In tenth grade myself and nine other students were sent to the principals office to be dealt with due to too many tardies.

As I waited for it to be my turn to give my excuse, I listened to the other excuses so as to make certain I didn't use the same one someone else used. The excuses were many
and lame.

Finally, I was next in line and the principal
Said in frustration, "No excuses are going to be sufficient unless it has to do with the torrential rains we've been having lately.

I had my excuse! I told him, well I had every intention to get to school early this morning. I woke up early and everything
was going according to plan without a hitch. Then, as Fate would have it, I turned the key in the ignition and the car wouldn't start. And it was due these torrential rains lately.

He asked, "What does your car not starting have to do with the rain?"

I said, "The **** thing must have been flooded!"

He laughed and excused me.

I was there within a lil tropic dale,
Marrow of one lil 'ol stealthy vale,
I hearkened of a grand titanic tale
'Midst two Midnighters loud speil.
The spat was pitiless & oh! strong;
Faint 1st was their spoken old song,
Then harsh as each bird had swelled,
To rage the strife away which dwelled.

The warbler led the great speech,
Easeful in a nook of a wide beech;
Perched on a pulchritudinous bough,
About her were burgeons florid now,
Utterly in a downy, substantial hedge,
Intertwisted with buds and new sedge.
Happier she was for having the sprays,
Sing she did for gladness in many ways.

Yet was there an old prong lying beside,
Wherefrom an old owl came and cried;
The branch w/ climbing vine overgrown,
And here this owl sojourned quite alone.
The warbler did after not so long  espied,
And looked upon her w/ confuted pride.
Many were her scoffings 2 the jejune owl,
For to the warbler was she loath'd & fowl.

The owl stayed in her place till eventide,
Not a moment more did she there abide,
So thrived her ***** with flowing wrath
That she could hardly even regain breath;
Say that I grasped thee in my sharp claw,-
Would that I may do so here in this shaw!
And thou wert torn from off your spray,
Then we shall see who sings a nights lay.

And with that... the warbler stole away.
To hang her shingle and head in shame.

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

      A penny for the Old Guy

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

      II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

      III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

      IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We ***** together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

      V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

I looked through their eyes,
I bled their blood fast,
I was their sacrifice too.

I believed in their lies,
that flowed like a flood past,
oh an all their "good" advice yeah true,

I heard their goodbyes,
an was dragged through the mud last,
an I lost my own "you",

Then there you were,
a wonderful change,
in the pattern of the weather,
an intoxicating scent wafts,
I see a bird with the SAME kind of feather,

I see-
my souls home flies,
in a soft lilac breeze,
on swift sweet vanilla skies,
it was then I knew for sure,
they must have heard,
my endless lovers cries.

Ma Cherie © 2017

I decay
The smell of my own rotting flesh,
Fills the stale air
Lips, that once graced softened skin are gone
Baring jagged teeth and exposed jaw bone
Ears, that so loved any melody,
Have long since turned to blackened jerky
I lay in this satin lined box,
Decaying,
My fingers, Are no more than fragments
of once workable things
Worms and maggots long ago,
devoured what little piece of heart you left me with
It's dark in here
And still
I don't rest