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.

Under the rug
where it's darker than light
rumbles & tumbles
a beast born of the night.
What is it you ask?
Well, to know that
one must be brave
and one must also crave
to place a face to all fears looming.
So, go on, lift up the mat's edge...
Sneak a peek at
darkness booming.

Close the cupboard doors
for from far in the back
lurches & lumbers forth
the most frightful roars.
Your ears can follow your fear
to the space just farther than
the longest arm's reach,
past the jar of pickles,
and through the forest of forgotten spices,
even beyond the lost boxes
of instant mashed potatoes
which don't grow old for eternity.

It is this lightless den
that's home to scores of tiny T-rex
looking creatures called
Boomasaurs.
They spend their time
noshing & munching
gobbling & gurgling
snacks of all kinds;
including grazing fingers.
You don't need to know too much more about them,
of this I'm sure,
just go close the cupboard door.

Do you trust your boomerang?

There's nothing under your bed,
as sure as there aren't bats in my head,
and I write this in a room
where laces can't be in shoes,
so, you better check under your bed.

For beneath your pillowy paradise
on which you wish to float in a dream of candies 'n cream
shuffles a shadowy blob; dark, as though made of demons' truffles.
And being a black mass of a mess
it moves beneath your boxspring
in a roll-flop manner.
The sound of which when heard lulls the tired & weak,
meek, children & adults alike
into a nightmare's pleasures.
shha-boom   shha-boom
shha-boom   shha-boom
shha-boom   shha-boom
shha-boom   shha-boom
shha-boom   shha-boom
shha-boom   *shha-boom

When a barroom filled with laughter
can't lift your head, even momentarily,
from your sad, soggy plate of nachos-for-one...

When passing girls in narrow hallways
flash the fires of passion from their eyes into yours
simply to be smothered under a heavy, wet blanket stare;
a cumbersome quilt of all your yesterdays' shame...

When the supernal opportunity to live for another 24 hrs
is met with all the ambition and grace
of a house cat forced into a cold bath...

You are used up to this world.
You are lost to your purpose of being.
You are dropped to the dirt like
a flower whose spiked stem pricked the caressing fingers of it's holder.

Hold no expectation of a familiar, loving hand
to reach down, relieved to pick you up
and reunite you with what you wish to be;
or to place you where you belong.
Look around,
The ground is littered with us unwanted things.

We've all seen that ***** pair of disregarded underwear,
miserably caked in rainwater mud,
laying on the side of a road or under a bridge somewhere.
Whose hand is reaching down for that?

But, I won't compare myself
to a ***'s forgotten underpants
and neither should you.

I'm sure the universe views us differently than that.
It will soon pick us up, wash us of all those grimy wrongs
and wear us out anew.
Yes, that has to be true.

It's OK that I'm not loving you.
I'm fine to spend my time on me.

   I've joined a Dragon Boat racing team.
You should see us out there!
We're like Vikings speeding on the river and under bridges.
 
  I've taken up the viola,
and your heart would melt if you heard my rendition of 'Twinkle, Twinkle'.
It's really quite nice.
 
  I've begun boxing classes.
Suddenly, there's great comfort in giving and receiving pain,
and I like to believe that you'd hate that you love to sooth my wounds.
  
   I've joined a dodge ball team to give my inner kid some recess time.
He's been down lately.
Turns out, I can dodge your glances faster than I can a giant, rubber ball.

   I'm taking Russian lessons now.
I couldn't talk to you the way I wanted to,
so I don't see much use for English anymore.
  
  I've also started to volunteer.
I work with emotionally challenged individuals,
I like to think you'd joke that I'm not volunteering there.

   No, my life is very full right now.
I can't imagine just how little I'd actually do,
if I were with you.

   I have a singing lesson in about a half hour,
but I may not go.
I'm tired.
And, I really don't want to do anything today.

   I just want to... may be watch a movie with you;
though, I wouldn't make it to the end.
I'd fall asleep holding you,
and dream of doing the same.

Jealousy was the world's first fantasy.
To see her eyes look at him
in the way only she can...
and he's not even trying for it.
You can give your all in vain, selfishness, bitterness,
You can toast at their wedding...
Excuse me...

Uncaring minutes are but passersby
disregarding my wails.
They hear me; they offer no help.
Though, with only sixty seconds to exist,
why would they stop for me?

The hours pound against my skull with intent to smash their way in.
Such constant clangor resonates through my consciousness
disturbs my ego,
dislodges regrets,
the agitation seems to sieve out
tiny jealousies from among other thoughts.

The Days...
Oh those ******* Days.
They see me confused and seize their chance;
they pull out my feet
right from under my frame,
and helpless, hurt,
I collapse to the earth.
And here time really sets in.

The Months form gangs called 'Years'
and The Years take their turn
breaking my joints, my fingers, my knees,
all my snappable, crackable points.
Curved, crippled,  and creaking,  
I languish in fantasies of what's supposed to be,
oh, and the 'might-have-beens'.

Time makes things worse.

A dark shadow moves over me.
I look up  as far as a heavy, beaten head will allow
only to see the massive, soul-crushing weight of the decades
seating their backside;
oppressively,
down to rest upon my twig-like spine.
Snap

And throughout the abuse,
I crawl, cringe, cower
as safe as can be in a low lying state on the ground,
(which is still six feet too high for all that time cares!)
I hear from somewhere afar
an unfaltering decree
from my maker to me
"Stand up straight! For Heaven's sake!"