There are stripes on my T-shirt
oh **** me
it won't hurt
or shoot me and that's
what I wrote.

On a slow boat to somewhere,
but definitely not China
I wine and I dine her
but she doesn't care.

In the left luggage office,
the officer greets me and
at
the old railway station
she wants to meet me head on,
but too late
I am gone.

I am gone now
and
somehow
still here

where is it we go
when the energy shifts
we see the tree stands strong
rooted deep and soaking sun and water
only to be transformed
metamorphosed to desktops
and old-time pencil shafts
it exists still
     further explored
     to the fire pit
     homes heated though combustion
     this smoke travels into the ether
     becoming yet another form
     dissipated and displaced
     but real nonetheless
when I slip into smoke
what will be left to circumnavigate the globe
particulates of Sam
jet streaming to infinity
like so many forest fires
our mingling energy
the very air you breath

……. the sustaining aspects –

glossy thick succulent leaf
collecting dust behind bars
and walls of brick and concrete
pushing forth delicate pink blooms
in a place void of color
sans the blue gear
of the incarcerated man
variegated patterns
soft red lines weave
amongst the dark green meadow
as if streams after a spring torrent
were breaking new paths though fields of green
seeking a river or creek
a transporter to grant them every droplets wish
a trip to the ocean
varying stages of bloom
crispy dried
and new buds barely escaping
just offering the slightest breath of color
gifting the drab yellow walls
a splash of hope
tinged with pink –

The little pup sat near the log
And looked over at a small greenish frog
He gave it a lick
And then felt quite sick
And heading off to the bog

At the bog he ran into a hog
Who had a jar of delicious eggnog
They both had a drink
Then spit in the sink
Which instantly started to clog

They both sat with mouths just agog
Like that time in the ole Synagogue
When the Rabbi said “shoot”
and then let out a toot
That smelled like that stinky old bog

Well the hog and the frog with the dog
Ran away from the stank Synagogue
All the way to the bay
For some sunshine in may
And all sat upon a well-traveled log

In dark and dreary Georgia swampland , in the midnight hour with the light of the Moon as your only friend .. Yellow and red eyes glow in the shadows , cottonmouths and gators slowly cross the waters ...
Bullfrogs sing in the Cattails , Horned Owls screech across the timberlands .. Bobcats scream , sound just like a woman late at night ,
they'll catch you off guard every time , make your beard turn white from fright ..Mosquitos are relentless , the humidity hell , blood ******* leeches , brown bats and rabid foxes .. Wild hogs work the bogs left and right , don't ever get caught by a razorback without a good plan or corner a '****' by accident , kick a Snapper thinking it's just a rock , or pick up a Rattlesnake looking for a walkin' stick .. Rumors of black panthers and 'shine wild men ', Confederate soldier ghost and quicksand .. Always lay a trail from where you started are you'll spend all night in haunted , Georgia swamp country ...

shapeless form flowing easy
whirling and twirling to infinity
colliding with memories
and creating delusion
synapsis fire seemingly random
shapeless formless mass shifts
altering long held beliefs
and morphing religious boundaries
gifting treasonous ideals
to steadfast personal decisions
without consideration to ramifications –
free flowing thoughts cascade
leaving trace elements behind
fitted with apparatus engineered
to change one’s mind
create a new thought pattern
extend and elongate the process
into criticality
the path to becoming a critical thinker
is no longer marked or taught
it has become up to the individual
to learn this important and valuable skill
lest we all vote Trump
and live on McDonalds –