i spent some time alone with my friends
pondering the glitter of gold
and the clear-fire of night,
paying homage to the china,
by candlelight i dreamed
of shortcomings and how to:

wiping chalkboard, the teacher spins the disc,
while children laugh and throw stones,
their desks more comfortable than
the crucifix they all heard of somewhere.
A shrug and curt nod
as they drift back to longings for recess
or snack-time.
The little girl in the back knows
she has no milk money,
but will gladly trade for some.

That's all they really want

A whistle for the stride
or a poster for the wall.
All the adventurous boys sense this
choosing to pool resources
to achieve a common goal.
They pruned the cattle
and slaughtered the choicest
for their own.
Jealous, tyrannical lovers
thrusting themselves such as,
shamelessly.

My father used to take me fishing;
i can remember it clearly:
bleary eyed wakeups at 2:30 a.m.
after preparations late into
the night prior, the
smell of gasoline
as the outboard motor
sputtered to life,
its deafening roar as we
raced the sun along the
river's length.
The eery silence that followed.
Because we rarely talked.
We were fishing.
Dad loved largemouth bass,
red-breasted bream, catfish,
shell-*******, warmouth,
stump-knockers, and
whatever else.
i enjoyed fishing, too.
But we rarely talked.

Time moved on, and us with it.
And there was less time for
us to go fishing together.
Years passed, and i said
to myself, -i said it
very clearly, i did- i said,
self, we need to go fishing
soon.
There is at least one more big fish
out there that i am after.
i even mentioned it to my father.
Let's go soon, i said...
     -Yeah, that sounds good.-
but we both knew we wouldn't.

Time moved on, and us with it.
And there was less time for
us to go fishing together.

On the day of my father's funeral,
there were many surprised faces
upon my arrival.
They thought i had gone off fishing,
but i knew the river had run dry.

A thousand gods
under the cricket moons
couldn't even save one little bit...
     (salvation is the enemy of
      a violet world)
the same lame-*** gods
that made us educated
and civilized.

Why not a cosmic birdbath
or eternal blissful garden
that happy children frolic
in amongst springy damp
Bermuda grass and Birch
trees that shine like a
trillion flawless diamonds,
almost as beautiful, at dawn
when lightly frosted?

Regardless,
days like these i wake up
full of vigor, dreamy-eyed,
complacent, full of longing,
but still glad our gods
are dead.

i have no right to have feelings.
i tried to smuggle them past the
checkpoints, metal detectors and such,
but i was foiled, tarred and feathered.
A big ******* chicken.  Awesome.

If i had feelings, i would have no right
to allow them to be hurt.
I am the giver of hurt, not the receiver.
Things are not hurtful to me, for i have asked for them
and knew what i asked.  Happy Days.

i should not discuss feelings i don't have
or hurt i don't feel with anyone,
for any reason, because i have no reason.
i should be grateful to be stoic
and rejoice in the fruits of my labors.

When or if i cry, it is only because
there is something in my eye, a
speck of sand or something like it.
Merely a body's natural cleansing
action, a normal automatic response.

i don't feel alone when i cry.
besides, i chose to be alone, that
is why i walked away in the first place.
Isn't it?