Elsie was a stubborn girl a willful thing at first
I watched her grow. My sister's daughter
My niece if you will

She had a way about her even then but time would carry change.
Today I can not place a moment .
something brought a change.

Elsie was an angry child.
She was meddlesome and vile.
She kept a vault
hidden. Deep.

Putrid and unkind roiled
about. An ugly distortion.
Why to this day.
Muted. Slithering.

An only child she loved her solitude.
sitting calmly with her hands folded
drifting to far off places with eyes
as hollow as a rotting stump
fallen long past. withered
weathered.

Elsie walked into the woods one day
seeking solitude. forlorn and forgotten.
A bird sang in the distance.
Elsie heard the song.
Now I am old and tired.

I have done all that was required.
made my mark however small
still and always through it all
I hear the mocking songbirds call


Elsie wonders there abouts
as nights grow cold
She still has not found home.
She will one day
no doubt.
dreams come
and go.
They
Tell
Me
So.

The Pool Players.
Seven at the Golden shovel.


We real cool We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight.We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

when I was a little boy I was joyful and evident. I am still joyful and evident however, the evidence of my pronounced outspoken ways. Has been a stumbling block of   missed opportunities. The passing over or the raised eyebrow or dead fish stare.

Just say it . brush it up a bit and say it. Thats me talking to me now when the moment of truth arrives.  And the fit hits shan almost every time. The definition of diplomacy has been redone. It is dishonest.

This topic is near and dear so let me ask you the reader
I just want to take the pulse or check the reflexes.
Ladies and gentlemen. Step right up step right up.
Little closer now dont let the smell of formaldehyde turn you aside.

This is something that goes on.
The government thinks it has a right.to.

1.Tax you while you live.

2. Levy a an exit tax when you croak. How is that for a sick joke.
This is just an observation, a point of fact.
Ever been to an Irish wake.
Ther's drinking and singing
Tall tales abound as the guest of honor poses ashen and.stil.

A drink is on standby. As a test of his will.

Here's a wee snort for you laddie just reach up and knock this one back


And sing us a shanty or a sad mournfull tune .


You say what?. Yeah that's a shell game where the rules change
Like I change underwear. Now that I pulled you leaches of my sack.
Hey come back we want more.

I feel you slipping away my love
when the night is cold and still.
When the years rush in and  stand  quietly by my bedroom door,
quiet and mute with sorrowful eyes with shoulders drooped in resignation.

I feel you slipping away my love as I sit here.
As the reality glimmers through and shines upon this page,
the silent rage  now unspoken for want of reason or assignment.
Broken and wasted like a crystal vase with roses strewn across the floor.

I feel you slipping away my love as I grasp feebly at the strings of the beautiful bouquet
that  rises just beyond comprehension and wafts gently on the summer night
to lite tattered and unwilling in far places unseen by our desires.

Embers  softly glowing and now knowing the end has now begun.
Years upon years of clawing at our fears that this was not to be.
A blazing fire dowsed with strife and ire ,no air to stoke the flame.
No time to play the game.  All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl.

I cry quietly in the glow of poor reason. I feel you slipping away my love.
I feel us slipping away now and forever. The shell does just as well to crumble.

A castaway sits on the sandy shore knowing full well that rescue will find
his molding husk frozen in time and empty  in the continuum. His  bones bleached past.
The grinning mask of irony and  frozen regret.

My love our reach exceeded  our grasp but youthful willfulness and hope was the rope.
The rope that we clung to and weathered  the battering breezes as we closed our eyes
to reason after all love will find a way ?.Even love was not enough, but we knew deep down.

I feel you slipping now with eyes wide open.
We watch  as the chasm widens and shrug our shoulders.
Calloused hands tired of trying now. Weary eyes dry from crying now.
willfully stuck and  denying now. I feel you pull away.

I will wonder the desert parched with regret of this I have no doubt.
But deep down I knew this. Hoping against hope. still.
There will be no other to take your place. Who could?.

We gave hope it's chance.
Once we did dance.
Life became duty.
We fought off the wolves.
We turned. We forgot.
We grew apart while joined at the hip.
How funny.
How sad.
Duty bound as love unwound.
No us time.

I feel you slipping, slipping.
Goodbye.
My.
Love.

I decree all to my wistful ways opinionated nature to my son,
My daughter owns my intellectual curiosity as well as my talking hands.

I freely give my physical verve to my boy. He is pure suddenness
a surging charge running with a  Tesla-like crackle a dancing light.
No concept of impact surging where he wills.

My daughter will negotiate,convince or wait with the patience of
a possum still and disinterested.

will they find me in the strands.
Maybe.

I will echo non the less my existence will hold a place.
my blood will flow and claim.My sinews will carry
til they mix or marry another feature int the rope. To mingle.

who will I become then. will I lead or follow.
every one from son to  son from daughter to daughter.
from time to time I will speak but not with this voice.

Evolution.

Creation

Some sort of intervention.                                          Some science

I cant write tonite  cause my head is out on leave. This is sooooo not like me.
But guess what this is a launch pad for me.Numbles I call it. My ***** it place where lazy minded magic happens. unfocused to absurdity. Oozy woozy just say what you wanna say. My mother hates that part of me but at my age what will change. No harm ,no foul.

My mother is eighty nine and still molding me. Man if she only knew the holes I have crawled in and out of Like the March Hare always running late. A day late and a dollar short.  *******. Back in the day. Pre crack but just barely. Saw the beginnings of the demise of dignity. kneeling down in dark alleys and between parked cars in blazing sun. Was not about to try that one. My nose was  an Oreck. That was fly enough for me.

Bright lites big city going through my head. I don't care cause you don't care.
I built myself a edge by hanging round Poco Locos, mind you round not with. Playing Russian roulette mad ******* mad dogs. Clowning With hard heads with nothing to lose. Those guys taught me not to blink by osmosis.

I didn't think I was tough just committed. Riding that diesel till the wheels came off.
Something behind my eyes I think or maybe something missing from them . More than a few Ride or die types just didn't trust what they saw. Man was I stupid.

To this day I cant say what it is . Pound for pound big guys would turn around. The exquisite buzz of hard liquor came trundling out of my mouth in seething cold poetry and they became less than nothing in the moment. Spontaneous malevolence. It was gonna happen for good or ill. Cats would look at me and do Chinese algebra. I could hear the abacus click. Maybe I wasn't worth the hassle. Maybe.

Dude I am five foot six never topped 200 lbs.
Dad never showed. I still love him. I look in the glass and he looks right back at me.
Only heard he was an oddity. Guess I garner it honestly.

Lucky in cards. Unlucky in love. I cant play cards it never interested me.
Love on the other hand. Nothing but sevens. I would not insult myself by claiming to have game. I think women liked my honesty. Honestly .If I cant say it without looking up and to the left then it aint worth the air. Besides I would rather you get your cookies off first and last. Just save me a nibble or two.

Mine eyes have seen the gory .
Wrong place. wrong time.Like moth to flame.
Oratory and pure abandon have kept me upright.
Lotta dumb luck too. Lots.

A small number of women are standing still where I left them.stricken in amber.
In my youthful irreverence . In my minds eye a tear.In my minds eye.
What would have been. I was to blame. Of that I have no doubt.

See. this is where the Numbles crumbles.
I scoop from the bottom and bring up the dregs.
Pretty soon the tale sprouts legs.
See Ya.

What is the thing in us who love to pluck the strings of our imaginations
and try to create resonance with the words that float to the page. To create something from the
nothingness .
We paint our pictures in tortured hues or opaque clutters of expression. At times the palate will surprise even we who mix and stir and strive to find a unique shade or texture. We trawl and dredge and send up pretty balloons  in hopes they will return with answers. Well I do

I am odd in that regard. I think all who strive to express , to be heard, to hear to see to grasp and
be ambushed by sudden revaluation. To make sense of it all. to look deep within and waft on the wind at once are kin.

What is it for you?
To wash away pain.
To turn your face to the pelting rain and feel the value of your existence.

What is it for you?
To say the things your mouth cannot express, untie your fettered tongue.
Do you dream in color.
Does  your poets voice speak to you in hushed tranquil tones
or rumble and stutter or whisper softly from dank and dusty places.

What is it for You.
A way out of your suppression if not expression.
The rubbing of a soothing salve over the aches and pains endured.
The betrayal acknowledged. The Key finding purchase in the  rusted lock. The key falling from your hands in the pitch dark once again as you wake up and find yet another door to open.

What is it for you. For me it is validation that my mind is unique as the neurons fire and
speak a language spoken not by many. We are seekers. You and I.
I do not fit the profile. I am rough and hard  my facade has bonded with my skin. But look within. I am bookish and brutal.Loving and glacial. Witty but slow. Volatile but pensive . A walking talking conundrum. I do it just to **** withum.

Why do you love poetry.
What leaks out of you mind.
What goes in.
What is it ?


.

Do you go to service. why?
Maybe someone drags you in for your salvation or some such.

What do you believe. I have long released that process as a constant.
Like anything else on this plane. somebody gotta lose for someone else to gain.
Yes that is a bit wooden.
A bit cynical.

Do you feel the spirit as you enter.
What does that feel like and do you agree with all you hear and see.

What do you believe.Is the person up there speaking to you?
Do you take it all in.Or are you sight seeing. I do.
The backs of peoples heads are like monoliths.

Their faces are like masks. Not all but most.
Doubting Thomas in the pews.

The casket sits on display. It beckons and forbids.
The slow procession to absolution.
The occupant sleeps peacefully.
A shell.
Heaven or Hell.

The solemn drone. The Joyous noise.
The shrill and sweaty face of Fire and brimstone.
The call and response.
The well oiled ,stiff proceedings.
what do you believe.

Maybe you draw the lottery on Saturday
The Lord is our Sheppard. We shall not want.
Blasphemy you say.
No I am a believer.

I believe that we are.
For now and a wisp forever after.
A daunting prospect. But who knows. Faith.

The pews have been the uprising and the downfalling of many
Freedom or indoctrination
Left to our own devices. Hell's door agape.
a fertile mind, weak and troubled will gently lite on the word
then draw sustenance
for good
For ill.

The gates that lead to destruction are wide
and broad is the way.
The pews are narrow and finite.You will find me there
from time to time.  

.

I had Joe Willie from jump. The Jets were off the chain
Baltimore benched Johnny U cause he knew the game. And played it too.

The AFL was full of bells and whistles.Speed kills
Three yards and a cloud of dust. Get real coach. We shootin rockets to da moon. High tops . Cmon pops.

Change the guard.
Them people ain't done nothing to me said Ali.
Da Nang ain't my thang.  He was the greatest. Still is.

The Haight was great.  Oh yeah Kent STATE.
1968. Open the gate to the house of the rising sun.
Joplin. And Jimmy. Marvin and Tammy.

The Doors and Hair. ****** in the air
What rhymes with Agent Orange...... Nothing.

The spider is a weaver
The magical deciever
It lays a snare atop the air.                Come little ones.   A treat awaits.

The pied piper plays a tune
He spins a a lovely guise
He catches children never flies.          Come little ones.  A treat awaits.

The politician on the stump
Puts the spin in his ragged tale
To win the minds and snare.              Come little one. Atreat awaits.

When I am in the company of women I strive to hold the beauty of the
Moment.

When I am in the sphere of femenin my senses lenghten just to hold the substance the
Moment

When I look a woman in the eyes ,the value of the
Moment

When I draw near a woman, no matter age or vlsion. Still the
Moment

The moment. Lends me certainty. Oh nothing wrests my certainty
That fragile strong or otherwise
My very sbstance was derived from the culling of the
Moment.

I gave my love a golden ring and gave my heart away as well the story of I now must tell.
What piercing love to which I fell,struck through the heart so fatal

I gave my love the inner self ,the one kept high up on the shelf and blew the gathered dust away. Struck through and through so fatal

In turn my darling gave to me a promise.
She gave an empty promise.

She handed me fragile vase with emptiness inside.a crystal lie so lovely but void of heart or soul.

I gave my love my sad goodbyes.
I gave my love the air.
Not fair I cried .
Not fair I cried. And withered deep inside.