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.

He is **** writer
She is scarcely clad inciter
Writer stumbles along
scanning her song

For words to add to his poem
Songstress pretends not to notice
adjectives he steals
thieving glance at his heals
All marauding spinning wheels
Prosody ‘o orthography blow him

plethora a plush collusion
exile of garment illusion

each sit across room
She ties ribbon to bloom
this ribbon runs through typewriter
Who will be inciter?

presume it is not Jeroboam
****** be this poem

There was a day I spilled milk
Atop my head and did not cry
Cheating myself; a bet to bilk
Sun soured and wondered why?
For I had every reason, but not a single sigh

Laughing in my stinking curds
I splashed atop a dimpled rock
Feeling not even slightly absurd
Frolicking in warm milky frock
Just an act; some profound cheesy schlock

Representational of bacterium
Justification for odd immunity
There fermented in midday sun
Not feeling part any community
After all, this land of opportunity

In symbolic essence I did lay
Coagulating a rotten smell
“No poetic license,” one might say
Passer-by exclaiming, “What the hell?”
I allegorical enzyme, thus began to jell

There's something I need to say
in resolved alliance with communicable insanity
Particulars are of no interest to me
Neither are excuses
What's worried me are your uses
and aloofness to them
"How is it," you say, "are the bonds between us
that give us sanctity?"
I say, "No no, mincing words with the poet
will do you more harm than
you already believe you suffered"
So, please
find yourself at ease
and suffer no longer
You are free to go

To emulous praise of great simplicity
Whose tale, before me coming here, was told
But soon shall come summer tomatoes’ harvest
Leaf after leaf sprouting now, who play
In soft breezes of spring air warming
Modest speech and glowing courtesy
Then a flowering so distinct and delicate
Ah, yet smell of this particular chlorophyll
Lingering like incense of religious experience
Makes me wait with baited taste buds
For “Aha” to be exclaimed
By New Jersey-ites who have seeded heirlooms
In humble suburban backyards
And wait for that delicious immortal juice

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.

Ms. Mabelline Merryweather  might not follow all rules and regulations at Social Services to a T, but she does get the job done efficiently. She knows well paper pile-ups, bureaucratic mumbo jumbo is second language to her. No unruly impatient Podunk piece of indigent indecency can rile the likes of Ms. Mabelline. She's cool as a cucumber on a chilled salad bar. Speaking of which, it is just now two minutes away from Ms. Mabelline's cherished lunch entourage with fellow ladies of the office. So, if you'd like to get your claim copied and filed quickly, you'll give Ms. Mabelline her due respect, else your *** might be chilling back in the waiting room, till she's finished laughing over your pathetic life from a table at TGIF's this noon hour. You know, claim uncertainties and misfilings have been known to jam up processing for weeks, don't ya know?

Through the telephone wire (remember those?)

crawled in an earwig, such a talented insect. He

would take over, chew and choose the words,

words heard or not, from time after, a stranger

called to tell me you were dead. This bug in my ear,

sent by a stranger to allow a coping mechanism in.

That voracious little beetle heard everything since.

What he does not spit out, relayed through pinchers

immutably clamped upon my right eardrum. This

strange and pleasing tic of mine, my earwig

is evolutionary. Something I consider gifted from

Late Triassic period, a time I refuse to remember.

A transmitter and editing device, only letting in

what is endurable, so I need not wrestle with rest.

My happy parasite, working so hard to eliminate

pain of many deaths that came after first one,

all the lovers lost. Pestilence still vibrates

through a tuning fork on back end of bug.

Chaw and discharge, seeping out my ear can

no longer be ignored. No longer holds on.

Forcing imagination to reestablish itself, after prescriptive onslaught of docs, scientists, specialists and quacks, lacks for ease of descriptive purpose, genuine motivation. The pills, darling, the pills usurp rational outmode. This to counteract that, which causes symptomatic supersession of more to set aside a succession imposing supplant more supplements. I submit! This breaking down of the other and then an other in a pharmaceutical battery of which ***** next? Can common sense overrule? Overruled! As another script is scribbled, a blank gaze overcomes, and the drool drips and overruns.

Perceived significance by breaking virginity
Never vouchsafed, not even understood
Complex memories in genitals’ vicinity
Cache, RAM, ROM, hard drive if you would
Nothing really computes, as it should

Clearly confusion in wiring memory bank
Who engineered puzzled aftereffect?
More than likely, a predator to thank
Prey succumbs to hacker’s muddled intersect
Virus from which, nil shall disinfect

Cross-wired, used, high-jacked and fused
A child’s loss of innocence complete
Morality bruised on Internet cruised
Cyber collision crashing ******* to meet
From innocent mind this cannot delete

Trying to expediate the process in which
another man’s pain is relinquished can  

only happen in two ways; (a) drugs or  
(b) leaving him to it. There is a third

but that involves trickery of a rather
sorted questionable ethical suspicion.  

Fishy as this all may sound for the
sake of trepidation alarming itself

within one, must only come from within.
Other academia or institutionalized

theorizing shan’t ignite the inner lamp
or give levity to situation. Trust of one self's

own recognition in this be the path.
So, take it or leave it. Your choice.

Ancient Georgian ghosts be led
King Vakhtang intracranial seer
Saw what was inside your head
Caucuses he found and ruled
Iberian Legions Of The Dead

You a falcon as his guide
Pheasant torn in two by talons
Ability to plan future by glide
Vision of a challenge to balance
Gripping what mind shan’t hide

Persia rips upon fortress strong
Anatolian wars come hither
Goes on and on centuries long
Great cultures die in dither
Indecisive waves; washing wrong

“Wolf head” King Vakhtang Gorgasali
Ghoul and canonized orthodox saint
Knows plight Sassanid Iranian hegemony
And history will continue further taint
This Rose Revolution remit cacophony

Sapphire eyes descending my torso
Have I a head, or is there just more so?
That you require upon evaluation
Leading me on orbiting space station
Had no idea, this alien encounter of ours
One of affection; should have brought flowers
Am I your mate-ling, here for devours?

Crystalline follicles free flowing hair
You meet me in spacesuit whilst I am bare
This really be not most fair advantage
Your briefings seemingly micromanage
Intergalactic trans-species inseminations
Are forbidden by Rules of Constellular Nations
Yet admitting magnet-ting emitting vibrations

Super charged particles pucker your orifice
It is enticing this boudoir you have by Uranus
The décor is all slippery, wet and inviting
I must admit to you, it all very ionic exciting
Are we to agree to be astral *** players?
When shall I see what lie beneath foiled layers?
Drop your robes please, I am with no nay-sayers

I travel alone, as Lone Space Ranger
This proposition to me I find intrigued danger
A plus and a minus electric storm lingers
Exceedingly long seem your definitive fingers
Polarities, rarities amongst planetoid creatures
Though I’m quite digging your extended features
I’m glad we’re alone to be each others teachers

Here are burdens riddled with subtleties
Mysterious questions of life and death
Mushroomed out of an addictive breath
Artificial intelligence for government subsidies

Yet, beyond earth lie no inquest or induction
Posed on greasy brink of insanity's fallacy
Coming upon junction of humanity absently
Greater guidance larger than sapient deduction

Are we falling through space or are we suspended?
Can't help now, but with forethought will accomplish
Foolish fire to which we pay homage
Lighting a candle for now, for all in attendance

One day's Spring cover of incipient blooms
Dogwoods pinks and whites
Scamper mountainside in Persephone's rites
Winter's forgotten timbers now hollows, wombs
Cuniculi sprout bantling bunnies from these rooms

Under thicket comes innocence's smallest one
Separated from covey, teeny trifling
Quail chick ta-taying in other atmosphere stifling
Mood was changed as baby bird imprinted this son
Thought I his mother; Persephone laughed in her fun

Poised on current of splendor
Flight feathers outstretched, strong
Fledgling hears his mother's call
Brave release draws baby bird to song

Swooping beyond slipping branches
Resplendence in clear air carries
Joy of freedom from high nest
Moment in waiting no long tarries

Whisp of breeze in taking
With life pulsing heart and wings
A humming bird can't pretend
That he is at all another thing

Constant is our evolution
And rainbows do reappear
Some encircling breathtaking beauty
These ruby-throated dears

Hum and buzz of fluttery wonder
Nectar is yours for taking
Joie de vivre as you spin by me
Jouissance and felicity making

You whisper in my ear and tickle
Tempting words for me
You know my meaning may be fickle
As I find, you've set me free

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

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.

So you had a conversation with god
Which one?
One of the sun?
Perhaps one of wind?
Several of those have spoke to me
Africus spoke first and told me of his heat
Amaunet said "I will chill you from head to feet"
Then came time I met
Auster, who said nothing at all, but belched out a cloud
Zephyrus came very early one spring
and spoke to me so loud,
"I mentioned you to other winds and they are on their way"
I have met with many gods
Which did you meet today?

Knuckling under weatherworn predictions, the salt is down. There is a limit to preparedness and at some point, faith that the break shall come to a blizzard's infamy, must supersede. It's just fluff and slush after all. Barely, this white blanketing is made, before the brine trucks are revving, ready to tear up the sheets. Shall I slumber too long, I may miss the hush of placidity. Who will be the first to break silence? That inevitable metal scrape against cement, I dread its brashness. Can the missies' ice morning not roll by without delusions that these snow damsels must be shoveled off? Let the winter lassies lie for briefness of their coolness brings me to a dream scene. Colleens of a cold front, you blew upon me so softly this way, how dare I snow blow you, away?

He picked me up hitchhiking on Tylerfoote Xing
My years were twenty, headphones on and moshing
I sported cut-offs and my "Docs" on that stubborn hot day
My Mohawk was three colors, I was an obvious gay

Allen Ginsberg 1984 in front of Ma Trux
He pulled over in a dust cloud, this was my luck
"Where are you headed?" said he, "I'm on my way to SF"
"Just to town." said me, "that's far enough."

"Where are you from?" came a chortle with this query
"From New Jersey I hail, how 'bout you my deary?"
A gaff of a laugh came then and two words, "me too."
"Oh really?" came my sarcasm, "How lucky for you."

"To escape," I finished then a gaffing  stabbed further
He looked so odd, my fear was, " I hope I'm not murdered."
Obviously much older, a bit pudgy and bald
When he told me his name it meant nothing at all

Said he was from Newark, this did not impress me either
"Me? Camden," though he might guess from my wife-beater
"What's that music you've got?" said my chauffeur
"A mixed tape. The Clash, DK's and Psychedelic Furs"

"Pop it in the dash, lets have a listen my friend."
As he glared at my flesh, I thought, "this is my end"
He popped it out almost immediately and declared
"This is awful and loud, your generation makes me scared!"
  
We argued a bit about music and art
"Patti Smith is the greatest poet!" I told the old ****
"She's from Jersey too, like Walt Whitman and us."
Allen's reply, "Oh really, what's the fuss?"

"Whitman comes from Camden, I'm a poet like him"
Ginsberg said, "oh yeah, well let's hear some Slim"
So I began to recite from "Leaves Of Grass"
"Not Walt! Give me yours kid, I don't want to hear him, you ***."

So I threw at him my most recent, "Angel With A Pool Que"
He complimented me so nicely, I believed he spoke true
"Ever hear of Howl? I'm a poet too."
He recited dozens of lines and I thought "p-u"

My offer was, "It needs some work"
His exclamation was, "Do you know who I am, you ****?
I'm Allen Ginsberg, you mean you haven't heard of me?"
I exclaimed my name back, boldly emoting "don't you see?"

We laughed together it was a joyous moment in time
Then his hand moved to my knee as he blurted some rhyme
I picked it right up and placed it back on the steer
"If that's what you want Sir, I can walk from here"

He stopped his car there in the middle of the 49 highway
"I mean you no harm young man, I assumed you were gay"
I explained, "Of course I am, but we are not going there"
He was a perfect gentleman then on, with out even a swear

I inquired with my friends when I got to town
Of this charming old poet I left with a frown
They jumped and spun and called me "**** crazy"
One handed me Howl in hard cover; I felt dim as a daisy

Dear Dr. Heartthrob,
 
I’m guessing you did not know
Yesterday I was admitted to emergency
Taken from clinic in a death march
You pretended not to notice my urgency
Guess that all has to do with insurgency
 
That’s quite all right by me
My seizures are not pretty little features
The drug mishap is likely not to blame
No, they did not call any preachers
Agnostic I am and devoted to creatures
 
I have a complicated medicine regimen
Which is to be rationalized by conspiring minds
Dr. Eyes That Melt Me is a brilliant young intern
He had gizmos and probe scopes and interesting finds
He knows more specialists dealing in matters of these kinds
 
We had such intimate talks together
So I hope you're not embarrassed to hear
I’m firing you for lack of bedside manner
Though in fact you were prescriptively dear
My heart is now weak for another I fear
 
Your Loving Patient,
Poopsy

The always-patient man had no longer a capacity to accept, his fists thwacking the gates of hell. He needed in. The icy hinged barrier crushed his knuckles, and the splintering molecules of frozen corpses, which hedged this entrance, fell in fine dust. Their eyes, the only warm flesh within the dead gatekeepers, begged him to back away. It only let him know, he, this man that was once so ever patient, belonged inside. Not wishing to give up, he struck, and struck the cryptic divide screaming, “Devils take me!”  You see, at the moment of his death, the gates of heaven opened up to him, and he being the ever most patient man, his soul rushed into the great light of empyrean. Yet when there, he could not see what he had expected, there was no wondrous feeling of euphoria. Nothing was there to give him that high, he had ignored himself so long, upon that dreaded earth, before his sobriety and solvency to God. That always-patient man had expectations of those feelings, which he felt criminal, and denied himself so long. Yet they were not there, in this heaven he imagined. This soul, that for so long had been a patient man, who had so piously paid his debts, had an epiphany. He was feeling gypped. So his soul swooped to hell. Not looking back he heard the gates of heaven slam. After this the man, patient no more begged Beelzebub, from chained and locked realm, “Satan, give me what I deserve! Stick your stake in me. Give me your pleasured poison!”  Then God and Lucifer appeared to him and morphed into one being. The whirlwind of good and evil they became said, “Life is strife or happiness, you choose. There is nothing here for you.” Suddenly incarnated again, into newborn gasping first breath, his mind went blank, but with an evolved spirit inhaled.

© PJ Poesy
01.09.2014

Supermarket tripping
Nuts & Dried Fruits
the Ethnic Aisle
How do they get away with saying that?
perplexed
shoplifter shackled
on display, as if a warning
Seven Box Sale
of Broccoli Au Gratin Rice
Why seven?

"Pickled Beets Tormented"
an undiscovered Jackson *******
smashed glass and splattered pink
on speckled linoleum
with infused grime
from 1956

Art is splashing everywhere
large scale proportional
and messy little mix-ups

Rancor is now spreadable product
it's right next to the sarcasm
found in the Fear Aisle
feel the chills
frozen food fraternizing
with my canned goods

Was that flattery or flouting?
from Deli Counter
take three numbers from ticket dispenser
I pocket two
call for, "78"
"78 - 78"
"79 - 79 - 79, does someone have 79?"
I stay silent
"80 - 80 Is someone holding ticket 80?"

Chanel suited business woman
at my side
tapping stiletto
upper lip curled
eyes periscope about
She spots my ticket
blurting, "You have 80, Fella"
her index finger flickers
in time with toe tapping

My line: "Oh I thought that was 08"
there's a huge "HUFF"
as she wheelies cart away
Rudy, from behind counter, winks
We've been collaborating art for years

Allowance of difference transforms not entirety, but perhaps enough. We are cast all over the place. By chance some grow. Seeds of diversity bloom without genetic precursors. Hybrid’s forerunning amalgamations were somewhere in time not as pure. Half-bred mongrel dogs the same. Romulus and Remus suckle a wolf-***** surrogate. Even after hardships and trials together, turn on each other. Conditioning may not change what is inheriting, but has its influences. Feral children of ancient mythography become heroes of a Rome, who has since seen rise to popes. What injects change into society? Today’s biotechnology gives birth to genetically engineered seed of change. Who bows to New God, by its name Monsanto? Collectively, third-world nations in a final Round-Up. Extermination business as usual.

Find me peeled and threadbare at Grizzly Creek
Past a bend of Yuba's middle fork
A twisting force with incredible torque
Come to auric memory where hankerings seek
Express your desire for, disrobe, bespeak

I am skipping rocks and charming rainbow trout
Flitter sunrays off cherry dragonflies
Glitter as they do, they like to dandify
Join my hide and seek, be silent , do not shout
If I spot you first, ensnared you know, no doubt

Here I am, so please ask spring fiddleheads
If they not mind to spare a few
I'll saute them with lavender just to eat with you
Running water's stream bank, to me you are led
Let live oaks shelter us, for there our love be wed

Merging minds through confluence of time
Streaming into vastness of space
Piling on the eons we climb
Subjective to a human race

Evolution is nearer to nothing plasmatic
As brain tissue melts loosely away
Finding transformative signs galactic
A robotic mechanical sway

Electrodes and microbes in fervent fusions
Find waves upon air and streams
Static electricity combusts allusions
Eyes disintegrate, fried by laser beams

No ointment to existence as we are lard
The oil for machines to profit
Toil long and toil hard
As progressive adaptation won’t stop it

For the gravity of this juncture upon us
Climatic epoch in measure
As ethical questions confront us
What gains from the yield of treasure?

Gratifying amnesia comes over
How easy to slip into devoid
Weren't we once friends Mr. Freud?
Tickled pink hysteria which drove her
Days laid in, loved in, ****** red clover

Crazy is as crazy does, only eye of beholder
How might we look past, see forward?
Without channeling her inner Ms. Crawford
I'm a miff and can only shrug shoulder
For I love her still, but laugh just the bolder

Clearly no clarity to lovelorn situation
How forsaken feels much dejection
Not knowing how or why such selection
So I accept my due eternal damnation
But by hell will I accept crimson castration

Clover in bloom, once again, awaits

Mother stood in front of refrigerator
Scratching her head
Brother asked why?
Replied, “Where has the butter gone?”
Sister denied
Any wrong doing
Brother too claimed innocence
“There is one”
“Had two sticks left last night”
Father glares back
“Don’t look at me”
Sister sent to corner store
For another pound
Toddler being unbound
From high chair
Chords a giggle
Reaches for last stick
Mother shouts
“Kriiish-na!!!”

Poetry and binary codes confuse me. One speaking in affects of numbers, the other in numbers of affectivity. If one could break the code to love, unrequited, divinely impassioned, or other obscure mixtures of, I could only see a cryptic deepening to such woeful confusion. Could one assign sequencing to the untangling of emotion, so that naive lovers might surpass calculated risk? If so, should it be done? I insist, it should be done at once. Assigning bit strings of zeros and ones to compute perfect poetry in which a reader might be forced to fall in love by measured affectations, algorithms deciphered to personal tastes, then subjected by power of suggestion encoded in grandiose pairings of words, suited to the individual reader, ah thus, I begin my army of love slaves. Are you reading my subliminal messaging? You see now, that didn't hurt one megabit. Did it?

Tide's pulsation
in conflux with moon
hosts a nexus

Rendezvous
my waters
at an hour dark

Beams
lunar reflection
is passing
Earth's
other side

My pull
is greater
than
temptation

It is
mesmerism

A magnetic
locking
of the
organic elemental

Your push
My pull
Our plasmic toll

Mother, poised and dignified
She offers balance, stability
Shows with love, grace signified
Mildly persuades better, any fallibility
She is angel of gentility

From childhood she’s amazed me
And made me understand
I’d want no other to have raised me
In her nest, yes, she is high command
For courtesy has she at hand

I look at her needlework with love
Loving memories she has sewn
Funny pleasing little notions of
Immense caring ways she has shown
How she does it all, unbeknown?

I love her like no other woman
To her I owe my creation
Warmly crafts she makes so woolen
With this I make last notation
She is friend, an incredible elation

Forged through amalgamations of bravery, deepest indifferance and hunger, fluster formed a solid ingot of unimaginable tensile strength. Bought and chewed what she was fed, "Oh to be wed." She would have it melted in her mind, as if drilled through skull, and smoldered into a pithy membrane. This vow, this marriage, this perfunctory cause and reaction would be solid fortune of her life. As if what her mother, father, church and giddy peers always spoke was lost wax fulminating from her ears. Topped with encrustation, a sparkly rock, salt of some miner's sweat, this platinum bond formed and molded was then clamped on her finger. As we of confused instincts know ourselves, she came from a far worse place. This all the reasoning there need be, for institution. Most of her life, she would not miss that lost pithy wax, that mind of her own. For this was the method called "sacrament" and this was her sacrifice.

Nothing makes sense anymore
And unnerving of universe agrees
It just said to me, “Stop, give up, adore
Oh do I implore, you to freeze”

Causeways to galactic fracturing
Gnats swarming my eyes for tears
Saving their own life-risked spattering
Been tattering away for years

Finding winced **** gall to ingest
An antidote regarded too unreliable
Shooting up clouds with rocket tests
Only in jest, sounding viable

Criminal patterns keep moving
Through time, history, and now stars
All you can do, to keep on grooving
No snoozing will get you this far

Continued survival has cause
Find it, but with no outer influence
For you have been given no flaws
Find awe in your own existence

A crack in the sky has formed
Rain down solid answers to actuality
Hence, life and why we were born
Unworn from concepts of reality

Slurping accolades on Book of Faces,
****** poet **** romances himself.
Lubricating through superego Groups,
disorganization and breakdown of controls
chips him into corner. Bleak
moments of "Like" successes
are momentary arousals,
while blessings of truer constructive
criticisms become real get-offs. Spooging
on his own "Like"-abilities and
word-stock inventiveness he mops up
whatever approval he can.
Internet-tionalistic
becomes his coinphrase. He'll
Google-gunk it up in translation
to any language. So long as it buys him
some sensation. Forgive him,
for where else would he get it?

coagulation of life muck
make her eyes bag
pockets hold cruel visions
memories she cannot empty
she zippers
her lids tightly
as he passes
all she can do is
wish unholy away
dilation inside behind
zippered eyes
makes all that mucky crust ooze
there are wells
of slippery situations
oily wells
gushers never to hurl
zipped away
under black mascara
life complexities
thickening

When turnips sour.
Did they ever start
out so sweet?

Lumps appear under my skin
wishing them away doesn’t work
some look like mulberries
There are ones with greenish hues
others blue-black, juicy and ripe
these are the ones I want to bite into

I remember that great mulberry tree of our youth
down by the creek
We climbed that tree and sat for hours
on hot July and August afternoons
devouring juicy dark purple fruit

Our mother’s called as the ballgame dispersed
and we pretended to be nowhere in sight
or within ear shot
We knew the way home

And as we stared at each other’s stained
magenta toothy snickers
faces, hands, tee shirts
even ears and grimy hair
We made a pact
to eat our way to the tippy-top
of that delicious, decadent arbor

I’m home, again
noticing that mulberry tree no longer exists
but I see you at times
and you kindly wave to me
upon passing
I know there’s no need to wait around
till July or August
as I don’t expect our summer dares
mulberry gushing ecstasy
will ever be again

O to be the fertile compost
down by that creek
where a mulberry tree might grow
Again

In war, as might be expected, gushing come veins
Soon misery is gone, it is an essence she drains
Have you heard of Suonetar, Goddess of Finnish lore?
Arteries her artillery, bringer of blood and gore

Kindness matters not, to her it is all but same
Nonchalantly she saunters, indifference her game
Give a little, get a little, splattered or gathered
Bowing to her majesty, she cannot be flattered

You will not reason with her, a succubus she is
Pray to her "Take my pain," as bleeding increases
Mopping up the battlefield, to her blood endowed
Dripping her viscosity, in ichor, she is enshroud

From his rib, Eve was made
Genuflecting paralysis
Stuck in half down position
Or is it half up?
Thought I was on the rise
But immobility within reverence
Aslant to benevolence
Is quirky sacred stuff
Might just as well be penitent
For entirety of mankind's mishaps
Women's too
Can't discriminate, ya know
Pleasing it is to discover
A close assimilation to childbirth
My gargantuan *******
Is as close as I can aspire to
Fertility Goddess

So, the universe is dying. It has been proven. All starlight and galactic all, every illuminant visible is dissipating. Stretching and fizzing out to cold dark nothingness, eliminating any twinkle known in her ever widening abyss, we are destined to an age of floating rocks, lifeless. Shivering howls of worlds already abandoned are an eerie silence imminent. The cold, the dark, the void of sound or light, is depraved sensory. Death is ultimate ultimatum to any and all. Even these words. As nothing is to be, see, hear, feel, smell or taste, just dust speckling her.

Long drawn out inarticulateness, I wonder if she shall ever be able to speak again. Waxing moon in candelabra sky, lid, the blue, goodbye. A lull in space noise clamor finds faint ping. In an arched cosmos, bend an ear, hear her sing. She softens orbiting dominions, pleases an empire's hard wire. Letting sound stem, turn out, and cry, a gush of heaving out is implied. Imploding upon a deafening madness she dies. Big Bang to Softened Ping, we're somewhere in the middle of her journey.

Velocity, mind spins so speedy
You again, where often you were not
Seeing you proves urge so needy
In flashing passes, I'll take what I've got
Hold precious memory, know its spot

Beauty as yours, emphasizes sickness
Endure side effects, as love my disease
Blood surge surrenders a quickness
Anemia, thinning of you, if one please
Burning in heart, condition an unfreeze

Then it is back to cold, as we must part
Spells trick lover's euphoric trek
Being bound to sorcery, your back art
No matter to me, as all is in check
Make me your moment, make me a wreck

Amidst creepers is brick abode
Red complimenting well the green
Dyed shady tinctures of blueish mode
And the lady hardly ever seen

Paleness in black windows glance
In silence does ivy swallow
Someone said her name, Alamance
Which I was told meant "Bless,"
or "Hallow"

How she lingered in her own exile
Frightened perhaps by unjaded air
Visited only once in a while
By younger man with greyish hair

He'd trouble through ivy growth
Past gate to staircase overridden
You felt dismay of them both
Ivy's soiled twine had so written

He'd leave packages at her door
Sometimes you'd see them speaking
Indeed very hard for one to ignore
The ivy encroaching and shrieking

Whoever knows what blessings be
Of existance and seclusion
How to bear astranged family
Commitment, fear, and delusion

How is it playing in your head about now? Does it roll the inside circumference, from left ear past eyes to right, following through the back and around to your left again? Shall I whisper it once more, the sentence with which this did not start? Please don't make me repeat myself. By your blush, I know you heard me correctly. It's just how you bite your lip, that is indecipherable, whether you agree or not. Let's not leave this business between us unfinished...

It needs a title.

An étagère to hold silly whatnot
A mind adrift in trinkets somewhat
Its bits espied and soon forgot
Knickknack, gimcrack, and all lot

Finding herself so amazed
In menagerie on which she gazed
Simply lost and ever dazed
Novelty toys to which she raised

They dance for her, sparkling trifle
Hoarding gewgaw in which to rifle
A non-creation and mind to stifle
Complete with tiny tower Eiffel

These things to her do bring joy
For loss of hers was little boy
And though this sound ever coy
Replacing boy; nonsensical toy

Needing no explanation, whispers disquiet
And the wind whispers quite ravingly
It tells torture of falling leaves to ground
Of simple browns that go unnoticed
Amongst golds, maroons, and half greens
That scintillate the eyes otherwise
And this Autumn looks forward to Winter
And death

Deciduous brown trunks and limbs
Stark against snowfall soon
Which dusts all evergreens
Telling them
Hold on until Spring
Yet, for the deciduous
Not all shall see through
This bitter cold that comes

Recently we cut a large holly tree down. It had given access to the roof of a mother raccoon, who burrowed into the attic to begat her progeny. It was sad to see that superior glossy leafed beauty go. Full of blistering red berries, it attracted a multitude of feathered friends, who would be spied from a window near where I would rest. Still, the unwelcome problem of a gang of masked furry bandits, meant the holly could no longer stay.

It was no easy task, falling such an old growth. The tree was at least close to the eaves when the home was purchased nearly twenty years ago. Now it had risen well past the peak of the roof. Though with steadfast ingenuity, and agile elbow grease,  down it came in four large sections. Branches would have been perfect for wreaths and garland, should it have been closer to winter. The trunk, at its base, was ten inches in diameter.

Holly wood is a hard wood and would be perfect for sculpting something unique. I ruminated keeping some to dry for this purpose, and it most certainly would have been saved for the fireplace, had we not the intention of moving and the need of keeping things tidy be present.

This all plays in my head, the purposing of things and such. It is not in my nature to waste. However, all the extra effort of putting things in a proper place for future use, cannot be afforded at this crucial time. Oh hell, now I suppose offering it up to Internet scavenging, would be more ecologically sound. Come and take, please help yourself. The Ad appears on Craigslist Free Stuff.

You have yet to fabulously flutter
My pupae of frozen adores
Stricken are you to utter
How from larvae to insect, one matures
Pain of stages you must endure

For as you were once caterpillar
Such simplicity of infancy
Mother butterfly placed near daffodil a
Miraculous plan of decency
Life arranged in such complexities

Little do you know, surprising?
Welcoming event so explicable
How wondrous wings of this uprising
Nature joyful and formidable
Your glory so perfectly permissible

Truly a divine intervention
From chrysalis a manifesting
These plans have set emotion
How Mother Nature has been testing
Longevity of ****** investing

She flutters on and you have come
Launching momentous occasion
Your time is near, you have become
An allure of life’s suasion
Flutter on, flutter on, all love’s persuasion

Who knew why such ruffians
Squandered and squabbled
Dear to me their brutish good looks
Pulling out pockets' linings
Showing how no cent remained
Not a **** dime to their name
Chasing absent dreams called fame
Just deterioration
From what was once
Gleaming teeth
Combed hair
Finer threads
Now cement beds
Lay them down at night
Oh what a sight
My parlayed partners
Still jiving and hustling
Crackling and busting
*** for that quick fix
Sick, I tell you
How glory appears in their eyes
It's a story of addiction's surprise
That grab on you
How it happened to him too
Gleam!
That glisten and sheen
Then sweat
Soaked in an essence we've set
Of our inner spoiling
Tormented toiling
When we shoot that boot to get
That desperate need never met

Squished between bottled memories are photo's depth
Fossils hold lastingness, enigmatic time
Explorer on coal fact-finding mission, yours and mine
Blackness of glassy lumps, tremendous breadth
At the old colliery, buried history, a coal town's death

Unbounded, far-reaching reminiscence of miner's lives
Great, great grandfathers incinerated citizenry
Existence not wasted, though no nostalgia cynically
Selling souls to company store per week for fives
Faith they measured by feeding children and wives

No way out from tombs of chiseled insignificance
Pick axes, shovels sounding klinks and klanks
Started his career at thirteen, some less in ranks
What  grandpa heard: cussing, dynamite dissonance
Sounds of ancestors buried in condition indigence