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Yes I might

///


Mountain !

(Why do I believe (?) )

Soft breasted girl

Why do I feel I need you

To be with me (?)


••


We try so very hard

We

Give it our all

//

Though we don't know

What's been won ...... Or - lost

""



White sails

Hangin in the sky

The ship is in the harbor


Headin for the open sea

//

Some say you are the Captain

Some just look to Me

///

///

Oh holy karma

( oh well I may )

Tell you my dream

Oh yes I just might


Oh yes I just might



.
I learned not to
run with scissors
along time ago
in this spiritual playground
that blooms and blossoms
within and without me.
Don't run with scissors
and treat what I find
with as much reverence
as I can muster.

Oh how it sometimes becomes
so obvious that when I lose track
if I follow it back and I follow it back
it leads right back to me.

It's my perception with which I see
and sometimes born of imagination
I stumble upon some thing so magical
while I'm playing on the monkey bars with the others
who are twisting and twirling and hurling through
this expanse that they just tell us just is.

I'm feeling to advance and hold the whole of this universe
in my mind or in the collective mind that so far points to that of Humankind.
Just don't run with scissors and don't **** in to the wind
with these two golden rules (pun intended)
my heart gets what it needs knowing
it doesn't have to take it with greed.

I can never lose what I never had
and nothing can be taken from me
unless I agree...
But in the broader question
there are just too many to mention.

Those who have stood by me
when the row has been hard to ***
I can say 'we walk alone' and in the same breath
I can say 'there is only One of us who walks'.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
JR Rhine
Just a little off the top.
Drawin' a dotted line
'round the skull
takin' your shears
just above the ear.

Cuttin' a close crop.
Burrowin' into the skin this time
'round the skull
now your clippers
smilin' so chipper.

Leavin' a head clean smooth.
Whistlin' at a near-finished work
'round the skull
peelin' back the skin
bravin' a peek within.

Grabbin' that comb with its fine tooth.
Unfurlin' that pink mass of quirk
'round the skull
eyein' where tendrils append
trimmin' the dead ends.
Insanity/conformity. Memories of old barbers cuttin em all high and tight existing among memories I wish they'd trim off.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Sky
Supernovas
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Sky
When our lips meet,
I swear that stars collide
I can see supernovas
in your eyes
And even the lightest touch
Fingers on my spine
Sends shivers, pleasure,
surging through my veins
Once upon a time,
I was little girl lost
But the stars looked down
They shook their heads and said
“She shouldn’t wear a frown.”
They found a soul with scars to match my own
We stood to watch the stars collide
I saw supernovas in your eyes
And cherished the feeling
of your fingers entwined in mine
Now, when our lips meet, I swear
Stars collide to create a new universe
Souls tangle, they entwine and combine
And the word outside simply falls away
As fingers dance gently along my spine.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Sky
Bloom
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Sky
Flower petals, soft
Colored like cream
Hints of pale rose splashed on the tips
Hold the flower carefully,
and it won’t ***** you with its thorns
Caress the petals, feel them, so soft
Touch your lips to them gently
The bloom will open for you, open
to reveal its bloodred depths, passion
Hold the flower carefully
until it opens
Then keep a tight grip
and caress the soft petals, cream and rose.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Nico Reznick
We got out of the ****** motel early,
while we still could,
before the rental car got stolen
or our room underwent dynamic drive-by refurbishment.
There was supposed to be a
complimentary continental breakfast,
but the coffee machine was broken
and someone had already swiped all the donuts.

My only frame of reference for Inglewood was that it was Sam Jackson's character's home turf in 'Pulp Fiction',
leading me to suspect it
probably wasn't a nice area,
although the fat ****** smoking outside
when we'd checked in at 2am
had seemed very friendly.

You were right about LA, about
how there must be a sun, but you can't
really see it, you just
sort of assume it's up there somewhere
behind the fog huffing in off the Pacific
and the toxic breath rising from the
city's gridlocked mouth.

We made for Venice Beach, because you
don't fly all that way and then not go,
us figuring ourselves early enough
in the grey, jet-lagged damp, to
avoid the junkies, the winos and the crazies,
the symptoms of America driving itself mad with
unrealistic dreams.
But they were already there, muttering and
shivering on sand and cement, some
under rags or cardboard,
just waking up in
spite of themselves.

A woman with the hungriest face I ever saw
threw a cigarette lighter at me, then yelled,
shaking in her filthy clothes, that she wasn't giving it to me, *****, FYI,
FBI, CIA, JFK... then
started screaming about Kennedy and all those lying ***** up on the hill.

The ocean ******* away at the land behind us, like it was
whetting its appetite for the day when San Andreas splinters, and the waves finally get to
devour
California.

The hungry-faced woman was still shouting when
we walked away, through the graffiti and
gangs of *******-huge, hulking seagulls.
If I'd stopped and tried to talk to her, if I'd
gotten anywhere close enough, I was
afraid she'd tear a bite out of my face,
and I didn't know what shots I'd need if that happened, and we didn't have medical.
Which was a shame,
because I'd have liked to hear
what she had to say about Kennedy.

We walked to where you'd street-parked
the car which
still hadn't been stolen.
On the way, some guy, a stranger
coming the other way, called you
'Football Dude' and asked you
to catch his neighbour if she
jumped off her balcony, but
I think he was joking.

Oh, and the car was yellow.
This poem is featured in my Kindle collection, "Over Glassy Horizons", available here: > tinyurl.com/amz-ogh
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Nico Reznick
Not often, but
there are times
when the noise in my head
turns way up
and the dial breaks off,
and all I want is quiet,
when I feel the pull
of something terminal,
feel the dark, velvety lure
of swallowed pills or gun barrel,
the stealthy seduction of carbon monoxide,
the skull-exploding swan dive
onto shocked concrete,
the warm bath with low light and sharp blades.
I can covet that big, simple answer, too, sometimes.
I can long for that complete, forever silence.
But I know I'm only window shopping.
 Jan 2016 Mike Essig
Nico Reznick
She was young and slim and beautiful,
my first love,
with skin like licked caramel, and
always smelling, always tasting
like peach candy.  But still,
I sort of envy Bukowski his
300lb *****, the painted leviathan that
swallowed whole his virginity and
broke his bed, before falling snoring asleep
on her wide, sea-creature back, because he
probably learned more from that ugliness
than I ever learned from
beauty.

That said, I envy him more the night
the old dog buried his bone
in six separate gardens,
the dark-haired woman who
sent him a photo of  her
self
reading his book
in the  bath, and the two perfect
blonde Dutch girls his editor found on the great man's lawn
when he called by one evening,
the both of them waiting for Hank to
come home from the track
so they could **** him.
Bukowski had the best groupies.
Score thy song befitting Ran , the voice of the ocean proclaiming the finality of tide against land ..
The surety of sea oats that sway in the afternoon wind , Blue ***** shall reconvene at Dusk , schools of Red Drum , Whiting and Tarpon . Sand dollars appear where terra is drawn into the sea , the waters bounty having been secured by the fishermen of antiquity , for which I am one . As famished as the gulls that portray themselves at the shoreline , crying for their wages ...
A period lighthouse bids welcome to her returning voyagers , reassuring as the first light of day . Safe harbor turned the poet into a songwriter .. It numbed all the bad that afflicted the soul , removed unpleasant imagery from the minds painful repository of guilt , quelled the constant obsession with the garden of good and bad .
The steam from the cup cradled within these weathered hands returns to the Atlantic on this morn , recalling perilous epochs at the mercy of Neptune ..
Copyright January 6 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
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