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

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.

Today, I do not die
for in our time we have seen too many taken
Waken in me are their souls

Today, I will not die
for Frank, for Russell, for Betty June
too soon, too soon, my friends

Pay attention, I cannot cry
for Jeffrey, for Paul, my first kiss named Ray
They, who left amidst it all

Would not wish me to shed a tear
Be here, be here and know their names
James, and Donny and Danny, the twins

Great possibilities gone forever
We, hardened more as each dropped off
check off each name and know

Nelson and Dean, Tony and Roy
Arturo, whose own survival story was cut short
Stuart, who never had his proper farewell

Toned down tears may well up
Still, do not give up for they watch us now
How could they be forgotten?

For Trashina with her unbridled moxie
for John whose brilliance matched how foxy
a paradox, never understood

Whoever you've known
Whoever you've loved, give undying respect
as wrecked were their lives for ours to survive

Out-and-out trials they saw
Shall have my most undying respect
My undying respect for them all

With all this glacial melting, and our own East Coast meltdown from our latest blizzard,  I wonder how many  Neolithic mummies might be found entrapped within ice sheets floating along our Jersey shore? And could these preserved remains just be displaced homeless, men and likely women as well, whose failed luck at Atlantic City Casinos  left them in strange circumstance of frozen time encapsulation, only to become part of a future archeological find? To whom and to what advanced scientific methods, or perhaps retrogressive scientific methodology, will these corpses be subjects of, if found a thousand years from now? Can we predict no mix up of modern and long former species of man?Just say for instance, some pristine specimen of iceman 3,000 years or older is floating in an iceberg, down from Western Greenland and past Nova Scotia in a tidal melt that finally brings it to a flooded non-moppable place ignored by a present day, though barbaric governor. Then said governor is ambushed by its distressed and recently homeless victims mobbing and mopping on icebergs and struck by mop heads, just as this Neolithic berg is floating by with its' ancient hunter/gatherer Popsicle in tow. Who might know the difference? What future generation might be able to clarify the difference between the two, or might they even care?

Note this my cohort,
debunk what junk crusts your eye
Dig up memory of that first trespass
Loyalty sworn to innocence why?
Note this disease given between my thighs
Come by seek now dolor of blistered
Note condemnation, impressive tongue-lashing
Note my enemies' constant rehashing
And how must I rehabilitate rapture?
Like lamb offered in sacrificed slashing

Yet given my pride, note my superb devotees
Partiality given as they come and go with winter's breeze

Note winter's cold and me on my knees
Between two thieves strung and nailed
Note glory of how love tried but failed
As lamb of sacrifice last breath exhaled

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.

Nearing great compost pile,
that steamy heap,
insatiable hunger hits guts.
And I know fortitude for journey
is contained in wealth of
centipedes, predatory mites,
rove beetles, ants,
nematodes, protozoa,
and **** of wriggly worms.

Virgil waits for me, as he did Dante.
He takes form of a sowbug,
but with whole of worldly wisdom.
Shows me circles to which I will fall:
organic residues,
primary consumers,
secondary consumers
and further tertiary consumers.
An ancient pyramid decompositional
processes the scaling down
before the rising up. Each eating
excrement of another before them.

One I become with slugs and snails.
Invertebrates shred meat from bone.
Flies make airborne my bacteria,
carrying me off to feed birth of
future fungi.

I am reborn over and over.

Never more have I known
anything more Godly.
Intestinal juices of earth, enzymes
and other fermentation
taking me down,
pushing me out,
transforming trash of my existence
back to Eden.

stuck counting dogwood
one flower two flower three
my I love this job

Falling for you
You are an oil spill on my slippery *****
How is it that I ever did cope?
Sliding so fast
Ready to crash
Then woosh
Off the cliff I go
Never to know
When or where I shall land
Is that your hand?
Which has grabbed my ankle
As I slam against the wall
Pebbles, rocks and dirt          
Pelting me as you flirt
With my impending doom
Dragging me upward past bloom
Of buttercup shining
Underneath your chin
Grasping me from within
Pulling me to the brim
Of perfection
In mint condition sin
To hell I go
And didn’t you know?
Greasy escarpments bestow
A Flight of Fancy below
Off We Go!

If I told him once I told him a million times. I said to him, " Manny, this is not a magical kingdom and your name's not Mickey. So, get out!" You think the message would sink in but noooo. Manny being the stubborn sort just kept ignoring me. Well, a good couple of months have passed and I'm nearly at wits end with him. Rotten little rodent. I tried spring traps only to find the bait cleanly removed and no spring sprung. I put steel wool in every conceivable crevice and notch he could possibly enter. Somehow that mouse would find his way. Now my flat happens to be a three story walk up and it's no easy task for me getting up those stairs, I just can't figure how a short stubby grubby little grifter like Manny might manage it or even bother. There's plenty more morsels to be found down at street level, especially with Sister Dawn's Soul Food next door. Yet Manny seems to always have a hankering for whatever I might be stirring up on my stove top. Can't say I blame him after the two times I've eaten Sister Dawn's greased grime. I guess I really only have myself to blame for the second plunge into that gastronomical wreckage. So, how could I blame poor Manny for wishing to elevate his senses for more refined dining? Not that I see my own sorcery in the kitchen much finer than Sister Dawn's, it's just it is. In any case, I'm pretty sure Manny might have been pushed out of an all too overcrowded family affair next-door anyhow. I certainly wouldn't want him bringing in any others. His gal Ethel Vermen and his cousin Ratzo are no more welcome than Manny Mouse himself. So I remind him daily, this not being a magical kingdom and all business. Got some glue traps and upped the ante with peanut butter for bait. Does he bite? Well, you know Manny, too clever to be caught he is. Until, that infamous night of revelry, when no creature is silent, and the music is maddening, and the drunks are drunker, all awaiting that New Year's babe to be born. And after months of chasing, after months plotting and planning, keeping the cupboards under lock and key, after midnight raucousness chasing a furry grey bitty beast from under the fridge to under the stove then under the sink, turning over tables and chairs, stomping like a madman, finally Manny and I come face to face. There he is run into that glue trap he managed to avoid forever seemingly snickering as he always got away, but now I had him. His head cinches between the double-ended prongs of my Ginsu serrated twelve inch knife. Finally Manny will pay for all his pilfering. There he is looking so woeful as his beady reflective eyes sear a plea of mercy into mine. I draw back the curved ergonomically designed handle of my Ginsu blade and with a fast flit of one prong slit cunningly into his ribcage. The squeak is short. I see his chest swell, a tiny heart pumps its last two beats. It is over. It is a new year for man.

Squawks of terror from
mother and child,
a scene never making Hitchcock's
final cut. Competing gulls flap,
swoop,
kamikazi dive bomb
for fallen fried clams. Boardwalkers smeared
in cocktail sauce and blue cotton candy
sweet and sticky. Shrills sounding,
"kitta-wa-aaakee, kitta-wa-aaakee"
as wings slap in spun sugary goo.
She is tarred and feathered.
Gull down! Gull down!
Weekend warriors in Atlantic City
never saw it coming.

The sea wind whips westward
and ocean regurgitates all matter
of gunk. Tampons, syringes, punctured
floaties in shapes of ducks and dragons,
it is ever there
in the gleaming reflection of casinos,
for homeless veterans
to scavenge upon.

Even wounded gulls eat better.

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

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

Navels peel great, but Valencias make more delicious juice, and more and more comparisons come up. On the morning dog walk, as we venture closer to the highway overpass, that whether-or-not feeling comes over. Do we go under? Sure, there is often creepy things there, but the dog seems locked-in, so onward under. I'm not as mulish as the dog and I can tell he smells something. Usually, it is dead, whatever it might be, but sometimes it's not, and that can be worse. It's an orange cloud morning however, and dawn breaks more nicely on the other side, so for the good grace of catching a better glimpse, I'll brave it. Then, of course, there it is, an irksome tableau, morbidly funny though. Next to the airport miniature bottle of  Fireball Cinnamon Whisky, is a turned over pigeon with his claws looking as if that bottle had dropped there from his little birdies' ***** feet. I had to giggle, as my stomach turned. Poor dead bird. Things are really bad when pigeon's are offing themselves this way. Debating to take a quick snapshot or not, time lapses, and I see the blood orange sky dripping by.

So, oh well, I'll just turn about, and not allow the dog to indulge. He's a tough tug on the leash at this point, fearless little fellow. When I return home, I peel one of those Navels. Its skin and pith roll off nicely, and as I split open the sections with my front teeth, I notice the complexity of it all. Though there are juicy parts of the pulp, around the end, it can get a bit dry and putrid. Tomorrow, I shall have to wake the dog just a bit earlier to get that glimpse of a more red to yellow moment. Something tangerine may tempt.

I left part of you
under and within mulch
of the rhododendrons
by sacristy's window

As close as I could bring you
to saintly relics
without endangerment
of my own immolation

That way
when church bells chime
communicant I might be
with you

Garrulous tolls
ringing from a high
reminding me
your hallowed selflessness

As clangs resound,
reechoing's reaching,
your preaching, there
to your choir

And here I dance
above other scatterings
of you, your deranged
selfish parts

Dichotomous bones
cremated and created
because I never believed
in your martyrdom

Too self-righteous
to resurrect
Let your clattering flatter
Let my feet stomp

Your suicide changed me
Enflamed me
And you and I
are not saints

Though you are now
somewhat
closer
to them

It is again, plunk into pit of being
See it as is, truer than what is believing
Misconceiving notion was, still quizzed
Taken back to cage humility

Sterile, these tears, flush waves emotion
Devotion to you dear, causing commotion
Hardly do I go there, yet comes the missing
Insisting on revisiting the elicit

Still pouring over, drains illusion
Intrusion cruel, truth bearing contusion
Purge hid secrets kept by psyche's rule
Plant seeds in dry field's thought

Caught waiting for monsoon to wash over
Soak essence enduring, be nature, know her
Rain overcomes me, shell relinquished
Distinguished, I sprout again

And then, I remember once more
I am extinct

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.

Keyboard, implement of catharsis
Punch you out, pa-pow, pa-pow-pow
Requisitioning my power
I’m your rough digit dancer
Tapping it every hour
Covered with my spit and juice
Snack scraps all crumbly loose
Betwixt your buttons of alpha bits
Numbers and shift bar hits
Massaged pain through my fingertips
Into you and yes I have not been true
Scribbling at bus stop with pens
Jottings on journals or lunch bags
But I love you Keyboard
You must understand
Can’t help myself when you’re not near
All my fear pushed into you
You have been so good to me
Setting me free
But Honey
That “E” key
It’s a little quirky
And not wishing to be as jerky
As I usually am
Brought you some flowers
Which I’ll sit right here next to you
While I rub you down with
Cotton swabs and sweet lavender soap
Paying special attention to your  “E” zone
For you are my Keyboard Extraordinaire
And yes, I care

Peering through the curtains
Leering at my *****
Boy next door uncertain
Eyes find mine and join

Breath upon the window
Death in cerebral find
Wanting willing syndrome
How we like in kind

Innocence is further lost
An instance unforgotten
Once shared, soon be tossed
Our friendship misbegotten

Today's name chosen for you, my love, is Saulė. Do you like its sound? She is Goddess of Sun, from where my people come. Where she is protector of orphans, where she casts warmth, where an enormous smith made and threw her. Call me Mėnuo if you will, as I am just a moon, circling the orphaned Earth. Our marriage is destined, and my light is yours, a reflection of your solar pulses. These legends have it, many a mix up between us. Stories do go that way. There is a shadow on me. It grows. Eventually, splits me in half. Then, you watch as I disappear. Yet, I  return and grow again in your light, giving guidance to orphans traveling by night. This is the Zodiac's grand command and as we spin about, time, other orbs and Universalist theory melds. A marriage of millennium is at hand and our master smith, with his hard hammer,  keeps the sparks flying. New stars and galaxies emerge, and shouldn't they? Seems the story just keeps getting better.

Syrian pilgrims on boats of hope
Finding no place to land
No one to lend them a hand
No Plymouth Rock to throw rope
How can Republicans cope?

They believe this land is their's
Exclusively, for a Macy's parade
A big balloon with man in stockade
Thanking themselves, saying prayers
Really just showing no one cares

Blaming it on religious beliefs
Though zealots they are themselves
Confusing truer issues as well
Where have gone the Indian chiefs?
To Mexico forced by Trump's police

Sun begins its rise, taking baton from setting moon
Freak closes curtain, sealing darkness within his room
Compulsive habits draw and push, metering this tune

Addict sees the devil, meandering wide labyrinth
Drunkard finds green fairy within precious Absinthe
Religious zeal is just a steal from place called Nazareth

Judging from the junkies, who line up on the street
Methadone clinics make perfect meet and greet
Cops are robbers, faking stats, keeping rule of their own beat

Faithful followers of god-pill-poppers do it just the same
All the people seeking steeples, much, much the same
When will devotee know a drug by any godly name?

It all goes round and in this town, martyrs everywhere
Adhering doom upon a tomb, getting closer there
What we don’t know is soon to show a resemblance of somewhere

Hummingbird-hawk-moth and honeysuckle
Dewey aroma wafts, whilst luscious colors lure
Tubes of flower half full with nectar buckle
Furred insect cares not posy’s thoughts impure
Yet lured, yes lured, to stamens ***** quite more

Fancied moth puts out its long filigreed tongue
Anthers reaching for coveted wings to dust
Objectifying prey, tempting juices corolla young
Wild waltzing flight circulating pollen in lust
Honeysuckle’s sweet sensual seduction a must

Qualities as these voluptuous encounters
Reveal to mind complex ****** intricacy
Flower employing moth as vehicle mounter
Carrying to other blossoms pistol’s ecstasy
Nature’s chance romantic dance of delicacy

Tell elms, "clock's tics move fast past tocs
bring out the greenery, push past buds."
I've waited too long  
and Spring is too short.
Aluminum siding has capsized
and I am sunk too far in this rut.
Toenails have begun taking root.
Impoverished tin can town, with feral cats  
better fed on mice and sparrows,
releases its billowing film
from trash-to-steam chimneys.
And septic pea soup drips from sky,
so tell elms, "Hurry!"
Blot out pestilential reality  
of this deadly poverty
with green places the sparrows might nest.
I will keep safe the mice.

Draft inside head today,
as if brains turned mush
and leaked out an ear last night.
Checked I did, pillow
and next to bed and under. Flash
then came (seemed to blow in)
from behind, that cat
had lapped and swallowed
remains of any intelligence
I’d once owned. Chilled were
my eyes in swirls surprised,
as I looked upon dresser
seeing innards of cranium
attached to chord
of cell-phone charger.
Pull of impression,
****** me
straight awake. But
was not dreaming,
as velocity of losing mind
be very apparent.

Raindrops plunk upon aluminum
siding and window sill
Outside, such turmoil,
yet I can only sit still
Swishing winds  interrogate trees,
causing them to drop their leaves
and pretenses
Confessions of bareness
propagate an awareness
of little mismanaged defenses
This sullen Fall charms places between suburban track homes
Places where cornstalk bunching
settles for quaint decor
When in Rome...
how it never feels like here

I see that bubble you roll around town in
and I can sometimes make out those mumblings,
calls of, "Looking to find my soulmate!"

Funny, vibration of laughter surrounding you
has not burst that solipsistic fizz and froth
Don't you hear yourself reverberating?

In your echoic encasement
Oh how you shine
In that mirrored concavity
And you love yourself so much

How could anyone else even come close
This is your soulmate speaking
Glinda, you haven't been a very good witch
lately

Stars jostling whatever wishes
Nets cast upon heedless fishes
To do or not to do the dishes
Just is what is all this show biz

Putting flowers in a vase
Something that might give you pause
All that is and ever was
Much to much such harm caused

To be still and to never utter
Chrysalis' desire to ever flutter
Simple wanting and none the other
Bind a dream and watch it smother

How should Spring be so cruel?
Fledgling discarded as a fool
Not all adhere to golden rule
Who'll you'll find inferior saccule?

So that eternal garnishes be exposed
not by being particularly good or worthy
but by sole grace of the radish itself

Carved into petite rose
striated to whimsical
red and white allure
not distant from place pulled
should leaves be present and immaculate

O what crunchy goodness it is

Long time hath happy sulfured
soothing comfort to throat
What wise crisp snap to it
Charmed these root veggies
and in that window box was born amorous

I think things like~

what if every raindrop was
encapsulated in a wax casing?

and what of all that rain
and all those wax casings?

would the wax coagulate
in some weird way
while coolness of clouds cover?

or when heat of sunshine
broke through, would they what?

turn into sloshy slicks of slippery drippings?

would the water molecules
find their way to each other
to form rivers?

and would the wax bank itself
in coagulated forces of gravity
and magnetism yet to be understood?

what if all the wax was spectrum sensitive?

and its rainbow reflective
properties sponged twisting
of tentacled wonder from
every imaginable surface

what then?

would all dullness slip away?

or would we all be burdened
by a way of life unknown
at this juncture of elemental uncertainty?

I stare into the filmy rainbow swirls
of gasoline floating on puddles
and wonder

when will crude discovery of
what a waxy mess we've made
of petrol dependence finally
plop upon us?

when and why?

sidewinder meets me
coiling with hiss he rattles
make my own side step

This woman I know had a fox that lived in her root cellar. She'd knock on the door to let it know she was going to enter, and the fox would vacate temporarily to allow her time to store or remove canning jars. She ceased to leave her root vegetables down there, as they would nearly always become part the fox's nesting material. The fox had raised several litters in that cellar and my friend was always certain never to bother her distinguished guest while she had pups. The root cellar was under the house which was built half off a cliff and was cattywampus. It had lots of cracks in the siding and in places was missing planks altogether. This allowed mice easy access, and since my lady friend was such a fine cook, there were hoards. This served the fox well, who would keep at least the underside of the rickety cabin free of vermin. My friend could never keep a cat because of the fox naturally, though she did try to employ several. They would never stay. I had always tried to make repairs on the cabin, much to my friend's chagrin. Seemed she had an aversion to any change she didn't instigate herself, and was quite particular about not having any modern materials come her way. Any suggestion of modern convenience and you'd be read the riot act. She liked things, "organic," and her whole lifestyle, with the exception cheap cigarettes and tequila, exuded such.

One day, county officials came and put a red tag on her house. This meant the home was not in accordance with sanitation laws, on account there was no septic, just an old outhouse down the hill past the garden. Being that my friend had little to no income really, her "lifestyle," was in sudden jeopardy of being uprooted. Some kindly folks pulled together to be certain our friend did not lose her home. She got a new indoor toilet, a septic tank, and some siding to keep the mice out. Never once did she use that toilet, always kept the outhouse. The fox left on account the mice population dwindled. My friend keeps her root cellar well stocked now and whenever I visit, we laugh about that fox and enjoy some fine pickled snap beans. Change isn't always easy, but living easy is sometimes worth a few changes.

Arteries benumbed

Reading pharmaceutical's inserts no fun

Reading your mind even worse

Print so small

Foldings such as a roadmap

Those molecular models delineated

Moods might just as well be

Translating cuneiform

You wedge-shape marks on me

Deceptive blinks cut my clayey gray matter

That mascara you wear

Like kajal on Persian Princess

Ovular pills with spider legs

How do I defend from?

Enigmatical ellipses

Narcotic exotic

I look for, but find no

Adjoining pamphlets or warnings

To all your strange side-effects

Muscles fatigued, grave diggers duties endure with war
Continuous seems never ending, a keeping of the score
Nation challenged and ripped in two
Who's child next for the red, white, and blue?

Memorial Day, forever remembered, forever we pray
For day no future soldier lie under, funeral bouquet
Can't we more civilly celebrate our diversity?
Instead, bury our grudges, our hatred, our absurdity?

Finding peace amongst brothers, is man simply ******?
Please love one another, and shake each other's hand
For "In God We Trust," is not such a bad slogan
Yet, for "In Goodness We Trust," may also be chosen

They say over and over that, "History Repeats"
Seems this type of credo is humanity's ultimate defeat
So, why not take on a tenet of love?
Is not all this hatred, something we can rise above?

Reflex memory, what we do time again and again
Can be changed, if from hatred, we learn to abstain
So give it a try, learn to love your brother
And by chance, we may spare the tears of a mother

Clouds dangle, as if udders and teats
Memory shudders and lips suckle to sky
Incarnations combine entities; murky repeats
Are we this or that? Princes or beasts?

Billowing mass, vapor in atmosphere
Trickling vigor and tasting vitality
Kisses of fog seem some extent cavalier
Creation whistles in wind exceedingly clear

Mouth motioning desire and yes, need
Cooling air drips resonance of warm sun
Fermentation of time, honey water to mead
At all life begun, but never quite done

Milky rain, an intuitive squeezing of thought
What of lifetimes brings such sustenance?
Say, may that ever after eternally be sought
If one can dream past clouds, ought one not?

She beckons Earth underfoot
Time for Seasons to reset
Goddess of Egyptian Spring, Renpet
Palmshoot reaching, curving, sprouting
Desires let

To fertility of world She sings
Commanding what nature must
Warmth of fresh sun dewed lust
Birth and growth She informs
Of equal trust

Datenut ***** are running slim
Provisions of winter running out
Time for Spring pea planting, no doubt
For Renpet knows and ends
A knowledge drought

Her reign is rain
And this wetness is welcome
Sprouting what just, shall come
Amending reason and truth
She'll come

Smell it I do, then thought of you
Presence comes, in wafts rose powder
Sweet dust, pinching, untainted, true
Nana's essence, remembrance undo
Faith's instinct couldn't seem louder
Than rose powder, temperance's you

Heightened fragrance, blooming sense
No excess, bought at dime store counter
Perhaps to ward off onion's offense
Her pierogies, life's past tense
Empyrean staircase, she, soul mounter
Origen in belief, source whence
Rose powder thence, spiritual encounter

Teddy bears, crosses, burnt candles,
wilted flowers, faded ribbons,
rain washed love notes to a child
taken too soon from these
city streets burdened by stray
bullets exploding on unforgiving
empire is a litter no one takes away.
It is only added upon.
Next to graffitied bus stop,
across from alarming firehouse,
in front of and attached to
weakening iron fence,
surrounding church of boarded windows where prayers have ascended too late,
is a mother on her knees,
feeling the burn of hell cooked pavement.

Joint where sacrum,
ilium meet, here
pull into fetal
position, discharge.

Polar magnetism
draws uncertainty.
Cuddle within
my release. Spoon
your mind around it.
Come out
of that place.

Sacred bindings,
ill adjustments, push
the noxious. Diffuse
inhibitory control.
Let that **** go.

There is tale of  Kavala
which tells of hero true
simple man defyingly hopeful
would row the Aegean blue

Did this alone to save Turks
as Bulgars were encroaching
He knew the Greeks on boats
somewhere were approaching

To Thasos he rowed trough night
darkness of waves o'er sea
Only stars be shimmering guide
Long nautical miles to be free

His muscles wore desperate, weak
yet the fisherman pressed bravely on
for love of his wife and family
He gave word, but his heart was gone

By daylight the sailors returned
Man had found friend in Greek Armada
Just in time troops did arrive
and saved the burning of Kavala

Turks rushed from their homes
to embrace with joy, Greek sailors
Yet one woman knew of a man,
the fisherman who did not fail her

And though he had sadly perished
after his long tortuous journey
his family knew of shimmering star
a hero never more so aptly worthy

I never really speak exactly what's on my mind. Painting inhibitions feels like a higher art. Not on your life, would it be wise to bet, on any prognostication or even divination. Certain regret mars most definitive findings, but I wouldn't wish to make claim to any of those anyhow. It's much easier being misunderstood. Leaves me out of the loop. Hardly, would any wish the full scoop. After all, most of what is said and done, will be forgotten. Likely, never even initially heard. So, leave me no word, of remembrance. I'm fast approaching my own confines of extremity.

Lucinta slams fist against her breast
Cerberus three-headed dog howls
In unison screams, either side of dream
“Take his body from this place!”
Christians march sewers of Rome
Mauritanian archer recognizes his face
 
Sebastian’s body is resumed
And buried at the feet
Of Peter and Paul, ground so hallowed
Irene and maidens weep
Her herbs, tincture not swallowed
This time it is for keeps
 
Diocles murdered twice
This Patron Saint of Athletes
Piercing arrows, which were undone
By Irene’s tender grace, now replaced
With blows of clubs by Emperor
Of a Rome which begins to waste
 
He saw it coming, plague of plagues
And knew the Christ was Risen
He ****** all from Milan to Gaul
And Christians were so imprisoned
And each convinced another man
Of this immaculate and pristine vision
 
So on it goes unto this day
Athletes wear insignia on silver medal
And delivery to us a new plague
While good veiled Italian women do peddle
The famous artists nouvelle vague
Will this martyrdom ever not settle?
 
Sebastian as Sadomasochist
Will you hear devotee’s prayer?
Or must I continue to pierce myself
With points from here to there?
End thine madness thyself
And show this world your care

Once pink now tawny wallpaper peels inside a closet, ballerina
dreams shucking off like husk. Little cartooned princesses cling.
Last holders-on from a 1950's design scheme with all good
intention, twirling memories glueyness is backed seemingly
to astound or perhaps dishearten. In "the boy's room," you
find in the closet an equally petrified, yet opposite motif papered.
It's animated baseball. I remember how quotes such as, "Never
let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game,"
did don those walls back in the day. I think it was Babe Ruth
attributed to that one. He and I were supposed to have shared
the same birthday, but I must confess, it stopped right there.

Eventually, that was all figured out, and I have no lamented
grievances for what parent's wishes were for their children's
would-be assigned roles. It was and is still popular to choose
decided decors as such. Who is to know how Bobby may envy
tiny dancers chosen for his sister's room or how Sue might prefer
basketball or even hockey? Even more politically correct
consciousness is a confusing choice. Who gets the dinosaurs
and who gets the daisies? In any case, no one papers the
closets anymore. So, when the time comes for cleaning out
old spaces and memories, future grudges might be less frequent.

As I am, I growl with hunger
As I lust, my musk malodorous
I do, as though the thunder
Confess my will shall so oppress

It’s a drive my eyes are fixed upon
The scampering of the lemmings
My fangs blood and phlegm do don
No intelligence worth condemning

It is life for which I fight
The ***** becomes my prowling
My need to breed a might
Her moon begins my howling

I claw my way through darkness
Scavenging morsels to find
Eyes that perceive a bark lest
Be indicative of my kind

You said you couldn't make love
to me that day
Afternoon had slipped away

Did you ever?
make love
Had you raised an arm?
in bath water
an unattainable charm

Between thumps and pushes
growns and growls and snaps
leaves turn under bushes
Invoking ritual perhaps

No memory softer touch
No yearn for less your spanks
For all this blank intention
I still give you my thanks

Silence and stillness awoken
And dishrags fall from sky's brink
Slapping mud splattering broken
New Jersey now kitchen sink

Flash from neighbor's window
Shot off mirror into my eyes
Big Mama begins without intro
Surrounds me gravy and fries

I'm rowing rivers in plastic cup
Other cars are bobbing downstream
What has Mother Nature just dished up?
Churning seafoam into whipped cream

Lengthen, pull, pull

Wrap around it

And tie it off

Gather reason, grasp

Tug, tug, tug

When I first saw one uncircumcised

I cried

At its beauty

Its perfect Godly form

Shame came over

Or maybe a repressed

Screaming memory

Nothing is equal

And all men measure

Themselves against another

Every inch counts

For a while

The acceptance is not easy

What you did not choose

For yourself

Is hardest to grasp

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

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

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

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

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.

Cozenage be vein of her parsimony
deciphering unlikely by any logician
witchcraft concealed in metrical composition
She jerks one’s tears with great acrimony
as selfish rhymes sings no just harmony

Carefully she devises alliterative pull
this to an ear, dare sound enchanting
how known better be most common ranting
Twists words with lilt but not essence full
leaving some to say, “such pulled wool”

Speaketh she, as from long faraway world
this strange poetess be not one at all
seasoned sailor know she blow tall squall
Serpent’s tongue flailing and twice twirled
young sailor I suggest, keep sails securely furled