Faithful Sultry less
bleeding gone to die.
Toothy advice sense
take chase child in lie
to win favor from Mom,
Dad and narrow eye.
Fatty truth rubs
beneath a morsel joke,
beating bushy retreat
into a sheep's cloak.
Wrath swearing against
old, Sultry and three,
false age and stiff tail
boar honest friend's free.

This is it;
the deepest I can fathom,
the fastest I can light
the flying arrow quick
released from not
so sure cocked
finger.

This is it;
the flattest I can color
the plainest I can reek
thru silicon weaving
densely threaded cloth
fibered shirt,
insignia emblazon
on Polo front
pocket.

This is IT;
the peak,
the twin peaks.
The n-peaks?

I realize
the game continues
and IT sets to zero,
derivatized as partial
IT-equations, is easier
to solve.

Time is curved
spaciously along
pushed strings

Curvature
constrained by
thickness of
stringy ropes

A bang splits
point-like to
cooling forces
beyond spontaneity

Membrane rupture
prevented only by
seeding of
life within bilayers

Weak and Strong
forced together
again by surface
surfactants

Should it be Blond straw Cafuné
Or fiery Auburn silk
interdigitated;
Slender twine prehensively Black
On hip Chestnut rope
fingered?

Lost and alone my thoughts fall
through seas of doubt and apprehension.
I pace across desolate hall
wanting to fill vacant chambers with fruition
And yet lacking a quick tongue
to woo my siren who walks the earth.
Lacking a sweet song when sung
will kindle a fire to heat my hearth.
I search my desert husk
For those stray, shy words to light
a bonfire against this lonesome dusk.
I search for the rush, that if right
will bring a warming voice
and soft eyes so that I may rejoice.

Clutching for words, I sink into silence.
Your waxing smile soothes, but light
Not the darken sea nor calms the violence
Wrecked upon my soul by a still tongue's blight.
Your laughter, bells that chimes heaven's bliss;
Your touch shivers that skin feels *****;
Yet my world yearns for a tender kiss.
Through havoc and chaos comes something perfect.
Gentle madness and crazed frustration start
When silence through your sensual stride
Take pass my smitten heart.
Dazed and stranded, beach by your tide
My castaway heart sits upon a broken keel
For which only your love can heal.

The Rain falls warm.
It's humid and the shirt
sticks to my w3tb@ck.
How much has fallen
into my collective bucket
during the pass hour
Of heavy monsoon rain?

I gulp chunks
to replace water
in this futile work cycle.
Adiabatic landscaping
in a stifling heat,
within some complex
feed-forward loop.

The cigarette burns
beneath a protective dome,
my cupped hand.
Particulates drift away into
the hazy mist, embedding
itself in breath,
and choking congested,
fluid-filled lungs.

I watch a tiny display
showing small spiking memes
feeding forward to what?
Will it be an apocalyptic
firing storm  or a recognition
gestalt, inhibitory spikes
triggering attenuation.

I drink again the rain.
Can I supervise Win-Lose
games? Am I learning
some wrong algorithm
while drunk on heavy water,
in Futile cycles?

With my open hand
I take Virgil's lead
into our Gradient descent,
urging him on, afraid
our alpha steps are too
small, and the time too
short. There is a constant
fear of being trapped
in some eternal,
local minimal.