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.

Dragona Radic hated her name for as long as she could remember. So obviously different than the Mary Butlers, and Ginny Gormans she grew up with in Flavor Town. Even Myrtle Feinstein seemed to be given a more applicable name to live in Flavor Town to Dragona’s mindset. Life was hard for Dragona in Flavor Town. Especially, when at twelve she began to grow a moustache. Living in Flavor Town wasn’t easy for anyone really, but to Dragona it was shear torture. Susie Choo became her best friend for more reasons of default than likeability. Being the only other girl with as much a non-conformable name as Dragona, Susie Choo’s distaste for her was equal. Still, Dragona Radic and Susie Choo formed an alliance, for what else were they to do living in Flavor Town. Flavor Town was a brand of the most delightful 56 flavors of ice-cream ever made, as well as the name of their hometown. You would think in Flavor Town diversity would be celebrated as much as variety. This sadly was not so. In America, you can find all 56 flavors of Flavor Town’s delectable frozen concoctions at any Buck Shops Here grocery outlets. Yet, little may you know of the atrocities occurring in Flavor Town, and what Dragona Radic and Susie Choo were about to do about it?

There's relevance
everywhere
and nowhere
and I don't care

It's all a hoax
and one big joke
and he's a bloke
don't have to smoke

So bide your time
having heart's a crime
in your youth sublime
Don't pay no mind

It's all indifferent
and not significant
we can all be flippant
and there is no difference

Troubled as you are
Likable star by far
when you raise the bar
You might fly to Mars

So take it all lightly
though it seem unsightly
we're all rightly mighty
when we're keepin' it tidy

In our soiled tighty whities

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

Many owls hoot around this house.
It goes on at full length the night.
Broken record hoots on a treadmill,
stirring sheets, I'm up at one window,
then another. Dog ugh's his dismay,
not with the owls, with me.

I ugh back.

Certainly, I'd prefer somnolence
as well. So roll over Rover, this
infectious restlessness has gone
epidemic. Now coyotes are cackling.
The ever out there is in here, again.

I begin my jotting in the one thumbed
way of our present day. Thank a
saturation of stars for our modern
cellular contraptions. We can all now
fiddle away the night and not disturb
our precious pet's rest.

Timeliness of nature and creative
spiritual awakenings align.
Sometimes.

Some are so very good at it.
Others, not so much.
Those so carefree about it,  
cheaters, who's to trust?

Swindle me, my lover.
It's happened a few times before.
My "don't give a ****," proponent
has kicked in, that's for sure.

Being nonchalant, about it,
is all that I can do.
For I've lost all trust, don't doubt it.
I'm as insouciant as you.

Is why we're made for each other,
on this we can both rely.
It frees me, from anxiety,
how we both do cheat and lie.

Confusing it is
that taste between
passion fruit or **** ant

My mind is boggled
which way this is leaning

Your unsavory parts
are being completely outweighed
presently
by a tangy **** yet sweet delivery

It's just I always am bird-*******
but coming up with the wrong duck
not noticing I've brought home
the wooden decoy
until I'm already sopping wet
wearing stink of the marsh

Why am I wired this way?
Got to get out of this yard
but the lessons are hard learned

So I keep climbing the fence
and now it's you on the other side

Waggin' that **** tang!

Lordy, the chase is on.

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

May morning cacophonies never quiet.
Doves coos, repetitive sharp whistles
rising and falling sounded by robins,
who seem to say, "cheer up, cheer up,
cheerily, cheer up." Jays shrieking
whatever warnings they shriek. Chirps,
tweets, titterings of so many more, combine
in crazy compilations of some
orchestra without their conductor
forever warming up days. I do not own
feathers but all my body hairs do stand
on end, flitting as if they were. Then,
woodpecker taps against hollow
termite ridden tree sounding like
the strike of a conductor's baton.

Nothing comes together. A symphony
never starts, at least not one of any
great composer's. Just the greatest.
I spring from my nest. I do not know music.
I hear it and am it. These mornings move
me to ditter about, find my way,
peck my morning niblings, feel dawn
dress me in sun, make me lust
life adorned with feathers. How
possibility wings bring.

From flock to flock, I dare to fit in.
Learn new mating dances.

Rattan letter rack stuffed
with hundreds of coupons
like requests to the Gods
sits under shrine
called the spice rack.

Little bottles
as dusty on outside
as within,
have no aroma left.

This temple's kitchen counter
top is mustard asterisks on
ivory laminate, so reminiscent
of ancient wonder.

These late '60's early '70's
design elements, lacquered
over with grease of yesterday's
din-dins, are only indicative
of where the resident wished
to be.

Now, even India, has lost
authentic texture, alluring space
and line, in these Internet times.
Though he can still smell cardamom,
nutmeg, and cinnamon waft from
Southeast. It is stuck in his mind.

Yet, since time of his dearly
departed's passing, no sandalwood
has been burned and he only
eats corn flakes.

America has changed him so.

Multitude of moth
drawn to light
black of night outside window
Wings of white, a hundred score
maybe more
all wish to pour in
absorb

What are these desires?
exertion bouncing upon windowpane
some beetles eating other bugs
Easy to know their intentions

But about the bouncing spotted ones
What of this light that pulls them in?
electric fervor
Are they pulled, by some force of fascination?

No worry to the bat
being drug and tipsy winged
millions a fluttering feasts

Wish I were that bat
Wish I were just one of those moths
Wish I could fly
Into the light

Pushing up, seedling oak knows not what bastion it becomes
I won't **** what's around it
Seeing it as tower of strength it is
Potential can only toughen when the rose begins to tack on
One day this fortress oak's shade may hinder this rose's bloom
And that day I will not know, nor care for
For that is another gardener's quandary

Or for the rose to find its own way
Into the light

Inattentive to blackened slopped lashes,
which run coal tributaries land-sliding
from her eyes to her chin, he walks
in direct aim for an exit. She squawks

her “You never loved me,” wailings
to whom she, never loved herself. As frenzy
slams between them, violent collision
of his realization, sparks his next decision

and he stops. One hand in empty pocket,
on empty wallet, he is spun illogically
and holds second palm against door.
Lacquered eye in peephole’s furor,

is  batting on other side. He softly makes
his sweet tortured apology, “Sorry.”
You see how for pitiful poor love,
is for pitiful poor, all there to speak of.

Potentially any possibility exists. It's maneuvering all exponentials that will find result. Whether or not that result becomes what you intended it be, it's the discriminating eye that sees, a new potential.

Playing jai alai with my heart
Your throw is amazingly good
Ricochet ****** ***** darts
Atria gushing as it would
Bouncing off wall into never should

I stand here mesmerized
By folly of your play
Leaving me somehow paralyzed
With brutal force you slay
"Hurled out of bounds," as game say

In your court I'm trembling
With sped rebound do I struggle
Propelled to dissembling
Will you hold or will you juggle?
My heart a mere pumping muscle

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

Blurting out from the blue
Been so very long, since I heard from you
Time  not the matter; you cannot keep hold
It is minute measures, of pangs icy cold
Joy to confusion, just to hear your voice
Wouldn’t be much sooner, if I had a choice
Obvious to you, you have held the card
Obvious to me, as I have played the bard
Simply can’t get around it, distance what you need
Now that you are back, how shall this proceed?
Rhyming may not be, what ultimately so clever
But did I really say I needed you forever?
Since you’ve made a show, and you’re here and now
Woo the want I’ve wanted, then hurry up and go

We married in the back of that old Rambler in that syrupy summer. Kitkitdizze mortared under pestal of our tires and its grind made an aroma of peculiar pungency. The moon was plump as an unshelled fava and I was about to peal her. This was all the commitment ceremony we needed. Stars be our witness. Outsiders we were, and the cliffs of the Malakoff Diggins where we did our rambling. I initially met her at her wedding to him, whence she gave her away, though rumor had it she and she were once an item prior to he and she ever meeting. Still, more ****** talk spoke of them being a three. This was all good with me, being that I had had that other he who was still bound to that she who had two hims herself. Lucky gal. Notice, I'm not naming names here.

It was our life and we lived it in polyamorous faultlessness. Gurus, rock stars, poets and other worldly scholars were all in the club. As gluey as all that free love was, most became unstuck in their ways. Hot, hot, hot sticky June crooners. Man I can't wait for summer to come again. Who's getting married in the morning?

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?

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?

You're a dove
and your cooing woos.
I have this hollow
place in my chest
right where a past
lightning strike hit.
I am deeply rooted
in fantasy. So,
you're welcome to nest.

Rains have washed away
most my charred innards.
Yet, I still stand tall
and my branches still
hold verdant veiny leaves.
At least,
Spring through Summer.  

I know it's not
your usual field camouflage.
And owls on
the housing market
do drop in.

Forgive me for asking.
I know it's not usual,
but maybe you could
coo a bit closer
to my branches?
At least until
an owl comes
apartment hunting.
Peace, my friend.

Yellow of buttercup matches your eyes
It hurts to understand how
My dog has no fleas, but scratches a lot
If I can't bust through quantum equations,
I'll melt into the pavement
A shadow of Hiroshima
These sneakers have so many holes
Grass tickles my toes through my soles
I want to eat something other than fish sticks
Doggerel entities all about
I can see the smelly creek evaporate
It smells like dead things lying below
Iran will build its bomb

That flickering star has been sending Morse code. Translation turns out no definitive message but the dots and dashes are unmistakeable. Now to unscramble the letters, how to make sense of it?I know I can do it, but it will take time, a team of highly paid scientists and a lot of government funding. There was a bullfrog whose croaking had absolute calculative exhaustive expression last night. I think he should be employed on this team of scientists. I'm certain he knows something. There were moths dancing in front of my headlights where I parked by the pond. Their syncopated flutterings seemed to tell a story, though I can't be sure it was in relation to the star or bullfrog. Still, it shouldn't be ruled out.

Divits achingly clipped

on plain of continuance

are recesses memorized,

places that trip up

nostalgic reminiscences.

Little cuts in our fields

where whimsy

kissed too deep. Lopped,

hacked, chopped,

chewed by each other's take

on it. Spit

or spewed charges

of what went wrong.

How it all went wrong.

Kissed out spaces

mangling perfection

of what we never were.

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.

Where are you waiting for unimagined?
Where am I supposed?
How are we emphasized?
When shall we remove our clothes?

Me in my ***** tatters
You in your fancy frees
If ever it did not matter
On **** beaches if it please

Remove my every pretentions
Circle in lipstick that part
Know how struck in our intentions
But why does this never start?

You gaze and stare intently
I share the same remorse
Dressed in all objection
Our clothes stay on of course

These pulls and pushes of want
Do nothing to satisfy desire
Don't chew the fat, be blunt
Throw lean meat upon the fire

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.

Lost Words Found (Please Describe to Claim)

My delusions of familiarity
are inscribed in an ancient,
yet to be discovered manuscript. Hidden
in a cave called Longing Sinkhole,
they decompose slowly. Vessels,
which hold these scriptural beliefs,
now cracked. Archaic misty bleedings

pass, or cause to pass gently
through fine fissures of earth upwards,
filtering through natural elements, dispersing
themselves in ether of whole humanity’s
breath. Taking on likeness
of origins and ancestry, as they skip
from nostril to other’s lip

makes mankind indistinguishable.
Unidentifiable from one another and all,
as this essence of that wordsmithing
clarifies fallibility and its utter
beauty, I see myself. You become a déjà vu
of an existence known to me, innately
by tragedy’s reflection inherited

in your eyes and those words written
so long ago. The words of these ancient
one’s come to me and I am filled
with their compassion.
Believing time has taken
and jumbled much of every creature,
living, creeping thing, making it one.

Superabundantly varied are derivatives of love
Copious are stories of how one steals a heart
Never faithful or loyal are these tales heard of
As intricacies exchange like coos of dove
Attending affection is as to make great art

When one starts to woo, a battle must begin
Frighten not an interest with much undue pining
Be brave and certain, as not to feign chagrin
Mannerisms must lie as anxieties turn in
Deception of fortitude, a masterpiece of timing

It may not go your way and likely won’t at first
Though you must try the very best you can
Better with practice; better when rehearsed
Coming on too fast, you may certainly be cursed
Tricky dance of romance for each and every man

I may not be better judge of inflamed passion
Though yes, I have had my share in such
Have misled myself in thinking, “I’m in fashion”
Bit more than could chew; ended with slim ration
Less crafty love charlatan, not really knowing much

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

They say you stink. I would never.
That antediluvian odor, reminiscent of us
before the flood. And I rove the woods  

of the world (those left), scaling cliffscapes,
spelunking caves, in search of our lost love.
Just a sign of something. Proof I need

of our tender attachment. Detachment
of orphic misunderstanding drives my pursuit,
as sleeper wakens to piercing glare.

How to get you back? Yowling, beating  
trees with thumps percussing a want
of ancient ******* still stuck inside me.

I want you back my beloved Bigfoot.
Hunt I will, till I find, anything related  
to this kind, of primitive feeling.

His heart sings Lady Gouldian Finch
Rainbow brings Australian pinch
Of endangered colors multitude
Serenading down under longitude

Aviculturist marvels her spectrum
Heartstrings plucked by plectrum
Weaver wonder family Estrildidae
Aurora avian ambit sub Passeridae

How he adores you each and everyday
Sets his eyes towards Yinberrie Hills
Sorghum sprinkles to petite shrills
Your song, his song vivid dye fills

Certain pizzazz environmentalists thrill
Colored curtain draws on man’s will
I know a man singing Lady Gouldian
Join him now as nature’s guardian

Earliest primitive one
Who possesses man’s groin
Test of testosterone at hand
Your Neanderthal vitality
Must be suppressed
In this crucial hour of first date
Bring forth cerebral vexing
Make sure your touchy-feely-ness
Is of some place
Between intellectual and emotional
Not firstly physical
Yet not illogical to awareness
That within her lives
Somewhere past point a, b or c
A desire as well
Wait, know your moment
And try not to grunt too soon
Ability to pull this one off
Crucial in timing

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.

I understand they find dinosaur bones there in your backyard. Big ones. I've never been to your house or even close to that neighborhood, but ever since you've written me, I am completely intrigued. What you said about me, I think about you in an execrable Hemingway way, maybe as in his "Death In The Afternoon." All the goring. Faintheartedness is nothing to be carried by bullfighters or by bone hunters, I suppose. If there were a way of going back to days of nobler more romanticized slaughtering in bullrings, without the controversy, I'd have to say it is more evident in our modern day Jurassic Park flicks where nerdish paleontologists are transformed into  fiendishly handsome toreadors.

I know I'm not making much sense. Bullfights and dinosaur rustling, what's to compare? One being non-civilized though colorful and bathetic, the other fantastical but forgivable because the beasts bite back. Oh, if only I could explain these machismo machinations. What a ruse. How song and dance does intrigue. Please write me again from South Dakota. I'd like to book one of those dusty dinosaur tours before I go extinct.  Bone hunts, bullfights, same difference.

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

Paul Bunyan is up and at 'em
with his trusty **** wacker, slicing
through to the other side
of suburban nightmare. Zeus,
in barreling breath, holds low
his mighty leaf blower.

An American hero and Greek god,
hell bent on getting what's
greener on the other side, begin their
Battle of the Lusher Lawn.

Paul's Babe, in her royal blueness,
is star-studded and singing, "Glory Glory"
as she banners the front porch
in red and white stripes. Zeus' sister-bride
Hera, turns a goat on spit, thinking,
"these Americans know nothing about
good barbeque." Later, the two will be
promising recipes over the side fence
of their baba ganoush and ambrosia salad.

The boys will be reminiscing Gallipoli,
slapping each others' backs,
and choking back tears.

Diastolic memory fills mind with blood
Heart purges other unforgettable serum
Gushing in and out; valediction, invasion
Scent left on bed sheets binomial theorem

Calculus, physics computing mnemonics us
Trust not sum of it, exponents baying flux
Participles and components abject humbling
Stumbling bio discourse create sedentary crux

Stupefying brain surgeons, those of heart too
Call in mathematicians, astronomers as well
No making sense of it, linguistic doctorates few
To tell of this push-pull sensory denoting hell

Not much time to live after lungs dispensed
Entrenched questions remain to be adoring
Extravagantly historians exploring
Unanswerable examining of this imploring

Must breathe the linens till all dissipation
Your essence in the ether of our resting
Place turned into mad languid laboratory
Conjuring back moments I am requesting

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.

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?

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

Inside I’m wet
With memory soaked
Trickling youth-filled woes
Which cause leakage
Into present
This spouts
Uneasy gushes
Visceral ejection
Out every pore
Sweat pulsing chemicals
Of that toxic touch
On place forbidden
On secrets hidden
It churns
This thing inside
What you took in stride
What I must now somehow hide
With gulp I swallow
My pride
You, my moist reminiscence

when slice of moon is left in empyrean
when sun does join firmament
azure is interchangeable with netherworld
darkness on opposite side of earth
jackal is dreaming
whilst hustler is scheming
broken shadow on rippled lake
lurching subject does awake
heron has found morning
with it comes turtle snack
waited all this time
for hatchlings to come back
to pond’s edge
rouse of jackal

Venus did her thing again. There
in South sky of dawn.
Winked her shimmering darters where
fully aware, I was her pawn.
Witnessed this all did shivering fawn.

And my little deer glided. Soon
to leap then away.
Chased by diminishing stars and moon.
O so soon this break of day.
Venus left then knowing, her love astray.

Fussily he figures, that’s not good enough for him
Excessively high standards got his best, and then
Contempt for average qualities; things he had abhorred
Became almost everything, as he always needed more

His code of behavior, to one, might seem ideal
Criterion of excellence would show at every meal
Fork, knife and spoon oh-so polished, and set precisely
All a fanciful show, and done so ever nicely

Particular attention to each and every detail
In acquisition of mate, indisputably he’d fail
For who could ever live up to these extreme conventions?
Or be it prissy of me, to mention these intensions?

Mr. Fastidious to some, might seem the status quo
A state in which display, is an always-complex show
Fail not to follow all rules, as they are set to be
Or you might dine alone, a wordy one like me

Fussily he figures, that’s not good enough for him
Excessively high standards got his best, and then
Contempt for average qualities; things he had abhorred
Became almost everything, as he always needed more

His code of behavior, to one, might seem ideal
Criterion of excellence would show at every meal
Fork, knife and spoon oh-so polished, and set precisely
All a fanciful show, and done so ever nicely

Particular attention to each and every detail
In acquisition of mate, indisputably he’d fail
For who could ever live up to these extreme conventions?
Or be it prissy of me, to mention these intensions?

Mr. Fastidious to some, might seem the status quo
A state in which display, is an always-complex show
Fail not to follow all rules, as they are set to be
Or you might dine alone, a wordy one like me

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

Beyond the rusty and almost  illegible "NO DUMPING" sign, lies the old dump. Beyond the first layer of recently deposited *******, leftovers of the occasional hobo alcoholic or teen partiers, is the heavy underbrush, a thicket so thick. Beyond that, you begin to get into the good stuff. Waylaid remnants of yesteryears all bungled and tossed about, with plenty of new inhabitants (hatchlings and their recent refugee Canadian geese parents) calmly making good of what surrounds. Lots of rot, as it all sits creekside, gives malodorous inclinations of fishy remains, the raccoons' and martens' cast-offs. Beyond, and beyond further that, if you have stomach enough and don't mind mustering about with muskrats, is a nifty cache. Trinkets are found amongst heaps of broken glass in the beyond beyond regions. Whole or only slightly chipped vessels are gold. Especially, ones that may say, "Dr. Whosie's Whatever Wonderful Tonic Water." Those are the best.

Amongst a treasure trove as this, in its paragon of days gone by, is also a seepage of what may not be as good as the good doctor ordered. It is arsenic, and other carcinogenic pollutants, things unheard of, that would make your molecular epidemiology stand on end. Things an Industrial Revolution left behind, the not so pretty things we find, but do not see. Seepage that sinks into water, under our skin, into Leukemic bones, and beyond words' worries of families affected. Beyond all this, is us, and by stirring it up, we are given a question. Is it better to leave what's left behind in its depths, or are we to pull it out, likely spreading more about, as well as what may be residually left unfound, or do we just stop and think? And maybe get a new "NO DUMPING" sign. Thank you for allowing me this whine. This has been my dump.

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?