Go, my friend, to Tbilisi, where the War of Roses was won. Run the mountainsides and fall into the canyons of lapsed eons. Sunk in the valley wide, past huddling of trees that open and yawn, sprinkles a misting of sunny, dewy rocks where a certain party of gypsies gather. You will only find them there after the picking of the cherry orchards, and if they welcome you, they will feed you their cherry soup. It will intoxicate, but no more than the captivating dance of cherry stained aprons you may be privileged to witness. Dark haired and dark eyed sultanas, ****** from healthy eating and laboring, do motion a curvilinear spell. Band with the men of that tribe,  if they will have you. Let them choose for you, a server of cherry soup. Though cherry season is short, your life will lengthen.

Biddable and tame, a dog's soul secretes
through woeful eyes. Mastering his master,
his manipulation, more often than not,
pays off in extra treats. Chewy bits,
kept on hand to prove love, likened to
showing of character and mien.
Dog's demeanor, wags and soulful secretions,
only on display until he gets what's wanted,
then naps.

Some lovers like this, leaving
when favors run out.

Serving each other so well,
desire beyond needs fulfills
modest bearing with one another
in love. Lying down with proverbial dogs,
I have known the difference. Risk of fleas,
for me, uncomplicates
it all.

Biddable and tame, a dog's soul secretes
through woeful eyes. Mastering his master,
his manipulation, more often than not,
pays off in extra treats. Chewy bits,
kept on hand to prove love, likened to
showing of character and mien.

Dog's demeanor, wags and soulful secretions,
only on display until he gets what's wanted,
then naps.

Some lovers like this, leaving
when favors run out.

Serving each other so well,
desire beyond needs fulfills
modest bearing with one another
in love. Lying down with proverbial dogs,
I have known the difference.

Risk of fleas,
for me,
is less complicated.

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

Garbled voices through
walls thick, yammers and whoops
make themselves known. Intermittent
laughing adds to clues
of celebration next door. She
checks under doormat and
deep in mailbox, as she sees more
guests arriving with big trays
of film wrapped fruit
and crudités. Her invitation isn't
in sight. Venetian blinds keep
blinking peeks, all night, as others
come and go.

Cinder block fence separates.
She combs her gray greasy hair,
puts in rhinestone barrette,
wishes upon a star.

Similar brick within trust, this stack, a wall
Quietly nestled in its like kind
How building grow ever so tall
Aesthetics determines turrets that wind
A clinker brick amongst, its unusual find

Remembering philosophy and not style
Arts & Crafts taking account natural
Movement stylizing; making worthwhile
Grace given to home by an irrational
Misshapen brick making plain more masterful

I wish to be the clinker brick
Not same as all the others
Happily I apply a quirky trick
What care I if some may shudder?
I simply exist to add clinkered color

Today I removed a cloud from the sky
and dissected it

This is what I found:
it's skin was made of a drove of lambs
hundreds of them
completely weightless

As I plucked them off
they rose in insomnia-tic song
puffing along
back to their fields of azure
ever for sure
someone would soon be counting on them

As I uncovered this first layer
and watch merry ones drift away
I’d liken to say
saw a wash of dreams unfold
more than the many sheep I counted
and fell into them

And drifted away as well
you were there too
pouring yours into this floating vessel
of bouncy measurements
of worries and hopes

And we kept on drifting
waiting to rain

Her steaming kettle  

window into wetness of what was

whistling jets conjuring self-precipitation

There, go memories

dewy laden long gone

Vexing saturation making tea time’s solitude

weep childhood, weep marriage, weep motherhood

ululating swirls in her cup

No amount of saccharin can sweeten  

sipping whimper’s brew

Her hour of orange pekoe empties

Show in contented rest
bringing ghosts
company wished greenly
how did you know?

Bleeding on too long
they had to be cut down
from hooks and ropes
in order of feeding.

Liars causing problems
complicated sacrament
with slickness
under blackberry briars.

Safe from hawks
stay in Juicyland
where it's prickly
free from ****.

This song triples guessed
foxy playing hard
around leafy bush
only snake does not miss.

Dance my badger spirit
agile amongst complexity
ward off and wander.
Kangaroo mouse prance.

Survival in stickers
only seasonal escape.
Where to hide from
next your sly rival?

Stomped earth with broad feet
Fastening fresh saplings into
Whole forests
Eight feet by eight feet, the grid
Through winter month's
To early spring
Line of tree planters, twenty
Sometimes less, sometimes more
On Shasta, on Lassen, on Trinity Alps
Douglas Firs and Ponderosa Pines
In Mendocino, in Eureka
Planting baby giants, Redwoods
Sequoias in Sequoia National and Klamath
Young men with ***-dads
Knew some old ones too
Women as well, though few
If you could bear the snow, the rain
If you could bear back-breaking pain
The glory is yours
As was once mine
Reforestation
Go plant your line
To be eternally in
Mother Nature's good graces
And kinship known by campfire

There are things stuck on my mind.
Incomprehensible glueing, which
befog beleaguered fitting-in.
Becoming a mishmash, realization
bugs me. What to do with the cutouts?

Pictures of life instances that can't
be reconciled, just carried on and on,
blister and bubble within. No smooth
surfaces that cleanly represent
anything wholly identifiable are
depicted on bruised brain cells. Pity
it is. Pity I have become. Pity the
nitty gritty magazine photos slapped
together,  an ugly collage called,
"Mercy Never Saw Fit."
It is an ugly art form, cutting up memories.

****, ******, survival, these themes
are hardly ever pretty. Art therapy
*****. I'd rather paint a canvas black.

He stands solidly still, a malformation
Rush hour commuters about him whirl
Arrival or departure in subway station?
Intrans intelligence, subconscious swirl
Isolated, his mind in  most violent hurl

Facing whole extent of impertinent data
Comatose commuter suffers info slow-mode
Wife, boss, kids all part in sub-matter
Too much for one brain to devour, decode
Cell phones, microchips, transistor’s overload

Components lack tactile connection
Wavelengths of broadcasts, meltdown occurs
Keeping too connected, causing mind ejection
No app for that on tablet to refer
Now stuck in commuter rut with no transfers

Dust lies on piano, its lust to play a tune
Powder upon ballet slippers, in  mansion ruin
Come light through weathered window
On chair, on table, on letter marooned

Contents never read, her fear what it reads
Years it sits unopened, as felt  be no need
Come  light through weathered window
Causing illumination, on doubts, indeed

Music echoes through  its musty lingers
Memories enchanted; his long dancing fingers
Come  light through weathered window
Onto keys, sprinklings particle bringers

All this sifting silt, effervescent in the air
As her heart was so jilt, and left without a care
Come  light through weathered window
Untouched slippers, feet dancing bare

Turning up  dust, each and every day
Lady of this mansion, dancing her cares away
Come  light through weathered window
Forever in swirls of doubts, she stays

Her wishes are constantly
Dancing on air
Feeding on lightning bugs
Phosphorescence rubs off on her teeth
Dazzling the competition
As her twinkling toes
Bruised and bound
Point way toward
First prize
In the Dolly Dinkle Dance Recital
"Here Comes The Sun"
Sang The Beatles
Sang the beetles

Badger: (Sniffs and snorts) You, you Sir are on my road. Listen, you I am speaking to you. Who are you? Why is it that you lay on my road? This is my road and you do not belong here. Wake up Sir, or I shall become indignant. What right have you here on my road? I do not take lightly to strangers appearing on my road, in the middle of a night as such. You see, only the stars are out tonight to guide my way. You Sir are an obstacle of alarming disproportion and you indeed do not smell well. In fact I would say, you stink. So if you would kindly remove yourself from these premises, I will not be forced to reckon with you further. (Snort, sniff) Sir, Sir?!

Man: (Waking) Huh? Wha-wha-wha-what? (Shriek, shiver) Uhh!

Badger: Oh for the goodness of ground squirrels. Now this is indeed no such behavior in which I shall tolerate. Take your stinking self off my road before I snarl, and snap upon your nose, a reminder you should never forget.

Man: Oooh. Ahh. I am sorry Mr. Badger, Sir. Please forgive me as I am not well and must have suffered a spell here on your road. I insist Sir, I am not a drunkard or here to cause you harm. It’s just that at times I lose equilibrium, as my brain and nerve endings are not in harmony. I am so sorry to have made such a spectacle of myself, here on your road. If you give me a moment to compose myself, I shall be on my way.

Badger: Oh, I see. Well, this is some fine mess. I do suppose you will need some assistance. Take cover there, over by that tree across the road there, on the other side. I will divert the attention of the bear and mountain lion, as they shall be following up shortly. Now scurry on, or waddle or whatever it is you do.

Man: Thank you kind Sir. Mr. Badger Sir (Shuffles across street.)

Badger: Oh bother, no need for sniveling. Move along.

(Later at dawn, man wakes to lawn sprinkler hosing him down, and an odd recollection.)

No butter, no cream, not even a can of evaporated milk
How to make Thanksgiving delicious?
Need it be?
a bounty
beauty abounds
eyes feasting on it
Horn of goat Amalthaea
pouring endless abundance
Of American pie
charmed decadence, never humble
Making it Great Again
for Black Friday comes
with all its leftovers
for some

Still, beauty to be found
by resources unbound
by what conventional terms deem buttery deliciousness

Look upon notch between yonder mountains
As sun slips inside its’ gap
Aura of evolution in it contained
Our star cuts through dimensional map

Gadding about the sky, sun frolics freely
Only you see from east to west
When put in perspective of Milky Way
Our sun but spec immense integral test

Colliding, conjoining, refracting, recoiling
Worlds spin on axis and orbit
When a mind can infinitely expand
Idea abroad, which becomes forbid

Digestion into universe be our destiny
Finite earth but skipping stone
You and I an atom on it propelled
Posterity invention shall we be blown

As molecules of cellophane and plastic plate mix with cheesy mire of microwaveable dinner, I make excuse in my mind and apologize to my already over-compromised liver. It's simpler this way, or at least excusable for this moment. 56 dead in Garland, Texas, I think I can be thankful a tornado has not turned my world upside down, whilst biting down on tv dinner rations. Still I think, can 2015 end any faster? These last few days counting down and the microwave's digital display bleeping, sludge discriminating who shall be taken. It's all so guarded and circumspect. Please, if there be an element of good, may the new year know it.

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

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

Difficult to say it is a crisis of faith
Deadlock stubbornly cracked
Divide intensified with fact so backed
****** is truth, lost memory's wraith
"Who's to blame?" as so often "they" saith

Forget this daft idyllic hope, loyalty
To nothing has my life compared
And as most humans, no heartache spared
No limits to its reverence and constancy
As God shapeshifted, any form but royalty

Kings of Kings, my Makers, Lords on High
Omnipotent theories to query
Over verses I've traveled, all but Kashmiri
Reasonably these to view before bye-bye
Off I am to Pir Panjal, where I shall quake and die

Difficult to say it is a crisis of faith

Deadlock stubbornly cracked

Divide intensified with fact so backed

****** is truth, lost memory's wraith

"Who's to blame?" as so often "they" saith


Forget this daft idyllic hope, loyalty

To nothing has my life compared

And as most humans, no heartache spared

No limits to its reverence and constancy

As God shapeshifted, any form but royalty


Kings of Kings, my Makers, Lords on High

Omnipotent theories to query

Over verses I've traveled, all but Kashmiri

Reasonably these to view before bye-bye

Off I am to Pir Panjal, where I shall quake and die

Worm eats through to penetrate.
Trespasses, what ***** deeds?
What ichor is this to venerate?
How dare eat, how dare have needs?

Godly viral load unbeatable,
no t-cell left to count.
Wriggling in puddle inconceivable,
**** upon this crucified mount.

Lazarus, risen from the dead,
no dog now licks your wounds.
Lepers now banshees are instead
social workers which we swoon.

And the Roman laws and judges
continue blame, hand down sentence,
as degenerative generation smudges
out from existence, ***+ penance.

Dissected and pinned against wall,
this writhing experiment oozes.
Whilst priests and politicians naw,
compassion and AIDS funding loses.

Living your life as if every moment is under surveillance is simple, once you get over your inhibitions, and realize all naked naughtiness is apt to be recorded. The constant living under a microscope intrusion of our world now hell bent on applying cameras and recording devices in and under every crevice is and has been inevitable. It is the ultimate in God complex, the all seeing eye, as we have it. Yet, who is to ultimately gain from this perverse voyeuristic applied science? Why, the creators of the applications, of course. For they see all, and know all, and you have submitted to this power and have even been convinced to pay for it. What do you surrender in return for your turn to play God? Why, everything you think no one sees or hears, may be and likely is broadcast on some larger network. They're laughing at you behind your back as you pay them more for the security you seek, ever developing more complex ways to stare you down. It's a "vicious cycle," as they say, and in this world it's pay, pay, pay.

How ordinary is it to love?
As ordinary as trees let go their leaves
And trees have been in  habit lastingly
Each release, fallen drift in perpetuity

Humus we are, shaken ruinous
Discarded poet's words, what we fall towards
Words in decay's warmth, leaf mold's devotion
Piled fertilizer, condition's unreturned emotion

Yet, giving nutrient to what will bud again

Hilarity sports magnificent grin
Bobbling stagger to thrash
Gum up queer muddle within
Brazen his twisted mustache

Dada did a demi plié
And chance made noisy alarm
Sprung forth from cheesy foray
Art could do you no harm

If you venture to chance
And engage in romance
Find what stirs you the most
For this is the thrill
Of not sitting still
This poem nothing to boast

My whirligig giggling and jiggling in an ever gyroscopic balancing act of spotting the to and fro, does sometimes wobble recklessly, even falls down.  Revealing, revolving, evolving windy patterns and magnetism that spin pointedly upon an axis of gender nonspecific intention, it gets back up and twirls again. Whirls again, girls again, boys again, toys again, an accelerator from beginning to end, how can I be propellant and then, marry, tie it down? Letting loose these inhibitions of how such a perfect plaything may be too perfect, too divine a contraption is scary whirlwind to put my head around. Yet, this desire to go with it, oscillate and make rounds seems truer than any boxed in version of wooden wouldn't I rathers.  So there it is, to grace a pirouette with stable partner, might be a portion of the dance, picturesque, but more ensemble pieces may follow. These too add to the brilliant ballet, and we are in it together.

seeds spread by whirlybirds
couples who take on thirds
love flying everywhere
trusted not and the scared
a puff, a blow, and then you go
fuzzy flight to and fro
**** ball picked and his wish
to feast upon a dreamy dish
yet a breathy breeze decides
where scattering of seed shall hide
in the fields, or cracks of pavements
lovers bound in their enslavements
to one another's dreams
dandelion dreams it seems
always never completely fulfilled
dandelion will be tilled
from immaculate and pristine lawn
or in a forest by a fawn
nourishment it is for me
its root bound deep, not free
like those dandelion seeds
rest my head upon cement
men I've met will not lament
sprouts doubts of dandelion's needs

She held him like a dangling participle,
as mothers sometimes do.
Disconnected from her sentence,
he was held on but stiffly confused.
He possesses a birthright to her hard-wiring,
or is it mandatory?
Woman-datory?
Umbilical, precedence will or won't inherit addictive behaviours.
Likability of some traits but not others, wishing he wasn't.
More like her, realisations go awry.
Pattern of outstretched arms dangling that boy.
His diaper is off, and jettison's stream, so caution.
Hiking along the forgotten path, brambling overgrowth blocked his continuing.
He cuts a new path.
She cuts the umbilical.

Things chronicled in shalestone fossils
or superannuated tree rings
can only be read by convinced decipherers.
Disciples of scientific wedges,
the geologist, the dendrologist,
are playwrights of elapsed and extinct
note taking on modern note making gadgets.
Habits only experts in probing
can manage. To convince a tree hugger
that his data, is more evolved upon
a digital device rather than paper,
provides no comfort for fossil record-keeping
stone huggers worried about a valley
of eroding silicon.

I, for one, cannot be concerned for either.
As for a more feasible digital implant
to be splintered under my skin,
to keep track of my where-abouts
is now achievable. I may want one
for my dog or child, but do I want one
for myself?

Will I have a choice?

No immediacy to what has escaped
It's run back down hill
Sisyphus so old he can't chase
They'll be no more pushing up
Except for daisies
So plant it here
Next to me, Big Rock
We've rolled enough
And never got up that great big hill
In any case, I get nosebleeds
When I'm that high
We might just as well be happy
With the ruts we've created
Perhaps we've made it easier
For the next guy

She served milk toast on Sunday
She served milk toast on Monday
Milk toast is what you might guess
Milk on toast with sugar and cinnamon
That is all
She served milk toast on Tuesday
That is all
Four of the five complained
She served milk toast on Wednesday
All but one cried, “We hate milk toast!”
She served milk toast on Thursday with tears in her eyes
The littlest one saw his mother’s streaming salty fluid
He said, “Momma, I love milk toast.”
The streams turned into raging rivers
Amongst all the wetness came odd quirks of laughter
Momma mustered everything she could
Next thing out was, ”I’m taking that job Dean”
What could Dad say while he sopped up his milk toast?
That is when Momma went to work for the phone company
They never ate milk toast again

Clearly eyes are smitten
When first I looked at you
Cat was then a kitten
And took away my blue

Peace of mind brought to me
Enticing aromatic blend
Turns so ever smelly
Now we say, “just friends”

It’s okay, I’m living life
You’re not my first bus ride
Love comes to, with no strife
From each and every side

Today I may be happy
Tomorrow I’m still gay
Love so ever sappy
It’s just my fickle way

You can bring me flowers
Trying to make up
Know that I have power
And hold the golden cup

I view love differently
And am sometimes sad with it
It’s not just you specifically
Difficult loving me, I sadly do admit

Baby, as ancient as you are
your naivety worries me,
or is it my own? Thinking I
could ever have you again.
Oh but how I wish, pray, on knees
again to set eyes upon glory
of man named Antonio Guadi,
his Sagrada De Familia.
Is he finished with you yet?
Will he ever be? Would I want it so?
Artisans carving sanctity to sky,
what have you chisseled in my absense? Is God's work ever done?
Do, continue on forever, give me
chance to return.

Ah to bask on shore of San Sebastian,
with pollished rellics of former
architecture found in his beaten grains.
I long to melt there once more, in awe of
noon on Mediterranian Sea. My eyes
taking witness to painted Catalonian
women, *******, with holy devotion
dipping faithful fingers into your
waters, and signing the cross before
dipping into blueness. Good Catholic
girls they are. And handsome Gods about,
oiling each other and bearing wittness
as well. The ice cream boy, is he
grown now? Does he walk by open
mouthed still, where we left such
imprint in the sand for all to see?

When? If, I arrive again, will we walk
Las Ramblas, stare at human
statues, dance with gypsies, drink
Absinthe and be taken by spell of
Green Fairy? Will we then not care
that pretty pick-pockets rob us
blind? Oh, for the hallucinatory
love of it all! Hold me in your fortress
walls forever, should I ever, return.

My Barcelona Baby, take me back.

PJ Poesy

p.s. I never left you.

I tell you of unknown tree, actually two
Very last existing of these
Rarest pair whose limbs bend in breeze
Cling to another where others over grew
The Bois Dentelle have nearly been slew

True, I tell you, they exist on their own
On Isle of Mauritius in clouds
Elegant dancing sprays on limbs boughed
Tilting toward extinction, species postponed
Desperate in forest for their kind to be sown

Life ever fragile has lesson for mankind
Delicate is nature, so unpredictable
Not unlike poets, not wholly typical
Obsolete, humanity's inherit bad design
Man, save Bois Dentelle, allow history to unwind

Completely out of "I love you"'s
Shriveled lips never felt such parched forgotten
as if all saliva run dry
dehydrated
mummified
salted meat

My tongue

absent of wet
stale recollections crumbling
crystallized shard's reminiscences
little brittle impressions
blown away
dust

Stare-away eyes
avoiding teardrops

Nothing left to shed
moisture gone
thirst hardening mouth
speechless

Frail demeanor of library index cards
packed with Dewey’s decimals
stared upon so many times

some of you stigmatized with graffiti
“Read This” and “Don’t Read This”
as if the vandal knows

I wish to ****** each one of you
good precise direction you give
care in punctilious hand print
of maimed athenaeum tenders
all with long stretched noses
bridging reading spectacles
eyeing out naughty gigglers

stigmatized themselves by
rolled up quaffs
with pushed in pencils
or retractable ballpoint pens

writing implements held so delicately
while you were ascribed

O index cards of my shielded youth
how you protected me, informed me

Guided me on treasure hunts
where my imaginings still take me
away, in isles of knowledge

information coded in numbers and letters

Yours is the power

You have the same name as my dead lover, that is why I cannot be close to you. It's not your fault, I know. It's just that that dead lover is my most recent dead lover. Having so many dead lovers is something endemic to these times. Up to now, we have survived a plague, yes, but it has left a more than squirrelly effect on me. Not just me, also. There are other squirrels. We scuttle about in certain circles, mostly running into each other at survivor groups. I've not seen you pass through, but since you're here now, hello. I know you're hurting, it's why we walk through that door. How did he pass? Were you with him at the end? How long were you together? You see, this is how it goes here. So, would you mind not sitting so close and gazing at me that way, I'm still readjusting to the sound of your name. I'd rather marvel over you from afar at this present moment. We can be nuts for each other later. Ok?

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.

Adoring you is uncomplicated. The way in which, refreshment comes with your ravishment is treasured spectacle, and though your fans are many, this one broods. Pining for glimpses into your tortured terrine, stories of unplumbed eternity, depths of you, titillate. How more curious you become as onion peels, layers on layers. A sweet onion I might add. Yet still, one that brings tears. Tears, joyous tears, cliche of cliche, reconcile charm with burden of unknowing how an allium could come into a world, stinking, but make gourmet a dish.

Dauntlessness may be indicative of strangest courage
Who shall say; those rushing to battle?
Oblivious youth prodded off like blank beef cattle
Dare I dispel bravest image; hero for time and peerage
No mother wants her son minced, poured into porridge

Good intention don't be blinded by noble cause
Nobility see no ill harm in poor's sacrifice
Do they offer their own; O when will it suffice?
To abandon war, to give thought, to give pause
Why be meat within richest men's jaws?

Let heroism gain spirit of more peaceful prowess
Join broad-minded, leave dull herd
Who directs minds in this theater of absurd?
Corporations and government alliances boundless
Don't be a cow and don't find yourself powerless

Lost your *** and spent your gold
Drunk all night and you were told
The Murphy girls have brothers ninefold...
So, have you an inkling this mornin'?
Don't say you had no warnin'!

Gee those Murphy girls sure are pretty
But now your listening to this "told ya so" ditty
Got a bit fresh and way too giddy...
So now your hurting this mornin'
At least last night wasn't boring!

So next year's the same when put'n on the green
Remember the date it's March Seventeen
Kathleen, Maureen, Colleen do preen...
Just to count your gold in the mornin'
So don't be a leprechaun hornin'

Like a dart, I saw you, dog
Dashing from corner of eye
Bolt around corner of block
And I chased you
No keeping up
You've been caught before
Easy to tell, your apprehension
So I'll chase you no more
But you shall be lured
By a bone, I might dangle
Can't see me from that angle?
Down around end of that alley
See you peeking
Dog catcher's been tweaking
His noose
All riled, you break loose
'Cause to corner you
Would be my mistake
So lookie here, lookie here
I brought you some meat
Go ahead, take the treat
And know, you're free to roam
'Cause I'm a dog too
And this is the pact
Of our pack

Harvest old love letters
Separate timid words like seeds
Save those for Spring planting
Passion's bulk pull out as meat
Provisional muscle is for roasting
Adjectives become good gravy
Stamps and envelopes licked
A dessert of dearest's DNA
This savoring of paper junctures
Recaptured affection, even agonies
Wooers of commodious cursive
Pen pushed to olden days
I relish reading your languid thriving
Though you are long gone
Reacquainting these letters habituates
Deliveries of your love

She doddered about
Watering funeral flowers
Brought home after the mass
Even the silk ones
Comfort, in it, was the same
Who could tell her any different?

Snow today, lighter
Than yesterday's, so heavy
Than yesteryear's, so deep
Seemingly lost feathers
Of newly anointed  
Divinity's messenger
Flapping heartily, resolutely
Upward, onward, on
Clear-cut, transpicuous lifting

And snow angels
Smirk tender amusement
As harbored resentments
Drift on

Yeah, they're at it again, mid-flight madness. ****** Tunes doesn't come close to the deranged daffiness one might witness at the lakes this morning. Wacky waterfowl white washing each others' *****. Mother nature is looking for an indecency arrest. Worse than some men I've met crawling through the bushes at Buena Vista Park in San Francisco, or here at Judy Garland Park in Philly. Every city has that spot you know. Unseemly areas where frivolous feathers get ruffled alongside muskrat love tumbling. Knock over, lose footing, take a header, bowl down, go belly up, do a pratfall, fall headlong, slip, slump, skid, spill, plummet and plunge into nose dive. Descent as such, with its dip dropping and flopping, when ducks are doing it in air-raids in prime seedtime, seems only a natural order.

So, my advice to you more demure is, keep your priggish, prudish, pretentious, puritanical, uptight primness off those unbeaten paths, because birds just gotta beat one off every once in awhile. Duck, here comes another. Splat, see I told you so.

You are to blame
He must fix everything with duct tape
and there is never enough
And it's your fault
What have you done with his duct tape?

Those in need need duct tape
There's going to be war
and this finishing off
needs more duct tape

You begin to wonder
if duct tape
will hold together
the hole
where memory leaked away
And somehow you're to blame

Better buy more duct tape

Where the **** is the newspaper?
When the **** did he start using the word ****?
**** duct tape

Be credulous
swallow (whole)
gulp down
Make sure he's eating enough
Buy more duct tape

That malevolence
riddled upon his face
He's winning the Duct Tape Wars

Fight pugnacity's furor
there is this figurative war
and it will be won
with duct tape

Impossible understanding
All burly reasons how
Sweat and gruff groaning
Very deep inside you now

Pile on mad manhood
Smother you in kisses
Plunging tongue further
Feeling it all listless

Groping, hardening
Comfort letting go
Shocking, hocking
Swallowing to and fro

Testosterone wins
Beats against a chest
Trusting all this thrusting
The room's a ******* mess

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.

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.