Presence finds itself least expected, yet underscored
Anywhen, somewhere, a bus rolls into aurora, at wee hours
Though not on oceans
That's the place where cargo ships do
Together with airplanes, these larger escorting
tempos and times, clock shifts
Pulling sun along with them
in motion intrinsic as sustenance
Workday begins for some pre light
Bakers and bus drivers know this best
Two noble professions perhaps glamorized, perversely
by this poet
but not without recognition of
their elemental indwelling of us all

Newly oriented to certain fragrance
Spring whiffs may never smell the same
Coming out of nowhere, like elopement
or questionless death; perfume or incense

Redolence of planting garlic cloves
Also inhalation of hyacinth gives dissimilar
but now current to what may be good
or more thought provoked with profundity

Deepness sets in and pushes out
All goes on, but different
What's certain is, baseball season has started
and batters will have whiffs

Starving for meaning, an agnostic
bruising grey and white matter,
choking on maybes and half-truths,

finds indifference too easily. Never
pushing further through, cloudbursts
condensate but never conceive rainfall.

Something and always something
more gives pause, upon bathroom wall.
Scribbled as an epiphany lightening bolts

eye-opener, and its leakage capitalizes.
Each tagger finding more prophetic
words to denounce anything mystical

or godly. So, what's being fertilized
beyond the tinkling drain of insistence,
slumps downgrade to ebb of sewage

reaching sea. There amidst flotsam,
aeon's class of power perceived become
one with Supreme Being, an ocean.

Affinities bend the throttle, origin of our tribe
So hurtled as to collide, proving love weird
Instantly, expectations, hearts seared
To cool an overheated engine, a wide-eyed bride

Conjugal visits, if only this prison permitted
Yet recklessly committed, we find ourselves
Bound by obscurity promised, are elves
And faeries whose spells are transmitted

Who's dash against clatter does or doesn't?
What was or wasn't, how we might still be unclear
Still risking it all for fuzzy ambiguity, my dear
A six in one hand or that other half dozen

So we did it, it's done, and never more fun
My spun honey bun, I have no single regret
For you are my jangly chain, and I, your pet
Love run-in has been wet, and oh so wildly won

I'm eating the last cannoli. Pop's  funeral was over a week ago, and since it was the storm of the century that day, the caterer had way too many leftovers. This is the last remains of that infamous day's dessert. It's well past soggy, and smells now of the sliced onions left from the hoagie platters. Those, I'll just toss. No sense risking another death in the family. It's not so delectable, I know, but I'm eating the last cannoli, because that's what pops would do. He didn't waste a thing, symptom of being raised through the depression, I suppose. The depression, yeah, can't let that get to me, he wouldn't want it that way. I'm eating the last cannoli, choking back tears, and pinching my nose to get past the smell of this prose, and an onion smelling soggy cannoli, 'cause that's what pop would want.

Last remains, yeah, those are here too. Dad's ashes, that is. All tidy in a beautiful blue marble box, mom chose for both their internment. She mostly sits staring at the flowers sent, that are about ready to expire themselves. The strong scent of lilies in the air, helps with that odd oniony aroma. I'm eating the last cannoli, because mom is insistent I should. I wouldn't argue with her over it. Neither would pop. So, I'm eating the last cannoli.

Calling up guttural
half moon mornings deepen
something throaty
An inarticulate song
That in between place
so nondescript

Hard plastic ashtray
with burnt smudgings
that cannot be completely cleaned
Though it has less permanence
knowing these types of moons
will come back around
and make themselves known again
Yet still, misunderstood

There is a measurement
of light and dark
and a visibility of
smudgings here
and over there
Opening vocal chords
to give it a sound
leaves just a gritty inner tone