I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all
    oppression and shame;
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with
    themselves, remorseful after deeds done;
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying,
    neglected, gaunt, desperate;
I see the wife misused by her husband—I see the treacherous seducer
    of young women;
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be
    hid—I see these sights on the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny—I see martyrs and
    prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea—I observe the sailors casting lots who
    shall be ****’d, to preserve the lives of the rest;
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon
    laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like;
All these—All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look out
    upon,
See, hear, and am silent.

At dinner for two
I chose a tasting menu.

Chatter was pleasant,
Until the sous-vide pheasant.

Conversation digressed:
My faults were expressed.

I did not forsee,
A deconstructed m
                                 e.

'Hello?' said James.
‘Hello,’ said Paul.
'Where are we, Paul?'
'I don't know. I can't see.'
'I'll try to find a light.’
James went to move, but he felt nothing. He felt nothing at all.
'I've got no legs,’ said James.
'Nor do I,’ said Paul.
‘This is most strange.’
'Well, I'm not to blame.’
'You were driving too fast.'
'Was I?' said Paul.
'Yes. You drunk fool.'
It was black and there were two voices. Nothing else at all.
'What happened?' asked James.
'I don't recall.’
'The road was wet.'
'Oh yes.'
'Then the swerving Corvette.’
'Oh yes'
'Then...a wall!'
It was black and there was nothing after the wall. Nothing else at all.
'Are we dead?' asked James.
'Of course not,’ said Paul.
'You are both dead,’ It said.
'Who was that?' said James.
'It wasn't me,’ said Paul.
'It was Me,' It said.
'Who are you?' said James.
'I am Me, and you are dead.'
It was black and there were three voices (two dead ones). Nothing else at all.
'This is awful,' James wept.
'No.' It said. 'This is wonderful'
'Really?' James’ heart leapt.
'Yes, as long as your name is Paul.’
‘It's not. He's Paul.’
'Oh. Then it is quite awful.'
'What of me?' James implored.
'Yes, what of him?' chirped Paul.
‘Well…I hope you don't easily bore.’
It was black and there was nothing for James. Nothing else at all.
'Paul, come with me,’ It said.
‘Okay,' said Paul.
'Where are you going?’ said James.
'To The Kingdom, of course.’
‘I thought that was a lie?’
It paused. ‘Surprise.’
'Why Paul and not me?'
'He never questioned a thing.’
‘But, he only thinks of himself.’
'I don't make the rules.’
'Who does?’
'Someone Else.’
A fearsome light consumed the black. Paul described a violent yank.
'Goodbye Paul.'
'Goodbye James.'
'Don't you feel bad?’
'I feel no pain at all.'
'This isn't fair.’
'When was It ever?' said Paul.
James paused.
'You've got me there.'
It was black and there was nothing. Nothing else at all.

A light-dappled square,
Buzzing like the
Center of the universe.
Flat-capped Frenchman
Strut like mid-century
Movie stars.
Cigars flaunt from
Languid fingers.
Serious facades mask
Red-blooded kinship.
They wait their turn to
To flick, to spin, to thud
Their steel onto
Provençal terrain.
What a life. What a game.

A man from work
Is going to Vietnam.
I’ve been before.
I fell off a scooter.
I warned him:
‘Careful of those bikes.’
He winked.
He misinterpreted my advice.

I reminded him to get his jabs:
‘Yellow fever will get you.’
He winked.
He thought I was being blue.

I recommended a reputable masseuse:
‘Wonderful hands. Ask for Luu.’
He winked.
He misconstrued my review.

He told me:
‘My mission is to tan.’
‘Agent Orange,’ I joked.
He didn’t understand.

Where there was something,
Now there is nothing:
A glade in the forest
Is all that remains.
The woodland of youth
Became wasteland;
No serum or tonic
Could Regaine* its flourish.
Sometimes, I run my fingers
Through the ghost
Of what was there.
I am, of course, speaking
Of my phantom hair.

When Feb-the-fourteenth calls,
Behead the roses for the cause.

And when the crimson colour blooms,
Crush the cocoa and milk-infuse.

The day the diners rub elbows,
Mine the gold for knee-bent shows.

When the need for romance spikes,
Pay for words that Hallmark writes.

And let the men show they care,
One single day per-calendar-year.

It beguiles that this day exists,
Where expensive gifts outshine a kiss.

Do you mind if I just make a pact?
To love today, tomorrow, beyond and back.


RLG