Light a Gauloise Bleu
Anytime anywhere and
Dream Paris so fair!

The famous French cigarette in the blue pak.

he loves to hear the joyful whistle blowing clearing his mind of dark despairs, loves to breathe in the scented whoosh of the halting wheels as he stands on the platform and watches a train arrive, and when  he waves at the engineer or a porter-it makes him feel so alive

it's the arrivals and the departures, the clickety-clack refrain, the pageantry and majesty of it all that so quickly enthralls

I believe all animals have a human component to themselves. Hence they can be rightly called human animals or human beings. Let us urge science to look further into this hidden phenomenon.

Her head
angled to

Her brushing
so generously so

Much of
it spilling

About her shoulders
her ******* her

Oblivion this
tension this

Lover's stroking
never felt

comedy
satyriasis
tragedy

Sad lady
so blue

Who
are
you?

Figment of
my imagination
I painted
on some past occasion?

No, you EXIST somewhere
anywhere everywhere
here or there

with your
heart so sad

though
the artist
who painted you
exulted in his creation
and felt very glad

Life's not fair
perhaps he didn't care

Didn't care
to wipe the
sadness away

Seems he
put it there
to stay...

But tomorrow
will always come
and that tree in
the orchard might
drop its ripe plum
just for you,
my lady so sad so blue

And your knight
in shining armor
will be there too

opening his arms
only for you

three curious women stare at  themselves in a rain puddle mirror
i'm beauty--the first one says
you ugly!--the second one says
suddenly the sky tears loose with a bombardment of sharp hail smashing the womens reflections to smithereens
i swear Jerry hit me harder ALL DAY LONG!--the third woman says

an astounding sounding guitar
in its fall against
a plump porcelain pig
brings thumps
from three goldfish
squirming on newspaper
about to be dumped into a bowl
of fresh water and faux flora
by the maid in a cute yellow taffeta cap
and strawberry red shoes
lifted on toes

at splash

And pretty
**** too.
Those soft
folds
those fancy
rocks
bejeweling her--
Who painted
this desert peace,
this smile
of a ******

hiding her
moisture within?

rivers
papoose
crossbows

Her black body in motion
Chromatic vistas giving artistic delights
Hands with palms glowing soft moonlight
Feet with soles glowing same soft light
Black body in motion
Beautifully twirling
And so forthright!

fingers splay as if for breath
poke the other palm to
knock forth meaning
clench on fine voltage of a line
or spread wide on vexing question
then close expressively on the answer
as if locking in some cryptic metaphor
to weigh the FEEL of things

"I got epilepsy."

"Good. Good."

--July 10, 2015
Waller County, Texas

Tad Cummins
Elizabeth Thomas
A beautiful ****** odyssey

We need to re-think our rights of ****** privacy and society's ****** witchcraft.


We need to re-think our ri

at first little squeaks asserting...(you thought nothing of it)
you wanted it this way and did your bit

bit when tiny fingers and hands started the gotcha grasps!
you were defenseless against the kickings and a sudden lash

how you dreaded those crazy boundings from side to side
that made you think you were in for a rough ride

and today fists pounding madly with fierce blows
as if a future dictator were warming up in embryo!

i

everything has a face, alas!
except a cloudless blue sky
that formless nothingness
that absence
that silence that fills my heart
with such hurtful joy!!

dreaded winds clomped along the forbidden tunnel
as blackbirds scurried back into their pies
and tony gates kept opening and closing at the far end
softly, like the ******'s breath of sighs
down her first time to
greet the punctured enclosure
bleeding crimson robes
against all restitution

Going back to the horse and buggy days would be a giant step towards treating climate change as well as a cleansing of people's souls through deeper interaction with animals.

Where do you hide O faceless ones,
who risk life and limb to fling the
great cry of I AM at our fences,
our buildings , our city walls?
Your indecipherable scrawls
haunt my lowly
9 to 5 crawls.

Maybe one day we'll meet
though your movements be ghostly fleet.

Bring some chalk,
let us talk.

such fast moving clouds
as if fleeing my craven
need to poke a stop

sleeplessness
jigs
kisses

A NEW WALTZ FROM AUSTRIA

You sat fragile and hunched
at a corner table
where the light did not shine.
I watched tears rage in your eyes.
I went to your table and
put 50 francs in your hand.
You led me up the winding staircase.
In our little room
you disrobed in wine air.
I clasped my arms about you,
whispering "Je t'aime, Je t'aime, Je t'aime..."

such fast moving clouds
as if fleeing my craven
need to poke a stop

trump believes in climate change
(think on that and weep)

Charlie's hat
Do you know where it's at?

Where did it go?

Is it bobbing in the middle of the ocean
in limbo?
Or smashed down on the curls
of a naughty *****?

Some people say a greedy Joe
bought it at auction.
Others say it must be in a museum somewhere-
common fate for a relic of silent film fare.

Charlie's hat
Where did it go?
Do you know where it's at?

Why where it's always been at!
On the top of his head
and will sit there eternally, at that,
along with his winsome walk
and heartfelt smile!

So for all those feeling low and blue
beckon him to doff it at you
for a great laugh or two ...
or three...
or four...
or more!

eyes following hypnotically
each cigarette
one after the other
new ones quickly lit from embers of the last
motions endlessly repetitive
tantalizing dog into a
trance-like state
object to object
dragging him along
hooked on the girl's wieldy chain

each one of us is
a masterpiece in life's flow
of closing circles

countless darnings of minds'
explanations
on that spermy night of drab renown

pernod of licorice spilling
over her thighs of chance
our unsettled merriment never knowing where to land

our silly ripostes
demanding a touch
a look

not the whirr
of sparrows across our barren heaven
or the finality of a sibling's dry kiss

As he grew older, he was
Nearly adept as a physician
At healing the feet of beautiful women,
Bathing the rough skin where they had walked.
Though curious witnesses seeing his always dazed eyes
And the lump in his robe always a-rise
How they talked and talked!

seriousness
joyfulness
loveliness

a pebble here a
pebble there knowing nothing
immune to nothing

tribulation in mind
heart in glove
the wayward depot sways like an old Cinerama
she whispers something in his ear
a rushing train destroys his equilibrium
he can't hear a thing
he thinks she said love
he can't be sure
that word he so often mishears it seems in the brokerage of his desires
the truth climbs invisibly
like the ascending jet he hears above
he has to nod
she too
they part
first step a ladle of tears drops
the porter reaches out his hand, helps him up
the metronome of his wave at her through a nearby window
has failed to reach its object
he can't see her anywhere
as the hungry speed of the train gains
obliterating even the passing landscape's familiar slate

The Ruckus That Led to The Ridiculous Trials

HE, their male object
THEY, legs crossed wrong, sat flirting
IT rose, pitched big tent

Under a tree while
sun burns as on primal day
shadows dance with wind.

Wouldn't you know it?
The know-show arrived
But didn't say anything new
For us to know.

It was like watching nakedness
that needed to be clothed.

How not to be an aesthete:  Don't care if your sliced bread has holes in it or not.

it's the uncertainty at the edges which flavors everything
the stalking on a tightrope
a life of ciphers amidst the grandeurs
wayward furrows in quaint directions
quiet shapes with open mouths
of crisis ad lost contentment
or do you see through your own eyes
a hidden yearning to meet the level ground?

An old story but true of a fool
in love she soon used like a tool
vowed "always and forever"
now it's become "never"
she left, no goodbye
all her words lies
Who's to blame?
she or
I?

rain flails the far hills
cat cleans in a pool of sun
drums pound corner skies

the birds of last year
are here again singing clear
i sneeze - spring fever

commenting on existence: "I'm not overjoyed.
I'd have to be a guru for that."

a mourning dove is
not a morning dove unless
heard in the morning

Paved roads are black coffins sealing the American Indian oneness with nature.

soprano winds leveling hungry gardens
evening violins laid to rest with strange pats
loud dragnets like a pouring rain in blinding twilights
children stoic under their parents' quixotic calmings
lampshades of suspicious parchment fostering incredulous laughs
evidence soon mounting against disbelief
ledgers bearing only numbers kept in wide official pockets
clouds evoking train cars passing high above beget whispers
of what can't be
IS

Germany 1938

A raindrop falls on
a sleeping bug who's jostled
quite flamboyantly.

The only time I feel secure is when I'm away from my computer.