a genuine photograph taken by a relation,
of Wonder Woman commandeering a
Manhattan avenue by aft. daylight,
leading children of the neighborhood and
their guardian angels, the NYPD, in a
rousing calisthenics warmup routine,
for it’s the day of witches, goblins, masquerading,
and pre-internet, nice, sweet trolls no older
than six years of age, Wonder Woman too, the rigors of an
evening of search and recovery, collecting the
well gotten treasure *****, found by early dusk’s
s l o w l y disappearing light, amidst stunned,
aimless wandering adults
and miscellaneous grownups,
All
wonting & wondering:

*is innocence still a thing?

inspired by a short story from the man from Snake River


<>


no alarm clocks heard expiring,
unrequired and unrequited,
we,
those, self-employed by the
nocturnal repetitive recounting
of sins of omission and worse,
those commissioned in
anger and haste, that breed only
more anger and lay further waste
from humans to 
humans,
awaken with an
irregular precision
and bad disorder,
demanding chances,
expiation, restitution, amendment,
but time erodes
possibilities for the
impossible,
foreign forgiveness

knock-you-down rushing currents
of water erodes Snake River boulders,
them oldsters just like the litany of our
malfeasances, indestructible in nature
geologic,
and in
human nature
illogic,
terms, such as time measurements,
irreverent and irredeemable,
for our sins
live far longer than
our owned memories,
in those harmed, who
cannot in the unlimited timeless quantity of
ever ever,
understand

your wry smile,
your why cries,
audibles you’ve
play called, go
unheard, unseen,
even and odd
Bach Orchestral Suites,
Beethoven Sonatas
more mock than soothe

trapped between industrial carpet
and flat unpainted Armstrong ceiling tiles,
you
in a hell of your own creation, forgot to include,
a Sabbath day extant, of rest for weary creators,
ever ever,

or planned in a world you’ve  designed,
so the best you
can do
is write
another and another
confession ever ever

watching and listening to
the alarm clock that neither
requires setting, for
it’s audible ticking is
alarm-ing curse
enough ever ever
that always never
rings

tired of being myself
as a body

pursued, desired, mis perceived by the shell that just
happened to be given me on heaven’s assembly line,
so I will rewrite my new words and turn to where the
light is brightest

and the marbled of saddest is interwixted


brandy