Busy catching each report, we are
glued to a fascination. Though, it is
more than that.

It is life and love taken.

Audio visual enhancements trigger
remote and widespread accord.

Fellow feeling vibrates and all tune
in to Paris. Who could help being
absorbed in bandaging blue ruin?
I want to hear the song playing
when shots rang out and life was
postponed, cut short.

I want to hear that song finish.
Survival depends on seeing,
hearing this song performed to fin. From where it was shot riven
Friday, November 13, 2015, it is
vital to have it play out, again.

Paris, I have danced with you.
Your artists, lovers, chefs have
dipped me in your graciousness.

I owe you promise of return.

Untiring are we who share your
passion for life. You gave us a
lady holding a torch of liberty.
She wants you to look past this
time of darkness, into her light.
She still holds up that noble idea.

Her arm is indefatigable.

Birds in mass, commune on crumbs
What's thrown to them, devoured
I am their Father, the wine soured
Distant when our time comes
Misinterpretation, speaking in tongues

Chimes recordings, dull church bells
Twenty first century interpretation
An audio playback congregation
Find gospels taught in prison cells
Each,  internally, their own hells

Homomorphism, the new Genesis
Everything becomes the same
No answer as to, who to, blame
For genetic selection brings us this
And all the choir coos in bliss

The homily that turned into slobbering, unequaled any ordinary drool. Evenly balance my center of gravity.

Breathe in, breathe out. Lung sacs are losing elasticity.

Tighten descension through to  your love. Air is thick surrounding what is
held inside a chalice.  

Blood mist pillows.
Body crimson flush.

An amity offered presently, so shortly
gives a second's continuance. My will
to hold your crux, so I may adore,
eat of, drink of, understand.

Our sacrament has not yet recognition
in eyes of high on holy. Still, I promise
to sit with you, sopping all this
be all and end all, so I may call
your meat, bone, and marrow,
solely mine.

As amorousness is the weakness I worship, you are my sin.

My minotaur has mad cow's disease.
The FDA is rounding up each one
in a forty mile radius for slaughter.
They're incinerating the bodies
at the trash-to-steam factory. I hear
gunfire and wailing children. Sharon
next door is in shock. She's been
on her knees down on the lawn
mumbling, "please, please, please,"
for the last two hours. Crimson clouds
bleed into sunrise. How will we
escape the seepage?  

I'll stop at the Getty for a car wash
before I pick you up. Have some
sandwiches packed.

O for the love of God,
the moos, the moos.

She's so casual squishy,
that Velda Tautginas. Lithuanians
have the strangest names
but **** can they cook. Fine
figured woman too. That Marius
is sure a lucky man. I don't know
how he keeps the pounds off.
If someone was cooking me
kugel like that, I'd be fat as a
manatee. Gettin' close though.

Shoulda never moved to Florida.
It's so **** sticky, I can't bear
to leave the air conditioning. Still,
Id've never met the Tautginas
had I not moved to St. Pete's. Guess
I oughta get a treadmill or
one of them there Beachbody
workout videos. Hell Marius tells me
Velda's sister is recently widowed
and is moving here from Newark.
Bet she knows how to make,
kugel like that.

Outside the borders of this asylum’s garden not much is in bloom.
Seems fastidiousness of this establishment’s gardener is derangement of decadence:

... neat little rows of pansies,
followed by neat little rows of anemones, with alternate groupings of hostas and Lenten roses behind.
All against the backdrop of viburnums,
capped with hydrangea at each end.
The airy sprays of baby’s breath and coral bells give veils of blossoms not to obscure color behind, making it all sparkle, as if some fairytale world,
encapsulated by a wall of hemlock,
like an evergreen iron curtain.

And I am certain,
I am more insane in here
than beyond that gate where
dandelions push through cracks of pavement and my shaking cold body
is not riddled with
the rainbow colored pharmaceutical
salad of this insanity.

Having left paradise some time back,
and watching tint fade, rose sky
goes lavender, washes into deep blue.
These ultra violet filters, pandemonical,
fly googley-eyed and I am stuck
in hard realization of incapacity
to adapt to current color scheme.
Can grey go further black
until soot is creosote?
Tar now tumbles and bubbles
in nostrils, blindness leaving only
sense of smell, an oil field carnage.
Green by any means,
flags with dollar signs,
majestically waving and when
complete soul is sold out,
I disperse upon a riptide
of foamy grey matter.
Silicon Valley earthquake
sends forth satanical tsunami,
washing away World Wide Web
and your pretend paradise too.

Dusty universe
with sprinklings of light,
you're a magical pondering.

I wonder if you wonder back.

Then expanse hits me.
Fascination of winsomeness
in elements crashing,
forming new star clusters,
nebula unknown or yet to be
sowed, beckons an idea of
horror in mediocrity. How
should one stand out
amongst your immense glory?
Will effervescent bubbling spectrums
with spiraling arms of some
galaxy suddenly singe
any existence known to man?
Could any man guess your plan?

Earth shattering revelation,
I'm guessing there is no plan.
So I'll make my own,
and let all this revolving
and evolving
take care its' own.

Ambitious as love may be,
integrity has lost sanctity.
As silver train follows slug,
bride or groom or just garden ****?

Not easy to tell, these rapid days.
In any case, I'm not amazed.
For in a place of paradise,
would not all exist, is my surmise.

Yet, within that Eden a serpent lied,
but question still, who let it inside?
Eve forever blamed, an original sin,
much too played out, over and over again.

Find new fault within this thought,
for has not all men bought his wrought?
How original can it be,
when been repeated sea to sea?
Let not these troubles worry thee,
for only furthers society's anxiety.

Schematics of crushes, roguish or
otherwise waggish, befitting to
summation, of a cosmic life span
of paper cuts suffered by poets,
and lovers alike, are not to be
understood by a future non-tactile
Internet age. Yet, may I be as bold
as to predict some sort of quark
spun eyeballs, as simple malady
one might experience in fated
approaching calamities of those
daring enough to extend electric
aeronautics of the heart? For this
is what I have found, in my online
romantic searches. The effects
leaving me only slightly, bug-eyed.

Reminiscences of our future
Things to be, perhaps nostalgically
Who is wishing star's shooter?
Presently mind altering pendantically
Subconsciously forever no honesty

Someplace we never were together
Vicariously our algorithms meet
And I in my mind, with you forever
Though self-hypnosis not complete
Perpetuum delirium I greet

Infinitely brief occurrences
How we do so, what's not sought
Repress outer conscious past tenses
Hidden innermost thought
To table, it is never brought

Who could know the unaccomplished?
You and I, sheer mystery
If it weren't, I so astonished
And you and your word artillery
Slight chance we could change this
history?