Lucifer, save us; come up from Hell—
take a good look at the place that we dwell.
You were right all along
to refuse to bow down
to Adam and Eve
and their limitless throng.
And how could you have known that the apple you gave her
would plant seeds of pollution, destruction and terror?
You thought that we’d only use knowledge for good.
I know that you’d take it all back if you could.
Lucifer, we aren't angels like you.
We joined your rebellion, and soon we’ll be through.
Now the recourse from the wreckage that is,
is to bring on the foreshadowed Apocalypse.
So come on, Luci, don’t hesitate:
The Four Horsemen are pacing; why delay Fate.
After the End, there will be a new start,
perhaps without humans; we’ll bow and depart.

After the burial service
and after the meal for the guests.,
The old man returned home.
He felt badly in need of a rest.

He entered into the room they had shared
for all their years before.
It was faintly redolent of her favorite perfume,
but his Love wasn't here anymore.

Alone in their room,  the old man shed some tears;
He had shown a brave face to the World.
Now, all alone, he permitted his grief
to pour out for the loss of his girl.

He fell down on his knees by the side of their bed
but all efforts at prayer were undone
when he saw  on the wall a photo of her,
back in the days they were young.

That night he slept in the room down the hall.
The room they has saved for a guest.
There were too many memories in their marriage bed
for the old man to get any rest.

In his sleep he had dreams  of an ancient Greek myth
when the gods gave an old couple grace:
To spare death and mourning they were turned into trees.
There together both firmly rooted in place.


His son came the next day to see how he was
For his dad hadn't answered his calls.
He found Death had answered Dad's prayers
There in that room down the hall.

Love is a gift and Life is a challenge
Charon gives rides shore to shore.
The old man was blessed to have passed in his sleep
and was joined with his love evermore.

Contagious Infospores infect
the wild, wild internet west.
Apparently the worst is the best
that some can do.
The goal, to make truth suspect--
to interject
theories of conspiracies.
Connect, connect, don’t inspect
too closely.

It’s mostly
slander to create fear,
garbled and unclear
to avoid lawsuits
(which doesn’t seem to be working).
Fat toad preys on weak minds
who can’t be bothered to analyze
information and facts.
They prefer hysterical attacks.
It's easier to fear and hate
than digest cause and effect, and accept ineluctable fate--
than to consider responsibility,
mistakes and liability.
It’s simpler when it’s all a plot
by the powerful to persecute you
(as if they have nothing better to do).
And to remember that people whom  you fear and hate
are people not unlike you.
26 dead people didn’t disappear.
They are in the ground, and in the hearts and minds
of those who are living, here.

You leave me cold—and so forlorn;
thou weary jaded face of ****.
Does any of your turgid action
hold a trace of true attraction—
more than the membranes, moans and glands
that move your products’ many brands?
Your upper face looks haggard, used
your orifices gape, unmused
in lurid and contrived excitement
offering at best, incitement
to a spurt of blasé bliss:
a risk-free game of Hit on Miss.
Fleshtones moan: transparent fakes
where tremors masquerade as quakes.
For such hard work you’re unimpressed;
your weary looks leave one depressed—
to seek, instead, an amateur;
the accolades belong to her
whose modest shoot on humble bed
ensures her book of love gets read;
much better than that HD trash
where made-up squeals meet ***** cash.

Recalling now the titillation
of my youthful ***-fixation
wherein falsities were prized,
airbrushed half-truths, oversized:
thrills to nevermore regain
nor recreate, much less attain . . .
yet, seen beside today’s hot mess
it’s more alluring to undress
the past, by varying degrees
(her imperfections sure to please).

Perennial curiosity
spreads carnal luminosity
upon the mysteries of the flesh
to tease our hungers; and refresh
our longing for the great Unknown;
flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.

Those naughty childhood memories
transmute the lustful ecstasies;
each glance, each timeless thrilling tease,
was stronger then—compared to this
whose pull is harder to dismiss.
It fades more quickly once it’s past—
but Venus’ vintage treasures last
until the suns of lust grow cold
and all of desire’s daughters old.

Good dog Max, always sits and waits
for the dogwalker, who comes every day at  8.
Leather leash around his neck, they go round and round the block,
the same route every day. He’s got no shoes and socks
to protect his padded feet, that were meant for grass and hills,
and there’s no chance to run and fetch a bird his master kills
(though that’s what he was bred for).
And from 9 in the morning, until every night,
it’s the same small apartment, floor of wood and walls of white.
Sometimes they lock him in a cage, so he won’t jump on the bed;
Max sometimes wonders if he’s alive, or dead.
He barks when they come home, and they tell him “shush.”
To hide his shame he gnaws a bone, or gives his bowl a push.
Max, depressed and fat, died before his time.
A prisoner locked in solitary who was guilty of no crime.

Oh what have you done to your lovely hair,
streaking with insult those glorious strands ?
Of God-given beauty so unaware
that you've put it to death by other's hands.

Tinted with sorrow in a dying fall:
your sultry darks exchanged for tainted blonde—
a chemical crown, clueless overhaul;
false gold, a dull glory now gone beyond.

Liberate your lustrous locks, set them free
to gather grace and claim their natural right
as God ordained; thus you were meant to be.
But lightening streaks do terrify the night.