watching everyone take off their head phones,
just to hear me, just to hear me.

on the corner of, crest and woodview,
you couldn't see me, but i was near you.

screaming at the top, of both of my lungs,
not much air left, it wouldn't matter.

feeling like that bell's, finally been rung,
no more laughter, only children's sadness.

   there's a court date coming,
    there's subpoenas in the mail,
      we can all just ignore it,
        but as soon as we will fail.
         there's a court date coming,
          there's subpoenas in the mail,
           this is something we should go to,
            or this world cannot prevail.

all my scars are from familiar places,
give it a name, and i will listen.

shootin' stars, ask for me to wish them,
i couldn't do it, to my discredit.

i'll exchange a book for your Walkman,
happy birthday, happy birthday.

from afar you will see smiling faces,
no more hiding, now you get it.

        


        december second at three forty two am, with 12 seconds...1988

he once said to me...

                 “I would blow warm
                         moist breath through
                                          your toes...
                           I would do all the
                  wonderful things
                to your big toes
                  that you do to me.
                      And most certainly
                         all the tension would  
                             drain onto me...
                               I would draw
                                every last drop
                               from your toes
                          with little messages
                         along the way of my
                      charted course
                         to come up
                      your inner channels.
        Resting in the sensitive eddies  
      behind your knees
  we both breathe fire
    wafting up and down
                         your thighs.”

.... like drips of seduction off his tongue.

And he lingered on, saying...

                   “Flaming lips wafting
             together with desire,
       reaching and pulling
          with firey licks.
       As I slide
   my wet tongue
    on up and hover,
           breathing
                     you in
                           deeply...
                           through my nostrils
                         filling my *** senses.
                       Drunk on your fumes,
                I'm consumed.
           Circling the tip
       of my nose
   around
your hard,
   pearly knot
       feeling the heat
             from your butterfly wings
            my parted lips surounding
          and easing the warmth
     of my soul onto you
with wet hot breath.
   And I ease the length
          of my tongue to rest
      completely over
    your fire breathing wings ,
               warm capable and ready..
                   leaving you in suspense.
                      Sliding ever so slightly
                           and slowly up your      
                              slick silky lips,
                     tightening the tip
                   of my tongue -
                      flick flick
                             flick flick...
             And I look deeply
           into your eyes,
                  into depths
                    you've never known.
                       And then I'll take you
                        all in, with a suction
                           you'll never escape
                             or ever want to.
      Never breaking eye contact
my tongue slides from bottom
        and presses, emphasis
         at the top slowly
        over and over
            settling you in.
                We fall into
                   a oneness
                        and find  
                        our groove.”

And I said...

“I wish I wasn't
still irritated with you
so I could fully
enjoy your seduction.”

TINY CLINGING CURLS

I remember you
looking almost

Audrey Hepburnish.

My big sister
& oh...that smile!

Touching my world
with the wonder of your

love.

We are Christmas -ing
the place

living in the candle's
glow

love
nothing but love

in almost slow motion.

The holly bites
your little finger.

I ****
the drop of blood

that grows
& grows

until it is
kissed better.

You laugh:
'Ah...my little saviour! '

and sigh with an almost
mock Victorian swoon.

Tiny curls cling
to the nape of your neck

like the tiniest
of tiny seahorses.      

We swim
in the sea

of our laughter.

The next Christmas
you were dead

lost to this
world

leaving me
alone

to mourn
you.

I...unable to
save you.

Now...all these years
later

(years you never knew)      

the holly
bites my little finger

& I **** it
quickly

tasting through
my tears

the sweet tang
of your blood

so alive
in my mouth.

{New, informative medical feature}
Question #1. How does food make it out my ***?
   --- Answer: The food you eat: grubs, worms, bees, hornets
or toads, plummets to the stomach where it gets swished
around & liquefied then, as slop, travels through your food
& **** pipes to eventually slurp out your ***.

   Q. #2. How can I get people to stop throwing rocks at me?
   --- A.: There are several blood types: A, B, AB & O.
Check w/the Red Cross to see if they'll pay you.

   Q. #3. Can I get v.d. from a bachelor?
   --- A.: No. I've never heard of anybody contracting v.d.
from a bachelor, least not in the good ol' U.S.A.

   Q. #4. Will Bob Hope never die?
   --- A.: The *******'s a 100 & can't last much longer.
   Update: the buzzard went belly up in 2003, praise be to Allah.

--- Throwing up is a part of growing up, & not just showing up...no whit, adv.: not at all; not in the least/nowness = n. the present moment...My dental extraction has put me in traction! Like a bag of mystery. Hooking in the mean streets of ***** City or ******* in the dangerous town of Hookerville or He was pretty elderly by the time he died but not so much so as to have his brain shrunk by Doctor Alzheimer's condition.

Why do you poison my food? Why do you ***, while standing on 1 foot? Why do you throw pies at me? Why is your mother Chinese? Why? You beat me with bull ropes. You whack me with oak planks. You love me. That's all that matters.

Hank enjoyed a continental lunch upon the rocks & pine needles whenst I says: “Pass the lima beans, ***-wipe” {similarly said to Ray gun}, but Hank was too drunk to budge & like a brownish cloud of farted gas bent ½-wise, he swayed & fell into the nerve-work of perpetuity, running north from a southerly direction. Corn flakes, pellets, kibbles & shredd'd wheat, on top of ceramic tile, cracked grout, tongue & groove flooring, wearing my black under-shirt w/pride, forming new, & I pray, & lasting friendships @ Pervert Park. I'm waiting for a truck so where is it? I'm alive & well w/nothing more important to do. Here comes one now: a stroke.