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~a small pile of ash—

some teeth
metal oxide and
grated bone material

fitting a cardboard
vault with such a

a weighing of decision

to throw in some
flour or a handful
of dirt

upon a
lifetime allotment
of sanctified hurt

i sleep
to-night in a
shoe box casket

to fathom that
finalized state
of being ~

s jones
Nov 2020


she stands there with
equal curiosity and
reaches as i do
towards the

how we both
could dismiss the
truth of the glass—

we each think
alike and are of
the same mind

in each other's
convictions of

the warmth
of our fingertips

to prove we each
exist on opposite

wishing to join
one another

looking deep into
focused eyes


to allow the
other's hand
to slip aside


s jones


stripping off bark,
carefully neat
and then
into the bone
of the branch

bigger chips follow suit
as the carving

the knife peels, chunking
out rough pieces as
they litter the floor

later to be swept aside
into darkness

years pass in solitary
cutting as cars
go slowly by

looking where the front porch
is buried at one end with
the chips of his wilderness

displaying no
to show
for the labor

no birds
no raccoons
no whistles
not even his cane

pare of nothing
but the pile—

all he is...

s jones


in case you was curious,
that "©" which appears
at the end of a writer's

printed work is purposed
to indicate copyrighted
materials within it's body

recorded —somewhere—

on government stationary in
a government office located in
a government city guarded

by government agents who
typically are out to lunch on
the government's dime

(our dime)

but My lil " ©" doesn't
cost all that much, like if
you buy stickers from

an alarm security outfit for
seventeen bucks to throw on
the front and rear windows
of your house,

instead of the $ 1,700 system
that wont go off unless
YOU are there to
turn it off.

still, its nice to know—

a burglar would be less likely
to risk setting it off from
reading the copyright notice

s jones
© 2020

Video link

cute lil poem about
© dogs that bark,

but dont bite...

I discovered it protruding a bit
between reference volumes in
the library, seemingly amiss.

Stuck fast, I pulled
on it hard, it popped out and
then flew past me,

flapping across the room like some
quasi-winged frisbee-lark, bouncing
off the edge of a bookshelf and

landing on the carpet with it's
feather pages fanned outward,
the quills then slowly relaxed.

I let it sit it there for a moment to
settle from the occurrence, then
picked it up for a closer look,

releasing my breath into Tut's Tomb,
to blow away loose sediment dating
from it’s forgotten inauguration—

Upon reading, it thanked me
for this flight from a
static Perdition—

telling me
tales of taradiddles,
page after page to no
end...Taradiddles, page after
page to no end...Page after Page
to no End...telling Me Taradiddles ! Yes !!
Taradiddles !! To No End !! Page After Page to NO

( thuMP ! )

—leaving me with little doubt
which section of the library
it should have been placed...

s jones
© 2020


oh, considerate

i fear the scars of your instruction
will never erode, even after i
melt down your mental
with a solution
that i hope will make
them chemically dissolve away,

leaving nothing but your staples.

what was it really ?
hyperactivity, autism,
anomalies of perception,
social detachment,

a Gift ?

well, i guess it would not have
made a difference, everybody
knew of this but

patching up my gray matter mistakes
with remedies permanently cemented
between impressionable foldings

i feel this cure like masonry damming
where free-flowing thoughts that ride
upon streams into oceans were supposed
to have discharged naturally,

stopping me from causing my
summers to mix with everybody
else's winters (or vise versa).

you see, my natural configuration
would have sated for me what
would —in turn— infuriate others,

thus the picket around me was built
sufficiently lofty so i would never
grow tall enough to oversee it.

these days i often mistaken this perimeter
for bricks that line the inside of a well,
complete with a leaky bucket
swinging overhead,
beyond my

of all things an adult child could ever
want for Christmas, the removal of
what now prohibits true potential

these things they instilled into me
so i could not violate the principals
of conventional wisdom in their day—

but this is
My Day
now !

and dead counselors need
not protect their world
from Me anymore !

and this Gift ?

it continues drifting
conspicuously aloft
in my gray ocean—

a Divine Gratuity that remains
—to this day— unsuitable
for redemption...

s jones
© 2020


Cats possess this thing
about their rears that they
flaunt with impunity

wielding it to express their
unique personal opinions
at the moment

uncurling outwards and
upwards and around then
back downwards

sweeping around table legs
swishing side to side and
then slipping underneath

towards no one
in particular

they sometimes will
form the shape of
the letter "C"
coil into a "S"
straighten to an "i"
or if startled, an "!"

but not a "Z",
never a "K"
and no "E"s,

and certainly
not an "X"
unless two
stand end
to end

maybe four of them
can gather and
form a "W"

but given their nature,
would they not
question "Y"—
? ...

s jones
© 2008

ok, back to "regular" poetry
(if ya'll can call it that LOL)

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