I

Angry stupors succumb her sternum
                                          --battered cavities
                             and shoulder sockets.
   Mates with shotguns and pitchforks
           snapped femur bones holding to hope,
  cat nap toes struggling
                                            to climb the miserable

  The greatest beasts reverberate
                        --Fathom and Torrential/Alice & Skippy,
                                       & Orwell and Bukowski
   with pit mentality swarming
                            her literature
                            his neck.                   Never be the Republics.

     The wall is wood and bare. Ammonia wet seal--
              
            Alice, with her sweet, clawing voices sees
                          this escape is a prison.
        The dove sent to fetch Peace's growth
                  got stuck                                     in the chimney
                             that Skippy built with his stubbornness.

     Alice touches her tacked on remnants
                       --feeling the double home.
                                  Skippy stands still unless Alice calls
     for him
                  and he runs so fast with heart halves beating
                                                                ­       slow.

   *II

           Skippy looks down the abyss and sees Julius Caesar,
                    Cthulhu, and a black flag
     calling back for ceremony
                                 in honor of facilitating fear
                        holding tears
                                   and hugs with arms of falsehood.

    Providing bread for mothers and fathers,
            captors of our tables of silence.
       Fear--making dead witnesses into no soft music,

                                                         ­  no music.
                                                          ­       No,
                                                             ­  facilitators near the top.
                                              What the minds of men
                                                             ­                have done to him...

III

                            Wet paper skin,
                       flat screen canvases--cute satisfactions
                                  asked mean all the world
      but yet                                nothing              but petty questions
                                                       ­                              that break the camel's back.

   "Do I deserve to do this to you?" Skippy asks,
                  helping Alice remove her other lung.
   "Pages will tell babblers later
                           in history", Alice replies.                   Shrieking

    Skippy quarters Alice, the body, the organism's pillow
                    ink
                    oozes
        ­     and    
                             squirms.
Silence,
               as Skippy does the deed.
Wallowing
          back
into
           the
swamp
            of
obsessive
           perception,                        climatic disintergration
                                                 ­                   makes flint hit steel--making another heir
                                                            ­                                       in her litter. Her name is Pain.


IV

       Loving Alice
                           watches         as she falls,
                                                    crashe­s,
                                                and rises.
She smiles softly.


V


  softly with lips of jasmine, the butterfly conundrum is strapping
            fingers made of chalk and other media to
red bricks,
red bells,
it is but a ghost of a casket. She breathes in this casket--in the belly of a bell, she survives.

                                     It doesn't take her long
            to finish
                          what she has done
         --nails faded back to purple polish.

  Falling through her father's philosophy                         a ladder,
                                                         ­                                    a rope
                                         to strangle the blade of Lady Macbeth's sanity.
          Alice takes one last look
  under jasper eyelids--pulls the rope & becomes lactic.
                                                         ­              A motion film.

Here in Oz, they're banning fairy tales,
Indeed, a giggle did not fail,
Children's lit must be correct politically,
Here's the new style ode for thee,
Listen up and you shall see.
Skippy has two mummies,
Their boyfriends spat the dummies,
Now Skippy's mums got preg,
Their boyfriends did renege,
So along came little Skippy,
Hopping off to eat Mr. Whippy,
Yes, totally correct politically,
New fairy tales for the kiddies,
Skippy has two mummies,
Our norms do change, it seems....

I want to save your soul.
This is why I am here.
This is why I'm in this world.

I have no other mission,
But to love You without permission,
Selfishly.

But don't you forget, Skippy,
It's just the moment making me say this,
You are only here for an hour,
Then I turn to something else.

Use your time wisely!
Do not waste it Skippy
Until you are in my heart...

Sweet baby,
split-pea soup.
croissant carbs,
sliced tomato,
onion crisp, and
spinach greens-
ooh avocado,
please!

look out the
kitchen window,
my dog's head in
the compost pit!
"LIBBBBBYY!"
homemade soup on the back-burner

******, scratch it,
there ain't even any
tomatos or onion to
throw on this french
bread!
ohh, but mama,
let's get real,
since when was
there ever any
money for all these
S.Pellegrinos!?

I'm not complaining,
and I know ain't
isn't a word,
but for Christ Sake!
Being home is always
wild.

To sit by the fire,
or to be a free-running
child?

I can't even make lunch
without getting excited,
and documenting my odd
life.

Could have made that Bumble-Bee-
solid white albacore,
or Skippy,
squeeze that Skippy-
it's the skippy you squeeze!
Figured I'd go a little
more home-made today.

How long will it be
'till Mama starts asking
for rent?

All those Doctor bills,
wild insurance-
you slay me!
Mental health,
Hunterdon and Rutland,
you really did me deep.
And to keep paying those
Doctor's with those degrees,
sheesh!

Rode my bike to the TDBank,
to take out the last of what I
had, for Mama.
Talk about hell on two wheels!

So now my choices can be narrowed-
Do I hit the restaurants and do
the night shifts, waitressing in
that filthy grease?
Do I get a portfolio and try to model,
without Mama's approval?
I sure do have one impressive
resume, but this state wants to
take my license away.

My student loans are
in over my head, here
at least there's a futon
and a warm bed.
Chicago means an air mattress and
Vegas screams something I can't really
be too sure about.

I guess it's true, home
is where the heart is.
Home is where my toes
are warm and where my lunch date,
Libby, never leaves my side.

This U-turn situation,
it's not so bad. Yeah, sure,
I was supposed to be in Utah,
canyoneering. And this New Year's,
I would have, should be, could have been
backpacking through Nepal-
a dream.
Sometime I just get a little sad.

So I'll read some books,
watch some films,
give Libby her beef-flavored
pain-killer pills,
and pray for a pretty little
white-christmas miracle.

I laid there staring
at the ceiling fan spinning,
grinning about the night before
& thinking
what happens
in L.A.,
stays in L.A.
**** skippy.

I could barely see
through my red,
tasted my Marlboros
like they were liquid,
felt lost in an illusion.

I tried to whistle Dixie
& forget about
the pretty sleeping
pixie
lying next to me,
buck naked
& snoring like a buffalo.

But how could I?
She drove a Mazda
with Andretti-skill
& cooked a mean plate
of spaghetti.

Her lips were Mona Lisa
smirky & she made me crazy
with moves she's said she learned
from reading ****** poetry.

I loved the fact
she loved fine art
& traced her constellations
with my kisses
until she awoke
& loved me again
sinfully.

The deck is awash
Wind rips the sails
The crying and screaming
The birds and the waves
My senses are reeling
Can this be real
"All hands on deck!"
Old Skippy screams

Wet  rigging is whipping
Can barley grab hold
Cold rain beats down
Chilling my soul
The cries of my mates
Can barely be heard
All know their place
Their tasks are secured

Float as we may
A mere cork on the sea
Holding out hope
Riding the waves
May God have mercy
Upon all our souls
Cried the ships Chaplin
Old Skippy just groaned

A lifetime at sea
More days than on land
The old crusty mariner
Had many a scare
No longer bothered
by things such as fate
Calmly he waited
Claimed by the waves.....

I

          Aspiring to reach the solar rabbit hole eclipse
                  --climbing up the well,
                                            the photon test tube
                                      sodden and crusted on the outside
                  by angsty
                                adults
       snorting obsession
             through The Manhattan Project straw.

                    The pirate boy wanted to be named
                           Skip--so determined Alice named him,
                                    Skippy, conqueror of blueberry mucus
                 --he reminded her of sidewalks
                         she found far in the misty woods
--no one walked
                      the unexpected like                                           him.

          Each placement of a pore: a bat cave
                                                       a depressed skull
                                                       a hollow exploit
                                                       a lame *** joke
                                                       a mildew plop

Almost certainly this cadaver matryoshka doll
would be human by the time
the two runaways
were born again                               Hallelujah! The dish breaker is crowning again
                                                           back to the galleons, rotting awkward candles.

               "Leave what is human                                       in
                                                                                            inhumane
                                                                                            places." the well speaks.
          Skippy tears the corners of his lips
          to his ears. Alice turns her temple to the sharpest part
                                                                            of the monumental
                                                                     test tube
                                and cracks her childhood back to the bottom
                                                                               --back to Euphoria. light poles open
                                                                                  up faces and throw their lights to the ground.
Both of the thrift store
lovers continue to climb--ripping off purchases
                   to the beggar's tin cup.

II*

   Severed hearts beat without metaphor
          as the empty vessels that hold them.
Spines sing of freedom like centipedes
                      facing fan blades.                                Pirate boys mock the smoker's language
                                                                      of mutiny.

Devalued skin,
                                        ***** armor
casted,          
                          lowered,
   teased, by the cadence
            of tumbling blood.  Marking territories other brother's can smell

                  Obediently, we see what
       gods are doing to them. They're paying
for drawing the different suits of God
   on the cave wall.            Hit jobs--vacuum spoils,
                     sucker punch postage stamps
              --revenge from a peaceful creator
  forcing the two to climb/climb/climb
           back to a speck
                   where dandelions grow
      from the revolution fetus and graphite,
& tongues, & lips, & nerves, & veins &
wolf spiders pour down/red matter clusterfucks.

Wake up in the morning, clock says 8:23. Step into the kitchen, feeling that something is missing.
Open the fridge, Outa milk??? How could this beee?! I went to Sam’s Club - he stocked me up extra plenty!!!
I need to make a dash to the store, but if I get on the bus, this could take an hour or more.
So I quickly dress, not at all to impress. Just throw on my clothes and head out the door.
Standing outside in a panic, I start scratching all over my body like an addict.
Cereal and milk, I gots to have it!
Leaving me no other choice, I hop on the bus. My hands are shaking, making me look like a fiend.
Then I notice Bomb-Shell Betty, the ’98 prom queen, sitting in the back not looking so pretty.
I remember when she was going steady with TEDDY GRAHAMS - dude used to give me his answers to all of the math exams.
Sitting in front of me are four ladies who go by the names of FRUITY PEBBLES, COOKIE CRISP, HONEY COMB, and SUGAR SMACKS.
Who are they fooling??? Never skipping a beat, they are always getting their KIX turning TRIX on 126th Street.
They are quite the lovely bunch. I believe their **** is going by the name of CAP’N CRUNCH.
I am feeling kinda desperate today, thinking about spending time with FRUITY PEBBLES, but she only takes cash, and all I have are CHEX.  
My impatience is starting to run thin cause all I can think about is running in the store and grabbing a gallon of milk.
Then the bus stops… Who can it be? Oh, it’s my old neighbor, Tom Foolery.
He has a mouth full of chrome and wears ten pounds of jewelry.  With tattoo-covered arms, he enters with his pal, LUCKY CHARMS.
The two sit next to the 126th crew.  They are spitting game - that is really lame.
They are bragging who is better at shooting hoops. They just sound like a bunch of FRUIT LOOPS.
So I chime in and say, “I can eat more RAISIN BRAN than any other man throughout the entire land without going to the can, and if you don’t believe me, just ask my POPS!”
They look at me with complete shock.  Not a word to be heard, they turn around.  I sit there in silence, feeling like a big nerd.
Bus stops again.  A pale man enters on in.  He is tall and thin, wears a brown suit, and has a funny grin.
He looks kinda scary but seems ever-so-merry with his hands locked with his BOO BERRY.
Finally!! Through the glass I can see the supermarket is slowly approaching, and all I can say is, Yippy Frickin Skippy! Bout time.
Just before the bus stops, I jump out the window and drop to my knees, kiss the ground, and scream, “Hallelujah!!!”    
In the front of the store stands General Mills, recruiting potential cereal box models.  He asks, “How ya doing?”  I mutter, “What’s it to ya?”
I run towards the back where the much-needed milk is shelved.  I grab me a gallon and head to the check-outs.
Aisle one has no one in line, so this is a clear sign that things are starting to turn out just fine.
Then suddenly I see a white sign with black ink stating, Chex not Accepted…..
LIFE can be a *****!

WHEN I WAS JUST A LITTLE BOY
I USED TO ASK MY “MUDDA”
DON’T GIVE ME PEAS OR BROCOLLI
JUST BRING ME PEANUT BUTTA

I’D DIP MY FINGER IN THE JAR
AND SCOOP IT IN MY MOUTH
THEN WAIT FOR ABOUT AN HOUR OR SO,
FOR IT TO SLIDE DOWN SOUTH

I USEO TO EAT THE KIND CALLED “SMOOTH”
BUT QUICKLY SWITCHED TO "CHUNKY"
I LIKED THE WAY IT TASTED
SORTA GRITTY, KINDA FUNKY

SKIPPY, JIFF AND PETER PAN
WHERE BRANDS I LIKED THE BEST
I’D OFTEN LINE UP ALL THREE JARS
AND HAVE A TASTE TEST-FEST

BUT CHOOSING BRANDS WAS EASY
FOR MY MOM WHO WAS SO WISE
SHE’D EYE EACH ONE SO CAREFULLY
THEN BUY THE LOWEST “PRICE”

YEA, WITH SOME JAM.. ON WONDERBREAD
OH WHAT A DELICIOUS TREAT!
I REMEMBER ALL THE GOOEY GOODNESS
HOW MUCH FUN IT WAS TO EAT

BUT NOW I’VE GIVEN UP THAT SNACK
MY CHILDHOOD TASTES I’VE TRADED
I’M OLDER AND MY PALATE
HAS BECOME SOPHISTICATED

I NOW EAT FOOD THAT’S LOW IN SALT
AND SATURATED FAT
BUT WHEN I WANT TO CHEAT A BIT?...

“HEY SKIPPY, WHERE YOU AT”!!!!

While the sun is sleeping and the morning dj's too,
The radio news anchor is in to work by three
It's not because we're busy, or we're special..no, no , no
It's because the station trusts us, and besides...we have the key!!

We're on the road, at Dunkin' Donuts,
while the day olds are still fresh
We're in before the DJ's
Because we don't live like Phil Lesh

By the time the DJ's wander in
We've read more, than they will say
We've even cued up the morning intro
We know the songs they all will play

We have our room for research
Actually, two newspapers and a phone
We're not quite Walter Cronkite
But, hey...throw us a bone

The life of a radio anchor
Is not one that's all rosy
We do it 'cause we love it
It's not just because we're nosy

We get the freshest donuts, hottest coffee and the key
And did I neglect to mention, first one in gets donuts free?
The DJ's do their concerts, party hard, are full of soul
And twice a week you'll find them, down at Skippy's Pool and Bowl

We're not all like Les Nessman
Although, there is  a part of me
That would love to have a station
Like old W K R P

The life of the news anchor
Starts out daily in the dark
We dig around for stories
And make up others for a lark

We are in line for more promotions
We're the one that the boss sees
Did I mention, we get donuts
And that the boss gives us the key?

Whats up knucklehead! Where have you been hiding? What transit did you take to get to 44th and Broadway? We found the petting zoo just fine without you, although the ***** in the Ballroom B Lounge had a few words to say about it. In case you were wondering, Kat and Marissa picked up a shuttle and then onto a cab that later found a flat on the parkway. Yea, they were ****** but made it just the same. Pops called again and asked about the drinking thing, I covered for you and said you be home by sunset. Whats up knucklehead, Where you been hiding?

WIMBLEDON COMMON

Wimbledon common
Was always the place to go,
Catching the train from Streatham
The family all aglow,
Sandwiches in a paper bag
Thermos in a sack,
Plastic sandels and tennis racket
Not forgetting the cricket bat.

Everyone was skippy
The sun high in the sky,
Dad had his umbrella
But the rain was shy,
Jumping from the platform
Down a row of steps,
Brother took a tumble
And that was that.

Plasters in a pocket
All was mended soon,
Finally recovered
Felt over the moon,
Reached the grassy stretches
Whoops mind the dogs,
Come away from the lovers
They're out for a jog.

Find a shiny tree trunk
Horizontal on the ground,
Four happy people
Tuck in to raspberry jam,
Now for the thermos
Plastic cups ahead,
Here come the wasps
To eat our jam and bread.

Later penguin biscuits
And a trip behind the bin,
Dad puts out the wickets
Let's see who wins,
After a quiet session
Brother looses his cool,
Slings the bat skyward
You should see it go,
Mother looked upwards
Covering her head,
Just managed to miss it
Landing on the hedge.

I went off walking
To gather pretty flowers,
Dad hid under the paper
We had a quiet hour,
Clouds gathering slowly
The sun going down,
What a lovely day in the country
We're now homeward bound.

In memory and gratitude to my lovely mum and dad
Grace and Eric Ayton- Robinson who always did their best.
Love Mary **