Have you found a Saviour;
One to emulate,
Then denegrate,
Whip and crown and tree?
Then turn, and say,
It wasn't me.

Would I have seen the god-like qualities,
Listen to the sermons,
Eat the fish and bread,
Drink the watery wine?
Would he raise me from the dead?
Could my feet fit the prints
On the sands of Galilee.
Would he admonish me
For having two coats,
Finishing my smoke
With one straw in my coke?

I have found my Saviour.
His name is Xavier.

I have lost my youth's Saints.
They no longer march
For knees bent in supplication.
I prayed to St. Jude
To replace my loses,
Only to lose faith.

I miss ghost stories too.
Haven't heard a hair raiser
Since a generation of palliative patients
Made it to the canopy.

Ogres and Trolls are out
From the closet and
Beneath the bed.
Drains, culls and bridges
Are safe from snatches.

No. We are on our own
As we age in our tactile
Vicarious world.
We pick up the threads
Of old stories,
Collect the pages blowing
Down the road,
And believe the tales
In daily news of ****,
Carnage and be-headings.
Nothing too ethereal,
Spiritual or scary,
Just life
As we shouldn't know it.

I have tasted human flesh
From the oven of
Lips and tongue;
Dripping well-dressed
In savory sauce,
To stir me to feast on.

In fathoms
Between my flannel sheets,
There's no better place
To sleep;
But then I turn my blanket on,
Level Two
Is snug and warm.
Envelope-like we interlope,
Entwine and grind,
And grasp and *****,
Giving me rising hope,
This tug's gonna stay afloat.

Up now. Rise. Up periscope!

Dive. Dive!

Beneath waves and swirls,
Beneath flannel caps
To chests of pearls,
Now deeper,
Where life unfurls.

Our raging flannel
Seas
Grow calm;
And in the quiet,
After the storm,
We lie on
Our bedded sea,
My first mate sighs:
*I have to ***.

I hear myself talk
In parenthetical echos
From your downward eyes
While you text
Someone absent,
Yet closer than I;
I hear myself grow silent
As you smile,
Then look up,
Surprised I'm here.

The bell has been rung,
The grounds are teeming
With bullies scheming,
Lying, stealing and cheating.
Using bravado and blame
In the selection game.

It's up to the masses.
Make a decision,
One way or the other;
But the outcome's the same,
When the bells ring again.

I knew her when
She learned her letters;
She liked me too.

We shared a tent;
Followed the sparks fading in the full moon's face.
Draped water over our skins at midnight.

She bickered with her mother,
Whom she mothered today.

She once had a mole
Only we two knew.

I knew her then.
That's the fact of it.

She rebelled,
Then surpassed naysayers and detractors.
I knew her, then.
Got to know her at her best-
A sharer, and keeper,
One who wasn't one to rest.

I knew her without discretion;
Like when she partied at Mardi Gras,
Wearing string-beads, blowing saxes,
Something she never spoke of.

Then, this cannot be her.
I knew her, and,
I didn't know.

I knew her before
She coloured her hair.
She'd wash and brush,
With a simple part down the middle.
I remember it falling silently over
Her shoulder blades, down her back.
It always looked like that,
After a full day at the lake.

And I knew her before
She used cosmetics
The way they're used this day.
Her cheeks glowed with youth,
Her brows arched like shorelines;
Lashes balanced droplets
Over rushing ruby lips.

I knew her to play tennis,
To swim, run,
To laugh and be fun.

I knew her
With lights on,
At dusk and at dawn.
I knew her for long.
I knew her so long.

The young who wizen
Leave me grieving until my breathing stops.
For  many years I wallowed
With old photos.
One of Jim sporting a cast,
Holding court with a circle of friends
In the  damp cement cellar.
No more lines to flip,
No visages to make us laugh.

I used to hear his favourite tunes
Coming from his room.
Your's is a great loss,
A terrible trouble.
At sixteen we knew he was
A young Methuselah:
Green on the vine,
Unaged wine, a bitter pill.


Dying, dying, dying.

To love him was to leave him
In his last dark hours.
No brother could do more.
I feel the soft parting touch of his warm hand
After so many years.
And you, bold , and shy of seventeen,
You wrote, and I saved it, unexpectedly:
     “Peacocks dabbling through the wind
      Were the spectrum of her eyes.”
I knew I'd use it someday.
Today.

Outside is calm,
The shrieks have ceased;
The sounds of laughter
Left our streets.
The chalk lines faded
Like summer tans,
The derelict castles
Lie in the sand.
The swings sit still,
The splash downs vacant,
The parents have gladly abdicated,
Relinquished reins and riding crops,
The mowers, rakes and garden tools;
For the kids are finally back at school.

I ripped the curtains
Off the window,
Tore the carpet
Off the floor,
I kow what I am looking for.

I emptied cupboards
And sideboards,
Cleaned out the basement,
Checked my stores,
I know what I am looking for.

I searched the attic
And the shed,
Was it all
Just in my head?
I hear you,
Feel you,
Know you're here;
I know what I am looking for.
Yet Poe's one word keeps haunting me:
*Nevermore.

You know you shouldn't ask that question.
You know you force me into a lie;
And in the middle of my patent answer,
You cry.

You know I couldn't be mistaken.
You know I try to see your surprise;
But before I can finish my lie,
You cry.

There doesn't seem to be any escape.
We act together with little debate;
But the answer is always the same,
I lie.

I took the pen with me,
After signing the parlor guest book,
At the Home.

You might think of forgiving me,
Thinking as good people do,
I took it as a memorial sticking point;
But I didn't know the deceased.

I was acting as a devout escort,
To be seen as doing the right thing.
Perception, you've been told,
Is everything.

So, I made sure no one saw me
Take the pen.

For extra insurance,
To project my semblance,
Following the eulogies,
I attended the luncheon,
And ate salmon sandwiches,
And carrot sticks.
On leaving, I grasped the hands:
Sorry for your troubles;
Came home and used that pen,
To create this.
The End.

The Vortex has bolted;
The Express left;
The sun, moon and stars
Conspire in the sky
In imitation of Spring,
Before the final plunge.

Then, the Red-winged,
Red-breasted and
Yellow-footed featheries
Will nest and roost
Where I don't want them.

The droppings of winter
Are exposed;
Last Fall's leafy refuge
Upbraid me;
Winter's cover
Is pulled back,
The slumber ends.

I am compelled
To join the festival,
Buy gasoline
For Spring's toys.
I will,
Perhaps,
Be calm
By November.

The taller you are,
The longer it takes to sink
In this quagmire.
Reach down,
Extend me your hand,
So I can throw you a rope
From solid ground.

I love the Seasons:
The luminescent sproutings,
The melt, the harlequin winds
And knee-deep sun.
I'm not in love with the Seasons.

I love the Beach:
The watusi to the shore
Where foreign waves
Lapdance my tired feet.
I'm not in love with the Beach.

I love a BBQ:
The fingered smells
In my nose,
The breaking of bread,
The leaning laughing heads,
The icy throats, and ants.
I'm not in love with BBQ's.

I love a Concert:
The M & M  crowd,
The swarm of fireflies waving,
The ka-boom,
The expectant memories.
I'm not in love with a Concert.

I love a good Ride
That parts my hair,
Pushes my cheeks, nut-like
As my Shadow drags the median.
I'm not in love with a good Ride.

I love the Holidays,
Wrapped and bound.
The gathering storm;
The smell of wax and cold mail
Of cards that say little,
But mean everything.
I'm not in love with the Holidays.

I love my House,
Every web and peel,
Dripping faucet and warm fire.
I love the honey-do list.
I'm not in love with my House.

You, I love for all the wrong reasons.

Our world is in a mess.
There is no denying.
I send money so people can help.
I love doing that.
There are wars.
People getting hurt on all sides of our polygon,
They're dying in all manner of ways.
I love the way people will fight for their convictions,
Fight till death if need be,
For FREEDOM, LIBERTY, HAPPINESS.
I love that.
I love people in detention for their beliefs,
Their faith, hope and determination.
I know what bog schools are, penal laws, Black and Tans.
(I also know about cages, Jim Crowe, and Proud Boys).
I love their tenacity. I love their lives. They matter.
I love their politics, their altruism; the really giving of oneself,
To serve one's nation. To truly love one's country.
For these reasons,
I love Sleepy Joe.
He gives so gracefully.
Sacrifices the remainder of his life for his country,
His people, His family.
I love how the Tyrant will collapse,
Feeling betrayed, mocked, humiliated, parodied,
Jeered at, ostracized for his megalomania.
A shower will never wash away the
Odor breathed among his consorts.
Brushing will not diminish the Trump taste, the rot in your mouth.
I love Aristotle's Poetics, The Wheel of Fortuna, The Great Chain of Being, and the cathartic effects of tragedy.
I Love Life.

I am a cliche poet.
I compare most of your parts
To the cosmos;
I refer to love as immortal,
The soul as ethereal,
The spirit as bird-like,
Death as a cave, surely dark and lonely,
And nature has a magnificient part
With all its pathetic fallacies,
Sunrises, sunsets, tides.
I once compared a man's legs
To an aerial roadmap,
And a ***** to a bull frog
In the Savanah.
O, the crosses I've borne to explain saying
I love you
Without sounding trite.
I may resort to prose
And dress up the poetric mantra.

Between icy snows
And harlequin trees,
The flowers colour
Our Spring;
Summer's ripening sun
And shade
Fades like
September tans.
Then December sets in.

I'm so tired of Winter,
I'm afraid of Spring.

I'm a molten mess
Of emotion
Flowing in
My core.
I'm girthed
With waves
Of passion
That heat up
When you're near.
My skin quakes
With your breath,
I'll orbit til
We finally touch,
Erupting
In cold sweat.

I'm not out to deceive,
But will you believe,
Sight unseen,
I've a million
In my front pockets.
You don't have a reason?
I'm not gentry,
I'm not young,
I'm only one
Of several sons.
I've not got designers on.
Oh, you've heard of me,
But we've not crossed paths.
I'm a stranger.
Could you believe
In my innocence.
So many do,
And shouldn't I
Believe in you.

Two brains, eyes, ears and lungs,
Two feet, legs, arms and hands;
Ten toes and fingers,
Two kidneys too,
And teeth to spare,
Still countless are my thinning hairs.
I'm ready for the deluge,
I'm a walking ark.

And why not two souls too.

If I had two souls,
I know what I would do;
Like Dorian, I'd degenerate.
Let one be ****** eternally,
The other gets Paradise.
The odds are in my favor,
I'm rolling dotless dice.

And two hearts would do.

If I could have two hearts,
How'd I be today?
One could be broken,
One stay whole,
Not to be given away.
Yet my outcome
Would be the same;
A thousand hearts won't do.

What you perceived
When I deceived
Was symtomatic
Of my disease.
What other reason
Had you for leaving?

We made promises
When first out,
To be one
In sickness,
Or in health.

It's clear to me,
I've been deceived,
Now that you're
Found out.

You've probably never heard of Lough Egish.
I'm not surprised.
The gene pool there, swirling near the mill,
For centuries,
Produced a multitude of survivors
From famine, Cromwell,
And seven hundred years of ethnic cleansing.
Then, sixty-one years ago today,
Me.

My use of personal pronouns
Puts me in my poem;
I can roll a rock with Sisyphus,
Be in a ceiling flame in Rome.

I can bring you back to life,
Sharing tales and tea;
Sitting there before my fire,
For all eternity.

I go marauding with Attila,
Walk with Neil Armstrong,
Fly high with Amelia,
Be a Beatle with my song.

My pronouns give me presence
In my lover's residence;
I'm just a specter she can't see;
A spirit roaming outside of me.

I can jot an I with you,
I could pen an our;
But that's just ink on my notebook,
Not as sweet as sour.

I can use my pronouns
To put you in my verse;
And then I lay my pen down,
I'm cursed, but none the worse.
You're just poetry to me.

I met this girl
Who couldn't speak,
But signed
And sighed she loved me.

I met this girl
With discerning taste,
Who held the virtue
Of human grace.

I met this girl
Who couldn't hear,
But felt me beat,
And knows my tears.

I met this girl
Who had the touch,
She wasn't one
To demand so much.

I met this girl
Who couldn't see,
Perhaps that's why
She's in love with me.

I enjoy the snow,
Looking from the window.

I applaud the speakers,
Listening to my radio.

I get excited watching sports,
Calling plays from my armchair.

I feel the strain of athletes
At the Olympic trials,
Cheering from the side.

I don't cast my vote by proxy.
I am present, and I am toxic.

How do I say
In three words,
*I Miss You?

I miss you
Like a toothache
Needing extracting.
To think I once loved you
Who filled a cavity.

I miss you
Like a broken leg.
Now cast off,
I rise and walk.

I miss you
Like a scab,
But the scar
Reminds me
How cruel a cut
You are.

Above zero
In the Siberian Express,
The Arctic Vortex
Is slipping up.
I see cement,
A welcome event.
Winter birds
Are chirping
In the early light
Of morn,
And crows
With knowing caws,
Converse from dusk
Til dawn.
The squirrels are leaner now,
Looking for old nuts,
Like me,
When I begin to think
These imitations of Spring
Might blunt winter's sting.

Turn on.* He preached,
A psychodelic mantra.

Turn off, I rejoin.
Recharge your battery.
Hear the place.
Don't skip out.

Tune in,
That's what he proclaimed,
Like a hallelujah chorus.

Tune out, I respond.
Extract the buds, and smell the flowers.

Drop out, his litany ended.
Alone, or with drop outs?
Distances and depths vary.
But his voice carried.

Drop by, I invite. Stay awhile.
Have a cup of Yorkshire Gold,
And walk in the garden,
With me.

What's not to enjoy
Being alone,
Unshaved, slippered,
With kettle on.
Outside, the elements,
And all that's with us,
Continue on.
I'll rejoin.
For now,
With self and tea,
I'm me.

I feel most alive
Walking and gawking
In a graveyard.

I'm beside myself,
What can I do?
Having an OBE
Because of you.

I'm next to an idiot,
The blame lies with you;
Like an NDE,
I'm leaving you.

Is this a dream?
My life's askew;
I'm not what I seem
Because of you.

My body of bliss
Roams looking for you;
My love for you made
An astral breakthrough.

I'm on a spiritual walk
On a plane that's new;
This plane will crack
If I'm snapped back to you.

A paranormal snafu
That won't do;
But I'll return
When my body's near you.

Isn't it easy to write during these times,
And difficult to write on these times,
Without ripping off figurative comparisons.

I want to use wasteland
But I'd be the one compared,
And that won't work. That's not my intent.
Besides, Townsend and T.S. worked it.

There are the platinum choices
Like Satan, Lucifer, or Legionnaire.
But Milton has his scent all over these,
And the Bible invented them.

Those times.
These times.

Apocalypse, or any version thereof,
Would surely bring Brando to mind,
And Kurtz's heart of darkness.

There are inspiring descriptors like,
Cataclysm, devastation and destruction.
Well-represented in cinema
Since Birth of a Nation.
Now there's irony.

As much as Holocaust would be perfect to plagiarize,
I, nor anyone else, should ever attempt,
(And it would be a vain glory attempt at best)
To use this singular word
In an analogy for anything, ever again.
Ever!
Unless absolutely necessary.
Unless someone we know gets stupid.
Then more stupid.
Then stupider.
Then most stupid.
And finally,
Not with a whimper, but a bang.
I falter.
Not exactly plagiarism is it?
Shouldn't be repeated either.

I've had a better life
Than a squirrel.
Ask anybody.
But looking out,
I'm envious of that
Mite invested, bushy-tailed one,
Fleeing up my tree.

I'm not adverse
To your discourse,
Your lines
On aches and longings.
Am I remiss
To dismiss
Your lonely poems
On dying?
You're killing me.

I'm not anti-gay;
I enjoin their parades.

I'm not anti-lesbian;
In truth,
I'm in love with them.

I'm not anti-trannie;
I'm Granda not Granny.

I'm not anti-bi;
But still I won't try.

I'm not a misogynist;
Though I use  the word chick.

I'm not Questioning,
Anyone.

I'm Pro-Life,
And Pro-Choice.
A singular voice.

Take it easy.
I've foibles
Shared by
The race.

From room to room,
Cellar to attic,
Patio to garage,
And all about my yard
I roam,
Thinking about my
Time alone.
I never counted brick or stone,
Not until the kids had grown,
And you outgrew me.

In childhood, space was a rarity,
Two to a bed,
Four to a room,
One toilet, bathtub,
Sink and baby.
“Life your **** so I can ***!”
Was a brother's common plea,
And often splashed on me.

First downstairs
Would get the toaster,
A two slice, two door
Open, closer.
On the counter rose
A column of bread,
Jam and peanut butter spread.
Last one down to the table
Got the heels,
And fed the baby.

Before we went upstairs to dress
We'd turn our **** to open flames,
Warm our cheeks, rub our frames,
And then clean up our mess.

We never walked to school in ones,
The Lynch mob travelled
As a throng;
Spilling from sidewalk to grass,
Singing silly songs.
On-comers found it difficult
To pass through such a gang,
We weren't rude,
No cuss, no fuss,
There was just
So many of us,
We had no room for more,
And Mammy started labor.

So, this empty house
I find I'm in
With every creak
With every wind,
Reminds me of
My crowded youth..
Yes, I'm not unhappy
To be alone,
And welcome visitors
To my home.

You've always said:
You told me that already.
You're repeating yourself too much.
Have you early stages of dementia?
And yet, you want to hear,
I love you, everyday.

When the wind
Shouts down the leafs,
I hear.

If clouds mass
In formation,
I see.

As the ground
Rolls its fat,
I feel.

Should the rain
Reach my lips,
I taste.

After  bees
Give birth to scents,
I smell.

Near you,
I'm senseless.

I have stared
Far too long
At this blank page.
I've come to the hard realization,
Like a refugee raft,
This poem won't write herself.

Not so sly as they are:
spent,
wasted,
burned out,
depleted,
beat,
petered,
done for,
empty,
sick of,
enervated,
******,
stale,
exasperated,
fatigued,
drained,
bored,
fed up,
worn,
haggard,
flagging,
narcoleptic,
weary,
feeble,
debilita­ted,
incapacitated,
indisposed,
torpefied,
paralysed,
atrophied,
stupefied,
soporate,
obtuse,
And
Finished.

When the son-in-law
(who should remain nameless)
Is a clone
Of the father-in-law,
(whom should also remain nameless),
The son-in-law
Lies in an incestuous bed,
And the father-in-law
Gets a vicarious jump
On the wing
(the west one)

My heart's distressed,
Emotions vexed,
Images can't escape.
I'm perplexed,
My text is hexed,
I can't explain
What I feel.

My hands are dyslexic,
I'm swirled in the vortex
Of unwritten lines to read.
The words are trapped,
My message is clapped
In perceptions
That can't be freed.

I try to release them,
Catch and cage them,
And arrange with diversity;
Then in a while,
And using guile,
I'll fashion
Some fine poetry.
(Such is the state
Of me).

I've heard the quip,
I've been advised:
Just write how you feel.
For me,
That's blathering,
Bothersome nattering,
Void of poetic appeal.

I need a someone,
Like an Anne Sullivan,
To teach me how
To feel;
Not with sentience,
But rather with senses,
Alive,
And writhing in me.

Da never bought a froggy pool;
We weren't friends like friends in school;
We never played til we showered naked.
We didn't hike and shoot the breeze,
Nor dump or **** behind the trees.
We never hit the links together,
And relieved ourselves in St. Andrew's heather.
We never streaked sorority dorms,
Or stood bare-assed in a storm.
We never stood shoulder to shoulder,
At urinals for a sneak peak over.
Swimming wasn't a thing for Da,
So we never swam in the raw.
And Da was never one to flash.

Near the end he couldn't wash,
I never gave a bed-sponge-bath;
But Clean my teeth, was what he asked.
Let me bring this to a close,
Da was always donned in clothes.
I never saw my old man's ****.
And that's the long and short of it.

I bought a ticket
For a friend;
Do I really
Want him to win.
     Is this what one
     Calls a sin?
     Venial, mortal,

Let's crank it up a notch.
Let's involve the cops,
Or the color of your skin.
     Is this what one
     Calls sin?
     Cardinal, deadly.

Let's raise the ante.
Say you're near the body
Lying on the floor,
The evidence is clear,
You're the next of kin.
     Is this what one
     Calls sin?

Wherein is the sin?

My friend kept all the winnings.
Cops are on the take.
Our brother's in the gutter,
Our confession came too late.
Our sins are mere mistakes:
At worst call me ingrate.

I'm wading
Through it;
Up to
My eyeballs.
I can't run,
Barely crawl;
I'll submerge
If I fall
Into the alphabet.
I can't stand,
I won't sit;
There's nothing
Left,
But
To write
It.