Ah, only to be an artic squirrel,
To sleep till the cold sword past,
Dreaming of green--
Below that cold artic slash.

Only rousing self when the sword hits my sleep,
It pierces my burrow,
Slaying the colors and the maiden,
With its merciless degree.

Ah, to awake to darkness, but with light coming from the door,
The cold sword is sheathed,
And my dreams are restored.

A man adrift out at sea.
A plan to drift to the shipping lane,
hoping to be the merchant's gain,
He speared a dorado with his gaff,
broke and stuck in ,she almost sliced his raft in half.
The solar stills not working, dehydration pain,
now have to keep pumping up raft, 30 days insane.
Almost to the shipping lane.

Patch the raft, just in time,
at night it is a waterbed of prodding sharks,
the rubber rubs your wounds with added salt.
You fall asleep then are rammed in the dark.
Looking to "throw a brick at the temple"*,
But there is no brick, night ocean resembles,
And there is no Diane on the moon in wane,
Only drifting to the shipping lane.

Sun and storm, random waves,
Reptilian blinking, forty days.
You have reached the shipping lane,
your flare goes out, their massive hulls cruise by,
accepting death with the starry sky,
Seeing lost souls in moonlit streaks,
wrecked catamarans, submarines, and fishing fleets.

Drift and drift, days and days,
Like Homer Winslow's '"Turtle Pond"
"Hey Mon"
You have found the colors of the Caribbean.
A young poor fisherman's face--
and though you have nothing valuable to trade--
saved by a small poor boat outside the shipping lane.

Now it is just this old house and I,
for the most part, we see eye to eye,
I keep the house spare and tidy,
and the hallways perhaps are clear,
I still set her plate,
as when we had our first dinner here,
it was a summer night,
and she made my favorite in the Navy,
cranberry, meatloaf and gravy.

I need to pack, only a week's worth,
sitting on the floor,
because my knees begin to hurt,
I can reach a bottom draw,
long forgotten it was there,
but as I begin to search,
some crickets loudly chirp.
I am sitting on the kitchen tile,
on the stove's metal I don't recognize my face,
my panic subsides to sorrow,
as I see her empty plate.

The hallways are spare,
and no photos on the wall,
paint or wallpaper I am unaware,
and in the staircase I can never recall.

They are picking me up 0700,
it is a calm cool night,
all is quiet on the street,
all the kids are out of sight,
I cannot get this hose on this rusty spigot,
the night produces a lonely cricket,
her garden is fallow,
and rotting from last year,
she is gone,
the cricket chorus is all I hear.

I fold my clothes nice and tight,
my thin bones in slim Navy whites,
chirping coming from the draw,
a knock at the front door,
" We found him folded
over his suitcase on the bedroom floor."

They are defeated, crushed in a rout,
But let them not die out,
Let us lift this quarantine,
So this sad looking boy will dream,
For when the girls dance to the new moon,
Let them jump out and capture wives,
For who will we rule when the moon resumes?
Depressed lads?
Warriors remembering the killing fields?
lying about as if carried home on shields.

Let the men see the maidens dance,
caressing the night with their hands,
barefoot over calm cool dirt,
swirling their home spun skirt,
singing in octaves we have not,
commemorating how hard we fought.

But Sir, the boy won't go,
His father vanished before the war took hold,
His mother lost her beauty from a soul ice cold,
She dances alone and only to revenge,
In her eyes are the killing fields of men.

Nay, you princes in charge of this city--
Apprentice the lad close to our maidens!
Let him see the beauty of our ladies-in-waiting,
And let the most beautiful young girl see--
How this lad does in order taking,
For I think she will be well pleased,
and he with her.

Sir we have done as you commanded,
Our defeated foes are happy and candid,
And the boy's countenance has changed,
Nervous aloofness  is all it contains.

Very good, he has seen her--
The fellow orphan I presume,
Who amongst dancing
Somberly walks to the new moon.
It is good, for she is tough,
And has seen he is not rude.

Sir, tis the night,
All the men but the boy--
Look forward to this fight,
For the girl and boy are of the same size,
And to carry her off will be a feat of might.

Nonsense, my paige carries double his weight,
As long as one carries love and faith.

Look! the maidens are arm and arm,
The girl walks alone,
Look, the boy has seen how the moonlight on her face has shown,
All have lustrous sheen with olive oil,
But her natural brown hair is his native soil.

Blow the trump, let the men surprise their wives,
But let us watch the lad, he is smitten
Even though she is wan,
All dance barefoot, she trods on.

The men run off under the moon and in laugh,
While the women either laugh or slap.

The boy approaches, the maiden awaits,
Then she grabs him by the throat and kisses his face,
He tries to carry her
Fumblin with nervous touching,
In pale moonlight highly blushing,
He tries to carry her, she tries to carry him,
They fall down a hill when the moon goes dim,

Dedication from him, laughter from her,
Cheers from the knights, " Well done Sir."

This prison is mighty, and mightily made,
Not even a wave of light is allowed,
Nor can the inmates have sound,
And a telescope is too close to this place.

But here is a man of science,
  A safe distance he thinks he is relying,
But no data is allowed from this prison,
Soon as he stepped close an inmate went missing,
Like being ankle deep in a pre- tsunami sea,
Immobilized,
One step, two step, three,
Too bad, the shore is so close,
With all the people he knows,
Pure pity in their eyes,
Even if he could escape the prison
his own newborn babe would slay him at range.
Now the descent,
Locomotive strength drawn into a drain,
Like a towering tidal wave of oblivion-
the door to this prison.

The tide slowly recedes,
shore running away fast,
The sound of a scream
ripped into the doom
and broke apart like glass.

I wouldn't resist the tide,
Nor close the eyes,
Give respect to the Mighty One,
Who made the prison and the inmates inside.

Darling global warming is true of course,
Just read the graphs and watch the tv reports,
Honey you are acting strange?
Stay home today and we'll go to the firing range.

Darling, darling, you have depression,
Look at the snowflake that you are clutching,
Sweden's snow disappearing down to nothing,
honey, your nervous twitching unrelenting,
Look! a dark eyed Junco, fleeing, flitting,
No need to fly south and so is sitting,
and not to mention--
They robbed you dear, of your youthful spring,
And so the junco in your winter will not sing,
Honey, hurry, watch this news,
Melting slurry during the winter moon.

"You robbed me of my youth."
Oh how the winter's cruel,
Honey, its true of course--
Look! a summer hawk in winter's morph.
Look, honey!  all the people are in flames,
spinning like the weather-vanes.

The utmost beauty, I ever espied,
a river ******* overtaken by a saltwater tide.

The sun bleached pebbles "Ka-ching"
Climbing down an ocean wall of railroad ties,
I see the ******* from this L-shaped cove,
I do not tarry for my burning soles,
the cooling sand then ankle cold.

My foot feels the soft murky grass,
A crab's tickles across my foot,
then I trip over line of a derelict trap,
I quickly recover after chilling splash,
And search a more clear and sandy path,

The horseshoe crab retreating to waist high deep,
Where forlorn buoys and rowboats rock to sleep,
Like a helmet with many mechanical legs,
She disappears into the darkness with her eggs,
I turn to look back at the cottage I left behind,
Like a cat o' nine-tail the flag whips the sky.

I reach the clean and purest sand,
Of this island not made by man,
My steps bring me up amidst this river,
unlike the coming current that makes me shiver,
the water is in no rush, so a nice warming touch,
I find a hollow and recline as if in a tub,
and watch the seagulls battle the wind above,
The cottages looks so distant fleeting,
The air above shingles distorted from super heating.

The wind intercepts all shouts from shore,
like an osprey swooping down then back to soar,
It is alittle lonely, and beyond the ******* scares me,
I think a jellyfish--
when my foot touches something hairy,
Things cruise by in the current,
Then I start to notice my ******* fading,
I must leave or soon be wading.

Back at the cottage,
With childrens laughing, calling, sand castle making,
Through itchy dune grass and hot sand traipsing,
I look back at the river in full high tide,
Waiting for my island to rise.

I do not need a grand sepulchre,
Nor be remembered in bronze,
Don't need a sculpted beauty
To tend me after I'm gone.
No reflecting fount
Or grand account,
No Angels of death,
No Angels of peace,
No greek god in bas relief.
Leave me be, let me not be still,
Let those metallic wings flutter from winter chill,
Let the past be dead,
And my memory make you friends,
Let my memory conjure love,
And not cold to touch,
Let it rival the sunset,
With the dawning wings of the Oriole above.

Bury all our woes from household ills,
Without maintenance--
--Without upkeep--
Overgrown on our stroll through the Forest Hills.

She is thirty five,
But I see twelve,
" I love you mommy"
After being flip and raised by hell,
It's too late for love,
" Get the hell out of my house."

She told a memory,
Once,
About her dad and herself,
" Daddy please don't go behind there with her."
She doesn't tell her mother, but the truth comes out,

" He took me to see the fireworks."
In an innocent voice of twelve.

A thought from Frost,
"Fire or Ice* in the end?"
Fire is revenge,
Ice is cruel deep and dark,
both will come,
Like icy comets,
That heat up when breaking apart,
Not from the heavens,
But from the human heart.

Funny thing 'bout dreams,
From whence they come?
And when they go?,
golfing with Jackie,
did not speak did not joke,
An eerie sunlight,
in the golf cart, as he drove.

Then it was night,
Where did he come from?
Now his brother and I in snow,
car broke down,
Jackie shows up to do the tow,
He did not speak, he did not joke,
Realized,
" Jackie you over-dosed."
He proceeded on,
So he would not leave I did not come close,
When he came I did not know,
Amid the boundless night and endless snow.
Funny thing dreams--
" ****** Jackie say something--please!"

Then I awoke,
Only empty night and lonely snow.

At a bus stop,
Town well to do,
A summer so green,
And an ocean so blue,
A mere speck the battered lonely kite,
Approaching is a retired gent and wife,
The well to do, the battered kite aloft,
did not say hi, did not stop,
instead had something to hand-off,
"  For smiling"
and in my palm-- a butterscotch.

I am your liar and thief,
now those older brutal bullies,
bow at your feet.
Those brutal mountains,
" can I get one on the cheap?"
surely, serve me,
and tell a mountain to leap,
and it will leap.
I am your liar and your thief,
remember when you closed your eyes,
and still you could see--
those mountains slumped,
when you served them me,
inside my tent-heavenly ecstasy,
I can get you past the thorny gate,
by feeling wondrous joy when you bleed,
I am your liar, and your thief,
buy four, get the fifth for cheap,
you entered my tent--
now I enter your dreams,
you ran out of me,
hurricane season in Charlestown it seems,
one step outside my eye,
and you lose my golden beams,
remember that one time in my tent,
you closed your eyes and still you could see,
now tonight you go to sleep,
and you ran out of my golden beam,
the doctor in your dream,
was feeding you to lobsters,
and she was Chinese,
come back to me,
to your liar and your thief,
this time, they don't get the fifth for cheap,
and now you not the mountains must leap,
remember how pathetic you felt,
fed alive to lobsters,
by the female Doctor in your dreams,
stick to my dwindling golden beam,
mountains of wreckage on this Charleston street,
its just you and me,
remember when you closed your eyes and still could see?
surely if you have enough faith,
those mountains again can get the fifth for cheap,
but for now I will help you sleep,
its just you and me now on this Charleston street,
mountains sure will look like they jump,
when you are crumbling debris,

I am forever your Liar,
I am forever your thief,
I can get you past that thorny gate--
by feeling wondrous joy when you bleed.

A charred , blackened, frozen thing,
a sunflower in the early spring,
bigger flower heads staring down,
at younger ones staring at frozen ground,
I so wanted this plant to animate,
like a carousel on a summer day,
but they only offered a paltry shiver,
these faces that have lasted all of winter,
a charred, blackened, frozen stalk,
a carousel in an abandoned lot,
so sad how those heads hung,
no longer turning to the warming sun.

There is something about the cute brunette,
With long lustrous brown hair over one shoulder,
It is like the common brown sparrow that winters over,
So rare and so mundane,
Like the surviving American chestnut tree Dutch disease has not slain.
And in the branches I look closer, in weather that numbs me,
The sparrow, fine face, elegant and comely,
The hawks would not feud with her
Lips, glossed with deadly berry of winter-juniper.
I want to  kiss her ,as if a hungry chick in winter,
And such bliss, watching talons miss,
Brown hair parted mid air chasing off hawk as she babysits.

With long boots, and chestnut hair over the shoulder,
Such a *****, a rarity--as I look closer,
this brunette beauty that winters over.

How can I be the closest to your home, and still unknown,
How can I be the closest to the Sun, closest to the scorch,
and still have the most icy landlords in my poles,
and why can I and twilight be seen by you alone?

How come from my surface, light does not work--light does not hurt, I do not blink as I think, even as the sunset pours lava forth, and that sunset is that lie of time, as you disappear in darkness, I almost disappear in light, then the stars scream across the sky, in a geminid shower rewind, in my unblinking muse, in the solar hues, the great inferno retreats, and the slower speed of Earth I view, And I see the astrologer, with his useless scope, trying to track my path, futile as the priests trying to invent gold.
They cannot understand my core, with machines that are perfect because I am perfectly mercurial on the surface,
with the intense cold of my poles, and the intense burning solar gold of my repose,  I view blinding light, then infinite starry night, and cold dark logic they are encased in--my deep dark basins--and the rolling triumph of my surface's relief is from breathless sandy ovation beneath.


        But now is my silver region where I compose, between extremes, no ovation no gold, only metallic mercury upon the barren from faint starlight strobes.  Here is where my dark volumes are known, but  like shifting shadows--from light are closed.  Then a clock strikes the hour, when my surface is reinvested with power,  the oncoming of a sunset getting louder and louder,  and in my face a cold severe place, and on my stare intense solar glare.

   My theater is caused by applause, my temple is lit with pale light of long dead stars, and I crash and die young forever like my short lived geminid sparks,  In your twilight is my house, and with my intense and icy blood, I protect the memory and mystery of love.

I used to sing that song " Im the man,Im the man ,Im the man."

But then my girl would hit me with a frying pan, frying pan, frying pan.

Now i lip sync so she cant understand, understand, understand.

For all she knows im saying yes m'am yes m'am yes m'am...but under my breath im the man im the man im the man.

You must die--whilst alive--to leave your cage. I once had a talking parrot--who lied--saying his luxury confinement was "quite ok."  On an african hunt for the diamond carrot, is where i stole him back to Bombay.
Then before returning on consignment--my pet parrot wished with me a parley.
      "Can you bring me back any messages--and tell them i am quite alright"--when i told this to a crying parrot--he quickly died on sight.
I told this to my pet when i returned--and he cried and did the same.  I sadly tossed him in the *******--but then i realized what the message contained--because he got up and flew away.

( lol, i was watching a self help speaker on tv last night, and he told a old indian parable, thought it would be catchy as a poem.)

Did the Pax Americana
come and go?
Is her statue, made of ice and snow,
Do I see her in the fire and now I don't,
Pax Americana, I hear her, as I go deaf,
I feel you
As red decorates slowly through my vest.

I am with you, in a tiny-- but vast land--
yet still on my back,
Watching sweat pick up crystal sand,
Your dune has no debris that I see
mid this blackened road--shining so beautifully,

My Lady of Pax, my lady of last laughs
that came from the briefing,
My lady of things one would want to last
Yet you stay now that I am bleeding.

Lady Peace,  just like a goodnight kiss--
in respite, you exist,
This war all I've seen is their pretty olive eyes
and you are their lips,
You are here now as eternal momentary bliss.

Blue hills "which way?,"
Path pines, form sunset gate.
Blue hills " I love you babe"
Titan pines without sway,
Light from sky trapped in titan height,
The height of light fights the sunset gate,
Blue horizon " I love you babe."

Go my husband, show the Romans how to die.

Poison will slip thru my lips,
As the gladeus slips your spine.

Go my love, give the Romans something to write,
Inhale the smoke, from the sacred Athenian grove,
The invaders burn where we were vowed man and wife.

Go my husband, show their might ~love is Etruscan,
That once ruled their tribe,
Look, the Roman General already wants a Greek wife.
And wants to spare your life,

Go,
Our love will make their spears sigh,
After defeat,
They run into their own swords, held by their trusted centurion chest high.
After defeat,
We run into each others arms,
For the last kiss on this side,
The enemy can know,
We gaze forever into each-other with death's unblinking eyes,
Go my love, show them what we value in life,
Preparing for the last tragic nuptial,  
To find each other through the dark death night.

Voracity is the centipede,
hunting in a-downhill-bleed,
pull what you think is a string,
to pitch your tent,
feel the centi clench,
and incision of dopamine,
your esophagus that screams,
could have had the segments and seams,
harking back to when the earth was steam,
when night jungle shines upon it,
with a red lens,
as it devours a tarantula,
adding a segment to its length,
sense the kinship,
sense the progenitor strength,
turn your red light on,
see the red esophagus of black chiton,
run for the zenith,
before the apex makes you bleedeth,
let your bayonet it bite on,
drop in alchohol,
and as a dragon,
it will soar and fight on,

beware the apex,
only the mountain,
set your sights on,
beware the early esophagus,
of red-neon, black chiton.

[ A young man and woman married under a street lamp during a snowstorm]


             Such wintry presents is incandescence, flakes shooting through magnificent lamp's orange glow, such a beauty contestant is my love spotlighted below,
white wedding lace is her hair that intercepts crystal snow.  I am her groom tall in suit dressed in drifting bank's dark soak.
     Those flakes incandescing, starting west then darting east, finally on her hair are resting, in that orange incandescence, give foot prints no longer lone .
      And night chimes of metal creaking signs, remind of just her and  I, and that is more than fine. For when weather vanes act insane, in that lonely night snow, and my prints are lone, she is near my heart staring up while standing on my toes.

So wonderfully lonely when the streets are dead,
under street lamps glow much magnificent,
Her snow flake lashes night sky has sent,
Our sole footprints in globes lonely presence,
Watching night snow turn incandescent.

It's ruined, random kiss,
mornings, sun, love renewing,
I sit on those sun bleached stones,
of our relationship's ruins,
toppled, symmetry of romantic Rome,
she says it's ruined,
but now we can be alone,
and with the palace undoing,
sunlight on her face has shown,
with the ceiling bluing,
sea breeze through her hair has blown,
ever pretty in my ruin viewing,
wall's wildflower for her I chose,
my love undying--stronger in ruins
holding hands to walk over stone.

Hey *******, I  like what you did
Just not what you do,
Hey *******, dropping tears
On letter " its me not you"
clever letters, clever watermark,
Still smitten whats written ,
signed with a fake teardrop on top,
Oh I clutch and claw,and still you part.

Hey boy all play, playing your life away,
I like what you do, not what you did,
He plays like you, you should see,
he makes then rakes his sandbox family
And not too far from that ****** tree,
Oh *******,
Your words and smile,
Make me hope for a breeze that took your apple far,
But it took you away from me.

Hey player, playing in your own play,
thought you would perform everyday,
driving and paying to see it,
you will never know the feeling,
When the curtain went to the ceiling,
Family, friends....your play I rave,
I CURSE THE DAY I STARED INTO YOUR DARK DESERTED STAGE.

Hey *******, hey actor of "everafter,"
Busy writing a new play?
I like your acting--playing is laughing,
but he has a future and fortune,
My **** man I knew that nothing was after,
but I need to see you one more time,
you make future and fortune not matter.


Will the show return one day?
I understand,
The thrill and never still changing name playbill
Assures a girl, it never will.

"Ahh, the charm, laughing, acting--
The searching strobes from the overhead tracking,
Minute ripples in the curtain upon the stage?
The violins warming up that will never play,
the curtain ascends,
the lonely echos of your nervous clapping,
Now the future they warned would happen,
Real tears well up,  
Ushered out by my saline sadness."

What I thought a flower--a ****,
Invasive, only to breed,
Not rare,
Invasive, destroying,
but compelling indeed,
Pretty petals I was lost,
But all the same,
As months out at sea,
I thought love,
Due to,
No power to leaave.
Then I longed for the flower,
With no vain double petal,
that honey bees pass,
For the rare flower to settle,
And that bee,
Led me out ,
of Heart stinging nettle,
I once thought ****,
My rare and lovely flower indeed,
And tho,
Only green,
A scent only known to me,
Green turned to gold,
'round my finger,
As I took a knee,
and clutched gloss of green,
Oh what I thought flower:
stinging nettle,
But by being,
Patient and faithful,
as dutiful honey bee can,
gold and not sting,
on my morning hand.
no regrets,
in her sun light stand,
What I thought common ****:
petals folded up as a fan,
destined as the honey bee,
unfolded beauty to me,
my rare flower, my bride to be.

Watched my ham sandwich,
take off and fly,
into Grecian blue ocean sky.
as the dutiful stork with babe,
over dangerous bluffs,
and sea spray puffs,
did not care,  such a sight was made.
with butterfly winds that did take her.
this way and that, over ship mast,
"Fly my Sandwich, over bar
and breaker."
a speck, then gone,
or perhaps, the sea gull finally ate her.

Lounge on Willow bough,
golden savannah below,
and savannah in her hair,
feet swinging in air.
fractioned light from above,
sky seeps 'tween leafy green,
as the eyes of my love,
no 'squito can be seen,
from dragon fly hard at flap,
beautiful wings,
as long lashes of her bat,

I rest on rough bark,
and she rests on my heart,
in the mansion they dine,
but  no where else I want to be,
then on a lover's recline in the Willow Tree.

In Japan, there was an ice cold assassin, that rose through the ranks of the Lin Kuei Clan.   Mid snow flurry, he could avoid every flake, and seize the brittle crystal without breaking it.  He could walk on snow without sinking in, japan's cold winter, is when he was unopposed and most ruthless--slaying debtee and their family.  His ice cold ego, came into contact with a shaolin warrior, who was trained to feel the cold, and never run away from it, nor get used to it, but feel the chill everytime without hardening his self.  Sub-Zero was defeated but not killed, and scorned to the Gods during a snowstorm, " I am the better, and was defeated by a lessor, I appeal to the powerful, give me the power of ice, so that no one shall adapt to my soul's chill, give me the power and my clan shall be in service to you."

Then a snow crystal fell, bigger than most, and he clutched it, and looked in his palm, the crystal was in the form of a pentagram.  The wind whispered, " The most cold and still realm of hell will be in your veins, if you partaketh of this crystal."  And the power of ice, that no man could withstand was at his disposal, and he was locked in a contract, that was unbreakable.

He rose to leader of the clan, and changed the color of the assasin uniform to the color of the cold region of hell, and he could not find the shaolin warrior who defeated him, and so slayed his mentor.
One hot day, his soldiers came back defeated, by a pearl diver, who refused to pay tribute to their mafia.  Sub-zero impaled the clan's soldiers who had their uniform in tatters--by raising jagged ice spears from hell.  The ice never thawed, and the men never fully died, but looked up at the high cieling from their bespearment to a mosaic of an icy and lonely realm-- a message to anyone who fails the clan--that you shall be pierced and preserved.  Sub-zero took the rest to pay a visit to the pearl diver who had stained the Clan's uniform with the blood color of disgrace.

The pearl diver, was in the bay diving down to the bottom for pearls.  He felt the water suddenly get cold, and swam upward to the surface, where he came in contact with the surface of the water, frozen over, and he saw the boots walking over the ice.  They were holding heads that leaked onto the clear ice underfoot and as the pearl diver struggled for air underneath, he saw the heads of his family dropped onto the ice.
Then Sub-zero kneeled down, holding his wife's head to the drowning pearl diver, and placed it on the ice, so he shall see the horrid picture as he drowned underneath.  The Clan took leave, from the bay.

The pearl diver did not fear death, but went mad, as he sank downward into oblivion, staring upward, rage took over his once good heart, and he turned away to look into the depths, shouting " Let me born again, so I shall live a life of fire, so that anyone who dares come close, shall be scolded, GOD OF REVENGE, LET ME BE BORN AGAIN."
The pearl diver breathed in the water unblinking, and his heart stopped, but still he lived as he sank reaching the bottom and there was a scorpion at his feet, and the depths spoke, " Let this scorpion sting both your eyes, and command the fire of hell, and be born again, to melt the ice."
He took the scorpion--who glowed hot in the dark depths-- and stung his eyes, his pupils went from his eyes, leaving milk swirls as his ovals of revenge.  " Now let it snip your lips and chin, so that you may breath the painfull sting of fire upon your enemies without singing your own flesh."

The scorpion greedily ate his lips, tongue and chin, giving him a mouth guard of skull.  " Now you are born again Scorpion, arise, and REVENGE."

Scorpion, screamed, no longer a human voice, but demonic, and grabbed the chain from his boat anchor, and climbed. Upon reaching the ice barrier, he touched his hands to it, and burned a hole and emerged forth.  He pulled up the chain with ease into the air from the depths, the metal barb on the end that served as an anchor, was now for impaling hearts and not the sea bottom.  He snapped his arm and the chain coiled around his arm, ready to sail out to impale and bring his enemies up to his eyes, so they can feel the painfull sting of fire up close, and see Scorpions eyes.
He walked to shore, his feet singing and melting Sub-zero's ice as he walked.
His walk was illusive, as a flickering flame, Scorpion could not be percieved directly without mesmerizing, as a fire in total darkness.

He reached shore, and found a Clan member, he harpooned him with his chain and barb, and brought him close to his face with his chained anchor, and melted the henchman's face with his hot breath.
He stripped him naked with his curved pearl knife, and donned the uniform of the Lin Kuei, ice blue, then the uniform turned yellow from his hot blood underneath, turning the uniform yellow as if it was boiled alive in a ***.  Scorpions' veins serpentined on his forearms, his muscles always a'sweat and full of blood .  The color of his revenge was yellow, mocking the blue Lin Kuei's uniform with the color of cowardice.

He tracked down Sub-Zero to his Clan hall that resembled the cold layer of hell with victims adorning his walls and floors that were pierced by ice sculpture and still a 'quarter alive staring at the cieling.  Sub-Zero felt the slight thaw of his ice, and knew the presence of Scorpion.  

Scorpion flickered from the torches that bedecked the walls, and burnt the guards throats with his hands so they crawled around uselessly.  When a clan member espied the demonic ninja, Scorpion was behind him, breathing on his neck, and the guard fell to the ground in three pieces.

Sub-Zero's throne room, had no torch, no fire, and Scorpion could only enter without his flame illusion through the front tall doors.  
" You have fought your way into my layer, just to realize it is a glacial tomb assassin," saithe Sub-Zero.

" Scorpions demonic voice echoed to him, " YOU HAVE MURDERED DOWN THE PATH OF LIFE, BUT THE PATH WAS THE THROAT OF A DRAGON, AND I AM ITS BELLY, YOUR TOMB OF STINGING ACID."

Scorpion took Sub-Zero's eye from him with his harpoon chain, and beat him mercilessly with kick and punch.  Sub-Zero's summoned ice but it only melted near Scorpions hatred.  But the water from the melt, slowed Scorpion--so it was hand to hand by their opposite powers, negating their satanicly endowed powers.  

But Sub-Zero was the creator of Scorpion, and so had the advantage.  Being beaten, and his face smashed, his nose flattened to his face, exposed rib slats, and his testicles smashed, Sub-Zero feigned mortal injury and non-defence as Scorpion walked up with his milky eyes to do his finishing move.

Sub-Zero's forearm protruded in injury from Scorpions kick before, and formed a sharp dagger, and this dagger sunk in Scorpions brain from beneath his chin.  Sub-Zero won with the treachery he knew best.  But Scorpion's body turned to hell's flames, and melted the layer completely drowning the wounded Sub-Zero, killing him, as Scorpion himself died the second death being extinguished in cold water of the clan layer.



They were sent back to hell, and forced to stand side by side of eachother, as Satan's servants of fire and ice--still donned in the Lin Kuei assassin robe,belt, and face-guard.
All of the magmatic, scolding statalactites dripped behind Scorpion who stood before the entrance to the fiery region of hell.  He stared forward with his scolding white phosphorus eyes.

Behind Sub-Zero, was the still and frozen layer.  He stood next to Scorpion, to the entrance of his own realm, with pupils bordered by ice frozen rivulets.  The proximity to eachother was their hell, and Satan was their master.  Scorpions pyscho hatred heat always attacking Sub-Zero's callous cruel cold, and vice versa, so as they never became adapted to the terms of hell and eternity.

Inside my ears, away from the moving mouth, jolly potatoes in sprout.
they sing and sway in my golden fertile valley of wax,
and when the moving mouth outside  is talking of her dead cat,
they sing merry tunes that make me smile and laugh,
but then they hear the mountain thunder which is her slap.
The village elder potatoe watches for the wind and hail,
and the fire in sky which is her red polished nail.
This wise potato's beard protects his flock,
She trims his beard when she cuts my ear hair off,
And when her eye stares inside,
The bravest potatoes go fight and die,
" You need to clean out your ears, you haven't heard a word I said..."
Hundred potaytets safe, ten hero potatoes dead,
There is no crying for the Spartan spud,
Who the Cyclops had smooshed to mud,
For their bodies dry up into chips,
That crunch out the sound of an angry ditz,
They never stop,
Ever since I was six,
And my wedges, singing me a ditty,
Most charming and beautiful in all my city,
I giggled to " hey hoo ***** boy, let's roll in the wax"
And everyone at the funeral stared at me aghast.
Oh well, maybe they are right, and I a fool,
For educating myself within my golden school,
But I know first came my laugh, and it was alive,
graves it could not attach, so it reversed within to survive,
They sing and sway in my fertile valley of wax,
The village elder potato plods on with his staff,
Giving thanks to the wax builder,
And like a maestro, directs the valley to give the builder back his laugh,
And a young potato stick in a long dress,
And a sleeveless shirt,
Sings the solo in golden concert,
" they hate me baby, they make me baby, and I'm gold and they are dirt,
It is they my baby that are absurd,
Oooh oh, boss me around my king, your laughter makes me sing."

And when my name was wrong in the obituary of my father I began to laugh,
And at me everyone was mad,
My ear potatoes sing and dance,
In the golden valley of wax,
And the village elder potato plods on with his beard and staff.
And there is no more mountain thunder, no more slap,
No more Cyclops's eye,
The Spartan spuds are farmers now and don't have to die.
And my laughter flows out like a river from the  golden canal inside.

The snow sheets have blood drops,
down the legs of trees,
over snowy skin--cardinal hops.

The high bush's shrivelled cranberries persist
five striking berries that the sparrows missed,
arterial red above the snow,
pleasure buttons bright with hot lick.

I see the striking red, in the snowscape, in the trees,
same  hot blush on my winter lover's cheeks.

And as it gets colder, snowy skin,
is ravaged and pinched,
by hawk of red shoulder.
and inside, my tongue crosses over,
from white ******* onto red areola.

Such hot wintry throbbing,
is bouncing red breast of robin.
I wish my naked lover to never leave,
and the ground to never soften.

Some start with ****, (I am reflecting now)
or nic on the breath,
but it ends in cadaverine,
all my heroes have been lost to me.

And as decomposition begins( I am angry now)
they look happy,
cuz a skull always grins,
a slow way to die,
as if doused with caustic lye,
the spiritual man is dead,
black vacuity in their eyes.

Now their souls will sin( I am staying away now)
their tongues will boast,
they mock the heavens,
but tempt the crows,
their minds are seared,
their heart debased,
any memory of my friends is all erased. (attending a funeral now)

I am eternally young as my old wolf,
my newborn flesh and a gray arctic coat.
gray from birth, and gray on dying day.
my parents:
the still icy harbor,
or the spray from a surprising wave.

Give me that double fur, decorated with seasons harsh,
for my father is a lonely tundra,
and my mother a blood red marsh--
hungry, searching, under arctic stars,
ambushed in muck--during the spring thaw.

Now in winter, I do not search, but pull her sled instead,
Her harness cuts deep,
As at birth, I am gray and red.

I will die as my old wolf did,
a newborn pup,
with arctic grey on my chin,
a cold and ambushing world I have only known,
led and loved by blood red snow,
I lay down to die, and die alone,
Rejoining the arctic sky, with my arctic coat.































For my Parents.

Light in which memories exist,
Comes to me by way of fist.
And only when I bleed,
Red gown, white slip--match on me.
Painful color of rosettes,,
When horizon on sun dissects,
Grip flushing my cheek coquette..
And when I am concussed,
The empty channel of snowy dust,
The swing, our breath and our lust.
If choked, coal of memory stoked,
Leather seats--and leather coat.
But I cannot proceed in fighting,
Though I adore the lighting,
For it all ends the same,
Setting sun in horizon's grip,
Color of the full lips,
So beautiful, so fleeting,
Then blackness hits.

But colorful vision I won't see,
with no touch no flush--no face fading memory.

The prussian stache, on the wafty pine,
sticky black *****, on your stache has dried,
I excuse your tobacco dipping while I climb,
just to sway with the wind,
in your many tiered mustache ride.

As I reach the zenith of my ascent,
a small french stache of upward bent,
offered no more for me to climb,
so downward tickle of the mustache pine.

My snow laden arborvitae,
lithely bent,
green gowned--
hand you lend,
for me to kiss it,
whence--a suitor's snowfall
you elicit
and return tall,
as best dressed,
in winters ball.

The smell of excrement,
is the smell of a  rose,
but a thousand fold.
where you see grey,
the sparrow sees gold.
deadly volt,
and thunder loud,
does not come
from dark cloud.
but from predispostion,
in poem, must be missing.
look to the woods,
you cannot see the wolf
in winter's morph,
with bleak at its worst.
these are invisible things,
that rely on more than sight,
that a poet must capture,
before he writes.
there is no party, nor seal,
or cause for zeal,
that can make this poet kneel,
except how poetry makes me feel.
For I,

hear the wolf,
smell the rose,
feel the charge of the cloud,
before it rings loud.
I see the sparrows light,
when I write,
and tree or incline,
no obstacle like "NO TRESSPASSING" sign.
Be a poet, rid the seal and sign,
leave all false laws behind.
lighten the load for the incline,
and all carcasses will be roses,
and bleakness a sparrow hue,
speak to the woods, and
surprise the wolf following you.

Regret and I have slept,
and walked,
since the days she was teacher's pet.

Now, I wish my life hence,
resting my back,
on sharp finial fence.

As I sink on barbed fleur de lys,
waiting for my life to cease,
I behold my stars of Gemini,
and it is she and I.

My last vapor on the cold night lake,
dresses the stars, and I hear her say,
" Would you like to dance?"
and this time I say "yes",
as body slides down heart shaped lance.

I am heart to heart with lys,
and begin to cease,
but heart to heart with her,
in the night lake above,
grasping upward as I succumb.








"

War and peace, no difference to be had,
Slave or private will 'fire the house and the bath.'

And in that Georgian mansion,
with the candalabra dancing,
A kiss upon the lips of the beautiful belle,
one of the flames,
only military torch can sustain,
because life is war, and war is hell.

I was in a bar, smiling so,
a beautiful girl looked in my eyes,
and said "let it go",
who she was, I do not know.

I still have flashbacks, horrifying and spectral: of conference meetings, projectors and efficiency meetings...corporate metrics, acronymic value cards that read like a Masonic Temple's pledge.. ...honesty, commitment, sacrifice, the dutiful worship of mercury and saltpeter; also customer satisfaction.
           Those flashbacks frequent my mind alot--especially when I am ramming my co-workers into the trash compactor with the blades of the fork truck. They say " ooooh" and " ahhhhh" as if they are getting a massage. They dull my blades with their dull heads.
          I have to ram them with the blades of the fork-trucks, or they will scramble out. They still say things like, " make sure that has a tag,".....and " wear your safety goggles," making chills run down my spine. I haven't put all the workers from the " Do-Wee depot" in the compactor only corporate cadavers and not zombies.
          But I have to forewarn, the zombies are not a threat, it is a few cadavers and the "consumers" that pose a threat to me and what I have built. The zombies are producers, even only if it is moans and putrefaction, but they are good sports, and my only friends.
         Some co-workers, who I was friends with before, I have spared from the compactor--owing mostly to that the part of their brain that was corporate, either fell out on the floor, or was gnawed on by a fellow zombie rendering them good sports and not cadavers.
        I use the building material section to chain them to their previous aisles. Jose, was my best friend, he was shaped like a slug, with a huge lower lip, and slicked back greasy hair, he always cheered me up, how busy it was and how slow he remained. Him and I worked together in the ' outside-lawn-and-garden' section. Even his zombie self has kept his lisp.
          I chain him to the outside lawn and garden section, where he likes to water the flowers. He lunges at me sometimes, but the chain is thick, and Jose is still a cool zombie.
Angry Joe is out there too. He is chained to the 'reach' truck. He is always mumbling about overtime.....or " Im not staying late."
         I have disabled the riding engine, so he just stands on it and runs the fork blades all the way up then all the way down, beeping the horn the whole while. He is the only one I kept, that has some vestige of corporacy in his brain, for the reason that he watches the back gate. The consumers are constantly probing this outside metal fence gate, and Joe has eaten all of them. Don't get me wrong, Joe can be a good sport, when he is not drooling about 'overtime' or ' I havn't took a lunch yet.' He can be quite funny.
          He banters with Ryan from inside 'lawn-and-garden' all the time. Ryan is alot younger, alittle younger than me. He has a mullet(what I call a mullet and he say's a hockey cut) and verily is--before he become a zombie-- the laziest person ever, and now that he is a zombie, well let's just say, I don't have to chain him anywhere, I know where to find him.....at the back gate smoking a ciqerette backwards with his mullet on fire or in the break room. He had the most squeeky voice when he was a human, but now odd fully enough, he sounds like Tom Jones.
         " You ate my cosumer Ryan," drools Angry Joe, " No I didn't Joe, you ate your own consumer," Ryan rejoins in his acapella voice ( I like hearing Ryan's deep zombie voice).
There are others, in the various departments of the Do-Wee Store, but this journal is to relate the first most pressing concern, two cadavers have escaped the compactor.
             The store manager Joyce and her minion(the assistant manager Damien) have escaped. They were ******* humans, and remained so in corporate cadaver form. They hide from me, as I plow through the aisles with the inside forklift. I have used wire from the fencing aisle to reinforce my forklifts. Sometimes a cadaver co-worker will jump out with a price gun, drooling " where is your spootterrrr...."( a safety regulation in the store).....I run them over with great gladness, but then wishing I heeded their advice of safety glasses."Splat."
            I have my theories, on how everyone turned to zombies. It started with over-ocurring routine, which my a.d.d could have been impervious to. But I couldn't have been the only one in the store with a.d.d? But that seems the case. The first day when I showed up to ' outside-lawn-and-garden' it took me six hours before I noticed everyone was zombies. I didn't notice they were zombies until I noticed them in good spirits.
               But the first day of the zombies, was concurrent with the rise of the consumers--ever more dangerous, greedy, and audacious are the consumers. They consume everything in their path, they consume good conversation, good manners, and replace with their mark, which is this....your life with the current moment is to be sacrificed to get them what they need to continue resuming their lives. They do not enjoy shopping, but enjoy holding you in place, consuming you and your values into their value, which has no value at all, since their mind has consigned the present moment that has you and not them, to a number that always has too much value, and they will bring you and it down while you are subject to time and they are not.  
             They turned my friends into prisoners of arbitrary time; and like putting a rabbit in a dank dark basement, with plenty of food and treats and space, it will slowly get diarrhea and die.  Everyday I marked the sunrise, and I would always pay thanks to it, no matter if I was on break or not.  The nine hour day could not ruin me, but my friends being ruined, that started to ruin me.
                       And that is what I believed started all this, nature has no room for two kingdoms of Consumers. So the producers(zombies) were created from the routine of being divested of life, and from nothing they came to produce: producing gases, vile ****** smiles, human  cannibalism, hearty conversation, practical jokes, moaning questions to the infinite sky.... they were created human again, given value, and most of all, I have my friends back, and they are happy again. But, the corporate cadavers that escaped the compactor , put my creation in risk, they look to let in the consumers again, they are up to something...
             But presently with the corporate cadavers gone, and the consumers held at bay, I have my Depot of Eden, I can grow anything, make anything, and soon will be able to ferment everything, especially fuel.   Now monday morning conferences that threaten you to pick it up because there are alot of people out there that want your job( iterated by the frizzy headed gangly Joyce) are replaced with 'zombie dance parties'.  
            " Zombies, what is the first rule of zombie dance party," they reply to me, " dohmp talk bout damp party," then we make a music video.  I let loose a couple of cat's in the break room, and presto, an agile cat make's flesh eating zombies look like Micheal Jackson.  Even I get busy with them, I feel so comfortable with them; dancing to Juvenile "back that *** up,".the best dancer gets to eat the cat...sure beat's listening Joyce's depressing morning pep talks about quotas while I am watching a bird outside the front glass trying to eat a dragonfly, " Keith you paying attention."  I just want to say, " No I am not you frizzy headed gangly walking skeleton key(she is skinnier than the gang of keys jingling on her belt)."    I will find her and put a roofing nail in her temple and her plans.
                The sound of zombies walking in here is music to my ears, like gypsys walking barefoot on a strawberry patch.  I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I like it, and don't care who knows.

            I fortified the outside of the store with everything within the store. I grew a garden, with all the fertilizers, and acids and alkilines of outside garden. I also use the garden chemicals to sprinkle on the brains of my co-worker zombies to change their acidity(almost like a hyrdrangea shrub). The purpose to get them somewhat coherent to play poker and darts in the breakroom. I figured out how to make explosives, with the nitrogen fertilizer and pool cleaning acid, well actually HeyZues did, he always eats both, and one day he moaned really loud  " BLOOOONDEEE " ( his nickname for me from The Good The Bad And The Ugly) and  gestured his expanding stomach, he blew up and gave me my first wound, he destroyed my dart board.   I took his head and posted it on the back loading dock, I know there are consumers trying to infiltrate when he sounds off with " BLOOONDEEEE..."  resounding through the whole store (almost like when he was a human).   I created another dartboard, I can create anything here, sometimes I think, that feeling is what........
                But the point of this journal is the two who escaped the trash compactor, Joyce and Damien. They haunted me before and haunt me still. When I leave to venture outside for gasoline for the generators(the only thing I need, not for long hopefully) they run amok. I will see new ' sale signs' in zombie penmanship, and I can see that they have hidden co-workers to have cadaver meetings, where they talk about ' customer satisfaction.'  I can sometimes hear keys jangle, it has to be Joyce, for the sound is to the cadence of her John Wayne walk, like she has been on horseback her whole life.
            Outside is very dangerous. There are many consumers out there.
                 I was outisde in the parking lot, where consumers still wallow around when a consumer asked "which product is better." I had to drop a cinder block pallet on him with the forklift; they are more adacious then my zombie co-workers. Even after a pallet of concrete is forklifted on them, they wave fliers with sale advertisments from underneath.
            Well, this particular trip, I returned inside and was startled by the loudspeaker, it was Damien's voice, the same as before, paging the hardware department. I jumped on the fast slim forklift to hunt for him. There are phone terminals everywhere, and he could be in the upper level offices. I saw Joyce's shape through the window once.
          They are up to something.
Everytime I ventured outside, the store became altered. I even saw a consumer waiting in line with the cashier machine now on. I sent the consumer to Angry Joe, who was due for a lunch break.
          There is a gap in my wire somewhere, I know it.
            I was at the gas station, getting propane and gas, when a consumer was scowling " where is the gas attendant, is everyone stupid or what?" while he was trying to figure out how to pump gas. I disabled the safety pumps, they do not shut off, and do not coincide with numbers, you hold the handle it pumps out as much as you need.
              He was pacing around like a little kid denied recess and suffering from sounds of frolic and kickball--dragging his feet due to the fact he had to pump his own gas, I heard a scraping metallic clicking noise. My eyes were caught by a bright glare on his shoe tread, I gripped my nail gun..... then he dropped the hose and walked back to his car with gasoline gushing as his wake. I saw what it was on his tread, I had no time to flee....it was a push button grill ignitor with the orange tint of a " Do-Wee" label on it......" ****."
              The last thing I registered was the consumer saying " ahhh don't touch me," apparently talking to flames. I woke up in a ditch, the big fork truck and my gas station destroyed.
I limped back to the " Do-Wee" store, and utter horror greeted my singed and surprised eyebrows.
              " Grand Re-Opening, 50% off everything." I squeezed the trigger of the nail gun, the nail harmlessly echoed off the parking pavement at which it was aimed. "They set me up at the gas station. "
               They had to do better than that to separate me from my zombies.

             I entered through the store in a nun-plussed state. I woke out of my unbelieving stupor with the sound of Jose's voice. " Welcome to Doooooo-Weeee....can I eat your...."
            "Jose it's me, who chained you to the entrance?"
         " Dammian, Keeeeeth, they are waiiiting....here's a newsletter...." --he smacked me across the face with the newsletter.
        " I don't want that ****.....' as I clutched the newspaper the loudspeaker went off in Dammians annoyingly over-polite and late-night-voice.
       " Attention shoooppers. all prices are feeeefty percent off, ask our associate Keeeeeth for a 80% discount, he is the skinny deleeecious looking kid with spicy skin, and a boston red sox hat on."
Hundreds of consumers pivoted their heads to my direction. " Hey, that kid has a Boston Yankees hat on."
         " Run Keeeth," zombie-lisped Jose.
           Fifty million imbecilic questions assailed me at once......" can I return this sprinkler for a jacuzzi.....can I get 120% off.....can you come to my house and fix my television for free"-- it was unabashed audacity, survial of the most annoying and repetitious; and the corporate cadavers have let this consuming flood in on me and my poor zombies.
           I needed to find my steed, my inside forklift. It was not where I left it near the entrance.            
        Surely they have sabotaged it. " the riding mowers," the thought uplifted my fading resolve. I darted past wallowing consumers before they could get my scent. I heard a consumer, " you obviously don't know what Im talking about," talking to zombie George, who was munching roofing nails.
         The consumer grabbed me, and said "here he is, this is Keith, he is wearing a Phoenix red sox cap"--panic bit into my brain, this consumers grip was implaccable. The grip that holds the steering wheel tightly driving nowhere fast, with anything in that interstice of commuting, not worthy of manners and the least of which being a friendly wave to 'go ahead.'
           They formed a wall of uttering stupidity, escape was cut off. They scratched at me, hissed, tore at my flesh and screamed demonistically in my ears. I caved and and called the hoard m'am and sir, they choked me, and loosened their grip only so I could tell them " Im sorry, sorry for your inconvenience, take my life and personality as tribute, take my imagination rendered prostrate by these sceptic corporate words that this mouth emits, betraying my personal form, the human element to this lifeless purposeless machine....destroy me, for finding the infinity between letters of corporate law and none between nature's laws......"
        I was almost unconscious, giving a speech to imagined hooded phantoms......" destroy me, for valuing friendship and imagination, and seeing infinity, in the shadow of a letter, eternity in the numeral of a number, and for defying the order to see things as others do....."...." destroy me, for seeing that people are unhappy and trying to uplift people for the sake of seeing them smile....destroy me, destroy my smirk, and add a lifeless smile to my corpse."
              I heard a horn, the riding floor mopper/buffer, it was Ryan, he commandeered the machine with precision-like drunkenness. He knocked down the consumers like twenty pin bowling. " What's up ***** cat," he possibly said, and I climbed to my feet.
         I walked to the riding mowers, and turned the key on the floor model. I sped the main aisle, with caresses of consumers that would be deep clawings at a slower speed. I dodged stupid question, and swerved from unabashed frugality. I turned up the tool aisle, grabbed a battery nail gun.
              " It says batteries are included, but are they included?" I answered with a 12 gauge nail, and resumed my course to the upper offices, that for too long looked down on me and my friends. I climbed the stairs and entered. The office was abuzz in corporate banalities. " Hello, this is Damian how may I help you.....oh helloooooo keeeeeth, one minute.......sir hold one second thaaaanx."
                I aimed the nail gun muzzle at his ugly overly polite mug." I finally found you, I will get the store back in shape Damian...."
          He cut me off, " no yoou woonn't, they are pouring in, we will meet our quota for the year...."
        " Me and my friends

When a poem hits you, treat it like ***** under the front porch.  Yell " *** out da dere dam *****, ***, ***." And those ***** will scamper, and you'll think they're gone, but they will scurry right back, bebopping right under your pensive stare to the sunset on the front porch.  " ***, ***, dang, *****" and they bebop away, then you'll think it's fate , and you'll wait up all night, to catch the fat mother lollygaggin back, and you'll say " *** undah dat dang porch, ya dang *****," and you'll stare at the moon on that porch, saying" dang moon, *** ***, give me that dang sunsit."

mad, bad and dangerous to grow,
fed and sativa both,
the two I want to smoke,
and hang high on that green rope.

Ting, Tong--ocean is a mason--hear his chisel ring,
deep down, always erasing, with a Tong, Ting.
glassy stone is what his frothy sizzle brings.
anchor lines vibrate like heart strings.

A Ting, and a Pong, no more beloved chiselled font,
those dates gone, because the ocean is a mason,
and when I submerge into his basement,
Tong and a Ting, his craftmanship sings.

and those swings, vibrating anchor strings,
with a pong and ping, bring you to shore
his backswing, causes waves to pour,
bowing prow of windjammer rides contour.

and his distant Ting, commands the wind,
they are bellows for him, but throw your hat,
watch it come back again, a Ping and Tong,
the ocean is a mason, hear his song,
with power to rescind, nothing is gone,
throw your hat to the waves, watch it come back in.
submerge your ears// and hear the Tong and Ting.