A prima donna dips into candied violets;
a poison which brings an understudy to center stage.
With the anonymous delivery of the Donna's death done,
Jasper stands in the freezing, pouring rain
buying a ticket to see the 'new girl' sing.
In his way, Jasper loves her.

Fantasies feed on the very seed of Jasper's personality.
They are torments' larvae wriggling worm-like
through his thoughts
boring browning holes in a ripe reality
his desperate tongue can't taste,
and they feed in numbers that would disgust the core
of the most rotten apple.
His love is left mealy, blackened, and soft;
it's a love she wouldn't bite into if offered,
or even paid to.
It's a truth; Jasper can't have her.
Sopping, he enters the hall and falls into his seat.

With the Prima Donna's unexpected death,
the understudy, on this night, turns Diva
and unknowingly into Jasper's private show.
Her voice spins sound as a spider does silk,
deftly and delicately.
Beautiful patterns unseen by this theater of flies
capture hitherto buzzing ears calming them into submission.
It's an ****** comfort they wouldn't fly from if they could;
slumped in his chair like a pile of fresh dung among the swarm,
Jasper sits unmoved
as no beauty touches such messes.

He doesn't hear one note from her.
He listens instead from within.
To dejected oboes and off tune cellos
pulling long bow afflictions across his heart's chamber,
as his eyes scrape away scraps of her image
lacking all but the lust of love,
he pieces together masterful artworks of delusion;
a failing attempt to satisfy a sick mind's eye.

The show finished to unbridled acclaim.
And as the front of the house dispersed,
Jasper made his way into the rafters backstage.
He moved over the wood beams in the slow manner
of growing black mold
all the while uncomfortable with the dagger's handle
pressing hard into his hip.
This discomfort tickled away by the sound of her butterfly laugh
fluttering up to join him;
a dead limb clinging to felled Sweet Birch.

He chased the winged notes down
and found himself lost in the chaos of aftershow clamor,
and confused by streaks of rosey-faced gaiety mingling freely
with the furious movements of stage breakdown work.
Jasper stood for some time overwhelmed, numb, and totally unnoticed.
A kind of prop no one knew what to do with or why it was there.

A pop of a bottle's cork marshaled his attention
to a corner where, for a shimmering moment,
champagne mimicked the very rain outside.
The scene was Jasper's nightmare come real.

There stood the new Diva decorated in diamonds
and a fancy, fur coat.
If she wasn't sipping life's golden bubbles out of a clear
crystal flute, she was laughing promiscuously
with a throng of wish-to-be lovers
all praising their way to the pink center of universal desire.
Jasper can't have her
for he is a cur.
And it is only in the flowering bouquet of his lust and shame
that the rose red hue of her face would ever compliment
the white fear of his.
But he was set to tie this bouquet
with a grey blade bow bespeckled with both their magenta blood.

Amidst the frenzied bacchus,
he drew near her with all the finality of a heavy curtain
ending a scene.
The closing act, a quick stab to her throat,
releasing her final note - a gurgle in G.
Jasper loved her, in his way.

A swath of flies swooped in to the **** they saw
landing too late to stop the tying of the bouquet.
As second act of steel in flesh played on the stage of Jasper's heart.
He collapsed into his love seeing her frightened face rushing towards his.
This view he would take to eternity,
escaping his ugliness and that of others to be ******.
Here though, through the creation of her end
and in the clash of their bodies,
he finally possessed all the world's unbearable beauty.
Only the acting moment of existence matters
and Jasper...was with her
in her last.

Wires & walls
rats in bathroom stalls
strained sinews drag
a Camel into my lungs
as I walk  over
asphalted hills.

Bridges span seas,
but to no memories
of a life unguided
by highways' helping hands;
all adventures are planned
ahead.

Cities grow
as cameras roll
to capture the movements
of every breaking soul.

Wires & walls
rats in bathroom stalls
beasts in a zoo
which we all walk through,
how miserable we have to be
to lock up all as we do.

Eyes to the night sky
avoiding neon lies
seek soothing drops
of moonlight trickling down
our crystalline, steel caves.

Killers and lovers
walk the parks together.
Knife in hand,
hand in hand
all hope to find
what they need.

Cities grow
as cameras roll
to capture the movements
of every breaking soul.

We grow in a ragged garden
whose caretaker no longer cares
for himself except to prune back
only the most strangling branches
of his mind's miseries.
Effectively, we are left to
our own wild ways.

In all directions,
time's vine sprawls unnoticeably
slow in its natural haste
to overtake every creature.

We are the berries
strewn along this vine.
Our thin skins stretched and aching
around poisonous pools of bitter juices,
desperate for a touch,
a cause to burst,
a moment in which our existence is fulfilled.

To die in defense of the vine
is why we are here.

Most of us will never do but rot;
stuck to a stem that roots us in
idle uselessness.
It is my brightest & deepest, berry blue hope
not to rot here with the lot of you.

So, with great want I watch the passing birds
fly in the sky and seethe in need for the
little hoppers who come so near
just to tilt their tiny heads
and maddeningly flutter off.

There must be one who makes the mistake
of choosing me.
One who plucks me right off with its beak
and bolts to dine in some high, safe place.

It will die for its hunger,
and so too will I for satisfying it.
But, for a moment between boredom's end
and attaining purpose,
I'll see the garden from a different view;
a bird's eye.
I'll see the entire vine for what it is,
and hopefully; finally, know why
it's worth protecting at all.
*BURST

What is it, exactly, that you don't get?
It has become apparent that I, maker of all,
which includes, unbelievably, you too,
must put all of my work on hold
just to come and check-in on you.

I have listened to you vehemently beat
with such astonishing regularity the dead horse
of your, lets say discomfort (?)
over your time alive being finite,
that I actually drew up plans to wipe
out of existence totally, all horses ever
just so you'd be forced to find a new topic.
I threw out those plans of course.
I decided instead to come directly to you and ask,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?

Are you aware, last Tuesday, for example,
while you were writing that miserable little poem,
you know the one,
you kept rhyming 'die' with 'Why? Why? Why?'
Gahh. What a horrible read,
are you aware, that while you spent
four hours of your finite life unhappily writing
on your fears of death
a man much more adjusted to his
mutual, unchangeable lot
took out the very girl you write all your other poems about?
If you're curious, they had a great time.
Does that help clear things up?
If you're still confused, please, tell me while I'm here,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?

Oh, how we both know that you have your words.
So ordered are they in your head.
So active in breaking life's happenings down
in a useless obsession to understand
even the tiniest subcategories of meaning
found within larger, though still insignificant meanings,
all of which you broke down before,
forgot, broke down again, forgot, repeat into ∞.
I'm amazed you ignore the one word which silences all others.
You act as a fool who refuses a warm blanket on a cold night
out of a dumb idea of strength through suffering.
You ignore the only word which covers all who are confused;
accept.
Accept.

I can tell you with some humor, that
most of life is not for thought to poke at
like a sexually incompetent lover getting
a chance at the town's *****.
Which you'll remember didn't go so well for you either.
I think Kim was her name? Anyways,
still, you have your words,
so I'll ask you again,
Maker to man,
What is it, exactly, that you don't get?

Perhaps, a simplified picture
will help you get an idea of my disappointment here.
Lets see, how to make this really basic for you...ah!
For me, you give off all the excitement of a cat staring
at a limp string on the ground, occasionally patting it
with its paw, claws retracted.
But I want you to be like a dog who ferociously bites
down on the rope I hold the other end of
and pulls with all his strength against me! For fun! For life!
For a right he assumed all on his own to have what he wants
and works to make that true.
But you,
you just sit there pawing listlessly at all I hold out to you.
So I ask you again...
No.
No.
Never mind. You're done.
Come with me.

The world isn't real to me,
it's outside a thick skull.
It's my muted screams you hear
coming from inside
this bone brazen bull.

The body pursues pleasures while
pleading to me "Be happy! So that I...
so that we may find love."
The nerve.
The nerve!
And trust you me this bag of bones,
this lustful flesh has too many nerve ends firing.
And they all want something,
all demand my attention
for even the most mundane events
of their spoiled lives of experience.

Thank you, nerves, for sharing how a cool,
spring breeze blowing lightly over you feels.
Thank you too, way down there,
for making me aware
of the soft grass sliding taught between your toes.
How special for you, no jealousy here.
Now, lets bring this mess to order,
would somebody please go ask the warden when
visiting hours are over?
Because, you see,

The world isn't real to me,
it's outside a thick skull.
It's my writhing & thrashing you mock
twisting within
this bone brazen bull.

"Be happy" it tells me.
To better pursue it's goals!
It has clearly never even once tried reversing roles.
Well, I have. Many times. For, I've the time to think, believe you me.

I would stuff the body in a box barely big enough to fit it,
and add within the 'creature comforts' found in my abode
which you'll daily find me in abidance.
Inside would be dark, hard, and for reasons still unexplained
somewhat sticky...
Would somebody PLEASE! tell me why it's sticky in here?!
Excuse me, moving on...
I would taunt it then:
"Let's go for a run." I'd say,
"The breeze caressing my grey matter sure is nice." I'd add,
"Why aren't you happy in your dark, dank, brain-box, body?!" I'd shout.

Between you and me, I only smoke because I know it makes
its lungs all sappy.

Why aren't I happy, body?
I'll tell you.
Because delusory images drafted from incomplete,
tainted, sensory data, diluted of any real, exciting experience
are all that make up my world; my life!
It's as boring as drinking a ladle full of water Jesus made
out of what was once wine and then added fluoride to.
I'm like your shut in grandmother you write home to
in brief, lying notes about your travels abroad.
"Amsterdam was nice STOP"

So, body, excuse me for taking pleasure in unhappy things
such as smoking, or hating.
Excuse me for my spite.
But, for me and my experience these are the things
I find tickling my quote unquote toes.
And...I'm all too mad to say,
are the closest I'll ever come to 'feel'.
Because, you see,

The world isn't real to me,
it's outside a thick skull.
And it's my muted screams you hear
coming from inside
this bone brazen bull.