Welcome to Cloud Corp.,
We're in the air,
We're everywhere,
24/7/365 plus leaps.
No need to yellow your walking fingers
To reach out and touch someone.
We're everywhere,
Ethernet, WiFi, bluetooth.
We're behind the scenes,
We are the scene,
Promising that we're never mean,
Just ramping up your thought-put,
Instantaneously as we speak,
Googo-hoo,
twit-face,
Sky-bay,
Amazonia with free ship,
Making it too **** simple
To Lean back and Digg your Drudge.

Come closer,
Yes,
    Yes,
You.
I want to see you better,
Focus on you.
Appreciate your mind,
As you appreciate mine
Reading this poem.
Ah a little bit closer.
Thank you.
Is that a wry smile,
Or an inverted frown?

I'm a deconstruction in the making,
Asymptotically crested,
having had a stellar rocket ride,
I've experienceed a moment or two
of defeating gravity,
but now only too aware
the inescapable trajectory
that is the common fate
of all living things.

You're a pronoun,
I'm a pronoun.
Let's say we grab a verb
and conjugalate ;-)

I desire to write only the words and lines required
to transport a thoughtful reader
into a contemplative moment of our own making.

Who can know sweet
When one has yet to taste sour,
Or appreciate salt,
When one eats bread without sodium?

the palpable sense
that all things have a soul
that the sum of parts
is less than the whole,
perhaps our primitive brains
must make it so,
there are people and places finely tuned
to this ideal and canon rules,
though I'm a man of science and well read,
I side with those that after death
the spirit separates from mortal flesh
resides awhile as a resonance
that jitters and jives until it's a tuned
to the resident cosmic symphony.

Quick note,
* Bang *
Here!
Who, what, where
?
it's going to take a bit of time.
Work on it,
Stay tuned.

Our minds meet on a virtual plain,
while our heads still shoulder
the chores of the coming day.
If wishes would, they'd connect
on a coved beach
where sun, salt and air
would finely filter any care.

In this light,
bisque white cup
lit right,
shadow left,
two-fingers+thumb loop
loop south,
mug chamber,
shadow side inside right,
top edge,
defined to the eye,
as a light gray oval trace
with refection highlights
at 10 and 5,
unseen bottom,
one gulp left of cold black coffee.

**** the poets
for wearing out
the very words
I wish to use,
"I love you."

white Styrofoam cup
waits for waitress fill up,
out of cigarettes!

Dear Lord,
Wherever you reside,
I pray this night
that you will assist
in the creation of a new religion.
The existing ones no longer fit.

I pray for your assistance
for a new tentless religion,
that retains all the old choir music,
but goes real light on all the past *******.

Dear Sorrows,
You are the sculptor of my deepest caverns.
My caves and subterranean passages
were hollowed by the drainage of your tears.
Were it not for you
I would be a solid unyielding block.
Sweet, sweet Sorrows,
through your good offices
I am tuned and resonant.

Dear Walt,
I know you're not listening
so it's safe to tell ya
that I cannot think of
your seminal work
without remembering:
--  that blue stained dress
-- Bill & Monica

Regards,
GJJ

The deep contentment
of my cat's purr
seems evidence
of his not being completely
of this universe,
but in some mysterious way,
a clever bridge
to another,
that in my humble human state,
I'm not presently privy.

It takes forty sap gall0ns
to 'still one gallon of maple syrup,
boiled down by the sun stored in firewood.
I remember well, my aunt Florence
feeding the boilers in the hill orchard sugar house,
wearing an old going-to-church dress,
that had, some years back, been handed down to workday chores
and on top covered over by uncle Fred's red and black mackinaw.
"Stand back," she said as she opened the boiler door
first the roar, then a bank of fire that painted
her from kerchief to boots flaming red,
her eyeglasses, two pools of glowing magma,
and everything above was steam and rising vapors.
In my mind's eye then and now when I read Dante
I'll think of her, she was and is, the very vision of a devil tender.

This morning's dew point,
Lower than inside air,
Silver gray condensate,
Shades window glare.
Like a night beat cop
Patrolling lover's park,
Fogged windows beacon passions' pant,
Sync-ed heaves chug parallel tracks,
Engine-caboose lurch to subsiding sighs.

There are three B's
intimately connected to a spinal cord injury,
bowel, bladder, and blather.
The gut severed from the brain
is rudderless.
Both bowel and bladder require outside assistance
which brings in blather.
The care giver, the talker.
One time, in my case
a born again ****** searcher.
Not for ****
but for digital conversion.
My *** well in hand I heard the purr,
"Do you believe in Jesus?"

Let my words be fingers
to take the tension from your neck,
to ease your shoulders from the day just spent,
with hands and arms to embrace your waist,
and trace the contour of your hips,
and continue thus along your thighs,
with your hands meeting mine,
divine, we will make this hour,

Blue bottle on sill,
White window frame, six lites,
Doe, faun graze green lawn.

Does love have a purpose?
I can see by the look on your face
that you've never asked yourself this question.
Are we drawn to one another
by benevolence or want?
Is love selfless or self serving?
Are we pawns on a Darwinian game board,
the slaves of genes, or eggs and *****?
And what if you and I knew the answer,
would you still love me, and I you?

Do not worry about our planet,
Our one mother and only home.
She's seen far worse than ourselves.
So do not worry about our planet.
Nature the midwife will right the earth,
Restore her vigor, and enforce new rigor
From our wasting, reckless hand.
When all human corpus have joined the land
For some, our final story is a sorry matter.
But do not worry about our planet.
For nature will once again amend the latter.

Do you suppose
within the blizzard
of transmitted text,
packed in bytes
and individually addressed
in such a way
that your emoticon kiss :*
and mind *: to you
may have met and smooched
in cyber space
before they 1 & 0'ed
the computer codes
that displayed on screens
our mutual affection?

What are dreams but kites we string,
thoughts we stress,
sometimes obsess,
with tails and tales of fantasy,
that we run a field
with overhead,
seeking to find a bit of lift,
a warm and rising currency,
that buys us time,
time for us to bide our wish,
like lofting balloons of lunacy,
but serves us well,
that we do dwell
on thoughts of things
that may yet prove
veritably impossible,
least we lay a plan,
and execute.

Today I turned inside,
walked to the plaza jardin,
stood before the central well
There a hangman's noose secured a ropped bale 'n bucket
which I dropped into the inky dark,
no splash has yet been heard.

Each time I thought of you
the mountains grew noticeably higher,
the trees stood appreciably straighter,
the rivers were a bit broader,
the lakes a little clearer,
my love, the mere thought of you,
is a force through nature.

to stand naked before you,
and you before me,
unashamed,

to stand close but not touching,
close enough
to feel each others heat,

to stand motionless
with eyes fixing
each to each.

a red moon tonight,
star mat, arch framed in night black,
lunar eclipse.

It's an elevator ride.
You decide whether
it's down or up.
The car slows and halts
to fill or empty.
You ride,
you ride,
you ride
knowing that only
the suicidal select a stop.

My arms wrap my body
as if I were a mummy
and in the way that mummy's are stiff,
so to my paralyzed carcass,
a living entombment of wishes
that wither by noon
then baled into flop sweat shivers
for the wet wash cloth
of the next day's care giver.

If errant words were kites
that could be so easily drawn,
or a passing cloud
where one could wait
the passing shower,
but the danger of errant words is
that once unsheathed
they may cut as if a knife.

What's a billion years
when you have infinity on your hands,
anything is possible
regardless how remote the chance.
Yes, the monkeys locked in the room with typewriters
will correctly type word for word
the bible, the koran, or even this hen scratch.

Laurel, rhododendron,
waxy leather leaves survived
again beyond odds.

Every room was painted wrong,
there wasn't a stick of furniture,
even the light needed bathing,
having come through greasy windows,
the interior space begged to be outside,
each echo cringed at its own birthing,
the ceilings wanted to be the floors,
the floors resented all the walls,
and the walls told both to take a flying -
but this was but a partial molding
of the metaphors for this less than perfect day.

Among the plethora
the eye plucks one falling flake
melting in my hand.

Thank you for
the wish-you-were-here photo
that you emailed today,
so soft, beautiful, and peaceful,
your fairyland winter,
a reminder to entreat you
"please, please keep it there!"

Morning, white horse fencing,
Black cat, jaguar walks top edge
Through the early hour mist.

The painting at the head of my bed
on a single frame canvas
depicts a triptych,
a faux three pane view
of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
This tri panel composition
reminds me of the way some Christians,
fuse their three bodied god into a mythical
singularity of mystical much.

I find
you
once again
sleeping on my bed,
you slinky black self satisfied *****.

Few are loved for who they are,
but for how, and whom they serve.
Is your beauty, brains, or bravery
your servant that does your bidding
so lovers flock and posture at your feeder?
Unless the ill, the homely, the mental cases
have a built store of once given gifts
they find few friends and fewer still
the comfort of a lover.

Firewood, spark, smoke, flames,
an infinite varied dance
mesmerizing thought.

Where would we be
without the ******,
the flare 'n ripple
that cups to meet
but in duty
never truly mates?

My grandparents once owned the Lincoln Inn,
in a junction called Essex,
A big old Vermont village house,
that's as much as I can remember,
but on a shelf
in my house
next to where the morning sun glints in
are a few cranberry tumblers
from that hotel
that catch the morning light
and burst out in a flash of red.

Forsythia,
here blazing out,
in,
is it tractor,
   center stripe,
      or school bus yellow?
A distant cousin to the olive tree.
Would that a rioting branch,
when offered,
would never fail to restore
tranquility and peace.

Fragile the moment,
mystery its own brevity,
its inevitable passing
the poetic sorrow
of every sentient soul.

From the 8th floor
I can hear an ambulance siren
wailing the boxed night,
who is inside is out of sight,
a heart attack, a street fight?
Somewhere in that labyrinth down there
is a masked doctor,
a pair of surgical gloves,
and a sharp knife.

Gib moon, horse barn roof,
The trees and hills silhouette,
"Cry, coyote, yowl."

Glacier,
Flake
Time
Crystal
Collective
Mass
Gravity,
Flow
Breakin­g
Celibate
Monastic
Oath
In
This
Cathedral
Tower
Bedrock
Cracking­
Groans
Moans
Under
Exponential
Cave
Crush
Crevasse
Plowing
Scori­ng
Tearing
Mush
Melt
Calving
Diving
Block
By
Block
Headlong
Into
­Wave
Reflecting
Clouds.

So enjoined,
Across from me,
Two lovers,
recent college graduates,
seeking first career employment,
Conjoined, before interest,
One hundred and eighteen thousand dollars of student loan debt,
One twenty-nine year old Honda
Holding all their stuff
On a side street where we eat
I picking up the check, pray,
"God help them,
God help our nation."