperated by
a special sequence.
Of the same letters.

Think how a change,
in the blueprints of words
Make them sharp as a knife.
Or warm as an embrace.

Everything is
made with only
26 letters

All I see is black and white and grey
And the ache of centuries
And all the white noise of humanity
Our hopes and dreams and fears
Unhappy
Lonely
Among the millions
Among the voices, drowning
Looking for meaning, for the raft
That will guide you back to shore
A shore of glass, beyond the grey infinity
Somewhere you belong
And the one you love most of all
Will come, and smile,
And take you by the hand
And lead you home.

It would have been the grandest thing~
had we wed then, and bore offspring.

And they'd have grown to call you Pop~
and ask you for advice, but STOP...

Instead, we have the quiet life~
without the nonsense and the strife.

Without the blessed little things~
that parenthood most often brings.

The homemade gift and bedtime prayer~
the hug and kiss that shows you care.

The baseball games, the prom and date~
the stern word when she comes in late.

The BBQ for all her friends~
and be there when her marriage ends.

A shoulder in the worst of storms~
advice not taken reaps the throrns!

Family life, with all the bliss~
Instead our paths have come to this...

Your tears well up, please don't be sad
From now on, Babe, I'll call you ' Dad'.

Happy  Non-Father's Day

clean hands
broken hearts                          
***** hands
a mended heart
how is that
right things happen at the wrong time and
wrong things happen at the right time?

silent symphony
no sense to vie

ants at industry
weave their entrancing working-sounds
in a world of giants

crunch, crunch.. on the gravel
our boots, swift
as walking to the chapel
some never quite
make it..


I'm an insect
who belongs not in
this world of giants


S T - 24 oction-roxion