The probability of life itself is unpredictable
For I can’t extract your mind or heart to decode
Likelihood of possibilities in measurable quotient
For I can’t retract a past gone by to encode
Continuums of even chances and certainty
The toss of the toasted dime, the weigh of sides
Slashed slide all smashed and thrown in mines
Fallibilism of my indefinable opinionated delicacies
Attenuations of what life is attacks and strangles my neck
Global troubles of war, bombs, hunger, anger
Illogical connotations of overlapping determinism
I burrow like a termite in a convex rising molehill
Terminated in contrasted stations as we convene
Gripping hands to grasp our existence in life
I wonder about the whole of it, I think of it somedays

I was cleaning out the fridge today

And in the back I found this "thing"

It was furry, soft and squishy

From the mind of Stephen King

I didn't want to touch it

It looked like a tangerine

But, from all the fur and oozy stuff

I don't know what it had been

I knew I had to move it

But I wasn't sure quite how

I'd seen things much more appealing

Come from the rear end of a cow

I emptied out the other stuff

I put them in the sink

I was left with this small land mine

That really had a stink

I needed some protection

Before I tried to grab this bomb

so, I closed the door real quiet

And I went to get some on

I put on swimming goggles

To protect my eyes in case

It exploded when I grabbed it

And it jelly-fied my face

I then grabbed my old rain coat

And put it on all front to back

So my front was well protected

In case this thing chose to attack

Hockey gloves to save my hands

Work boots were for my feet

All this to dispose of this

Thing that people eat

I opened up the door again

And as I looked inside

I could swear this thing was throbbing

And it had grown to twice it's size

I slammed the door and grabbed a beer

I had some in the sink

I had to get this thing destroyed

I needed time to think

I called up both my neighbors

I said "Evacuate" the street

I told them I was killing

Some thing that people eat

I couldn't tell them what it was

Because I wasn't sure

I must have bought it months ago

But I didn't know what for

If I knew that this would happen

If the expiration passed

If I knew this when I bought it,

I would have eaten it real fast

I went to get the garbage

I put three new bags inside

I would put the thing inside one

And would then get all three tied

I'd run it to the dump myself

But, I'd have to freeze it first

Because, Imagine what would happen

If the plastic bags had burst

One more thing I had to do

was get some stuff to hide the scent

I thought I'd get some vapo rub

So off to search I went

Now, all prepared and goggled up

in raincoat and in gloves

I was set to grab this thing

For push had come to shove

I opened up the door and there

Where the thing had just now been

Was nothing, not a single thing

Where was my thing of green?

It didn't get out on it's own

And no one would eat it up

The only one who'd like it

Was our garbage eating pup

It was at this point I saw my son

Rolling outside like a log

Playing with our whirling dervish

He had fed it to the dog!!

Not much happens in these parts, he would demur,
As if he’d be asked in the first place,
He one of the dwindling few remaining in this dwindling town.
Nevertheless, he has seen his share in four score and change years
From the vantage point of his place
Which sits just off the corner of the Penoyer Road:
Boom times and bust,
Snowdrifts threatening to lick the roof lines of houses,
Boys running through the embers of fallen leaves,
Shirtless and barefoot on improbably warm October days,
Young men in hay wagons and rattle-*** Chevy pickups
Laughing and singing, confident and carefree,
Making their way to the old train depot down at Apulia Station
First step on their way to show the jerries or the VC
Exactly how Upstate farm boys took care of business,
Windows adorned by placards with a gold star
Illuminated by a solitary light bulb at odd hours.
Here and there, younger types have begun to dot the landscape:
Professors with a romantic hankering to get back to the land,
Neo-hippies with their own reasons for embracing the rural life,
Each in their tune walking about their yards
Holding keyboarded and wi-fied replicas
Of that which Moses carried down the mountain,
Their fixer-uppers or double-wides adorned with small dishes
Pointed forlornly at the horizon in search of some satellite supplication.
While he has seen enough not to be too ******* sure about things,
He suspects that complexity and contentment
Rarely walk hand-in-hand,
So he keeps his needs simple enough
To be met by the ancient radio
(Huge, wood-cabineted shambling thing,
More attuned for Amos and Andy than All Things Considered)
The three-checkout grocery in Tully,
The Morton-building sheltered family practice over in Cazenovia
(The squalid, sooty skyline of Syracuse,
Split by six lanes of high-octane madness,
As remote and slightly terrifying to him as Mars itself)
As he has learned enough from thickets of trees
Which all but shriek with torrents of crows in September dusks,
The subtle changes of stream banks
Tinged by the stubbornness of frost on early May mornings
Or blanketed by the pig-iron forge heat of July afternoons,
To know that there are sufficient and possibly necessary limits
To the places where two legs or four wheels can carry a body.

a letter arrived today
from Hope, my eight year old niece.
Hope asks how I am, about the weather.
She talks of Lego and new curtains
with cushions to match,
which she says she does not like,
calls them too grannie-fied .
She did some colourful artwork;
a pizza slice, rainbow, butterfly
and a big smiley face ,
all on the outside leaf,
things no doubt she likes.
No talk of fairies,
this time,
maybe that has now all gone.

i am a cork, set upon
the rapids today.
a storm, rising in
the darjeeling tea.
lightning, in the sugar jar
all bitterred up and jittery.

i am a feather, caught up
in a whirlwind,
on the edge of a cyclone.

running laps incessant, on the
hamster wheel,
of insomulance, that's me.


frenzied, fury, frenetic energy.
revved up, to beyond the max,
caught... ******* in a box with
bright,binding string.

claustrophobically, confined,
ready to explode,
my brain confetti, tizzy-fied.


why you ask?
            what's the go?

that's the ****** problem..

i don't know............

Lies are lullabies
Sweet songs that we sing
To ourselves and to others
Trying to convince ourselves
That something isn't our fault
That our world is more utopian than
Reality allows for
We tell ourselves that
It's better to live a lie
Than face the harsh world
Without our emerald glasses
Or maybe everything we believe
In is a lie*
The faerie tales have even been
Changed to suit our own needs
Pretty ballgowns and sparkling glass shoes
Forget the truths of rags, dirt, blood and filth
The romance still remains
But the glamorous side is tougher
More truthful, less plastic
The grime and dirt gives the story life
These Disney-fied, prettied up stories
Are just machine made, molded
Plastic. Commercialised. Dead.
And they spell faerie wrong too

The wind, it calls, through foggy day
T o dazzle dust and drive dirt away.
But some of these darkened vertex
Hide the stories and forever perplex
The strengths of tested 'feel-good' fables,
Denouncing sciences' empirical labels:
Too thin, too fat, too short, too tall,
Too hairy, too bald, too square, too like a ball,
Too strong, too weak, too open to lies,
To encompassing of stories of the skies.
Too angry, too meek, too full of passion,
So give us pills!  It's the latest fashion!
Dose us up on your chemical compounds,
Stop us from disclosing rebellious sounds
Which remind us that not all we know,
Are these soul-******* television shows:
Nip-Tuck, What NOT to Wear, Big ******* Brother,
This is the modern day 'Watch With Mother',
Feeding false standards, 'Bieber-fied' norms,
Sapping energy, becoming a nation of vacant gorms.
So Yes! Hide your kids, hide your wife,
Open your own doors, live your own life,
Because this **** ain't going nowhere,
And even without a deity, a higher force is watching, somewhere.

If we are not proud of something,
Then we would never have said aloud
What it was we did not, do not,
Or will not take pride in,
Refusing recognition
For the humility of a given circumstance.

These are our times,
Each of us in our cyber shells,
Stagnantly appealed to atrophy,
Sailing in search of the long
                Lost spirit,
That one gleam in our existence,
That esteemed ambrosia,
Callused palms,
          Achin’ back
Stars shooting themselves,
Through our wings.

We can dance on moonlight,
We can sing right to the earth,
We can move atop,
          Saunter into the horizon
Yet we safely sit nestled,
Afraid of our neighbors,
A new paranoia,
McCarthyism eat your heart out,
          They’ll ban freedom,
          They’ll root us out,
If only we could come together,
I fear,
That no one is left,
To live as,
The fearless had.
That the once,
Benevolent virtue,
Of being human,
In all that horrid splendor,
Has washed away,
The spirit left on the shore,
Waving.

I haven’t seen anything,
Like the Ol’ Seraphim saw,
Or the Ol’ Duluoz saw,
O has it all been lost,
Somehow the latency has produced,
A grand homogenized pile of ****.
With everyone afraid of the shadow,
Imagined,
Looming overhead,
Heating the backs,
Tearing at the truth at heart,
The sight unbearable,
People try to be people.

The impact of what had happened,
Now riding the rails,
Still on the course,
This wild horse will take,

Things will always change,
There are truisms to be had,
Dissolved into the land,
I hope for a band to come out,

A real group,
A bunch of people all there,
Out there,
In here,
Over there,
Everywhere,
That can think,
Feel,
See,
Be seen,
Communicate,
Chanting,
Silently,
Beheaded,
Buddha-fied,
Chr­istly,
Godliness,
They are bare,
Naked,
Covered in the filth,
Of pure humanity,
Celebrating breath,
Creating something,
It wouldn’t all have to make sense,
Some of it may be hard to follow,
--misinterpreted—
Partitioned as pure nonsense,
The lama lama ding blah blah,
Could come off as that fevored,
Sought after rhythms,
Straight ahead to the main destiny,
That inevitable fortitude,
Caught in the clouds,
Foretold by the unseen Unknown,
Chaos imbedded in our skin,
Slinking off,
Erupting into the cosmos,
Connecting our bemused souls,
Like the rain toppling down the mountain,
No picture can encapsulate
This mosaic of mankind,
But this is our time,
Right here and now,
While the whole thing is still moving,
Almost tripping over its own feet,
As it has always done,
The sigh of relief when,
In the blindest revelation,
In the darkest caves of ignorance,
In the coursing waters,
In the towering worlds here,
Even the truest of falsehoods,
Makes the whole thing called life,
Worth a ****.























Drawing in Dawn:

The sight of it,
The sun,
Being birthed,
From the womb,
Of the Horizon.

I draw a breath,
As I watch,
Reminiscent of,
The Moon,
Entangled in,
The eternal,
Nightly web.

The forces,
The push and pull,
Waves in,
Counter balance,
Like the,
Drawing in of,
Embrace,
The pull of,
Ever drawing time.























The dusty rag tumbled down the mountain,
Only to be shunned by everyone,
Destitute in absolute desolation,
Roaming as it had always done.

Then it came to rest beside the grove,
In an inlet that rang with melodious wonder,
It became awashed by the world’s beauty,
Lost in the splendor of it all.

Time passed faster as the grace seeped in,
The pores of its flesh inflated, elated,
The flash of fiery thunder roared,
The sand fell onto its back, and dust returned.

Time had come to move on and break aloof,
From the fortitude and pleasure allotted,
For the call of the wind was too great,
To ignore for any longer.

warm-hearted it's true
minds race thinking of you
electrified
bona-fied
an amazing grace
to this horrid place
altruistic affairs it seems
an alluring demeanor with ease
you burn aglow
with sweetness unbound
a lasting impression
you leave me
butterflies a flow.