I have come to cherish the lucky-dice nights when the Adderall just lingers, staying late—
much later
than times of near-lethal lethargy
that leads to interrupted comatose slumber

I’ve allied with the recurring habits of winning Most Sober of the Evening, for in my solace, I’m dropping the needle, dancing to Molly's Lips and kicking off damp, muddy socks

I feel somewhere—-myself,
a place you
may
have touched and try to burn a placebo curvature along a place you
may
once have ignited,
your artificial fingertips,
and trace the beginning of a word, but
I lose track where ever the middle
may
have been

Needle scratch, loop, stuck in one, or
many
grooves

Try to exhaust the corporeal, sway,
fall,
slam body against the wall

Memorialize yourself so no one has to,
Your storage-unit temple drinking from a dark green bottle

Shimmy with a crowbar, lift and uncover,
Toss it all in a trash pile
For God to rediscover

I should hate more than I do
But I won't because that's draining
I should have loved you forever
But I won't because you've haven't loved me
Since December

black as night
staining everything he touches
filling and damaging the lungs
of that minor miner girl
who was just trying
to find the diamonds within him

but what she didn't know
was that he had only one diamond
it was the minor miner girl
and he gave her away
so now she feels poor
but someday she'll see
that she is a rarity

dear minor miner girl
I am but a jewelry cleaner
but I love you always.

Who is more creative than our creator ?

Mysterious
All knowing
Merciful
Forgiver
Redeemer
Father
Friend
Giver
Soul healer
Maker
Love and Joy
Peace and patience
Pen and paintbrush
Oh Mr. Cole,
I do not mean to rush,
These words spring forth from a dam,
But the creator of creation
He says "I Am".

Lights flicker
      Blood drips
Brilliant mind
      At my finger tips
Don't look now
      Gotta think quick
What have I done?
      Oh! I know a trick
Slice it up thin
      Tiny little bits
So much mess
      Hmm, maybe a mince
Red and juicy
      Smells so devine
Mouth watering
      Just like last time
So heavenly
      It should be a crime
Down to the bone
      I carve a rhyme
My name etched like stone
      A deadly shrine
No where left to go
      But back into my mind
.
   .
      .
         .
            .
               .
                  .
                     .
                        .
                           Until next time....

From quiet homes and first beginning, Out to the undiscovered ends, There's nothing worth the wear of winning, But laughter and the love of friends.
Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953), British author. "Dedicatory Ode," Verses (1910).

Dear Parents

Thank you for deciding after two years of marriage to have a child, me.
Sorry I wasn't the boy that so many of my family desired, sorry I was late, sorry that you missed the "Rumble in the Jungle", if it's any consolation I know who won.
How I came to be is quite beyond me. Father's family disliked mothers and vice versa. Dad a steelworker, Mam a trainee chef, dad flipped a coin with a mate, my mother was the stake.
Four years later sister came along, then another four years the son, that so many yearned for made an appearance.
I saved my sister's life from my grandparent's dog, lost an ear in that battle, a bit like Van Gogh. Plastic surgery at seven, still hate Cocker Spaniels to this day. I tell everyone I saved her from a rabid Doberman (I know parents, there's no Rabies in Great Britain) what did I get for my trouble? A stuffed white cat and a sister that I made sit in a cow pat.
Thank you parents for sending me to a school that made other kids suspicious of me. A welsh medium school, might as well have been Hogwarts, but they taught me well, (I can swear in five languages) and read and spell.
Dad taught me how to head ****, mam you taught me how to make cake.
My sister taught me how to share, my brother taught me how really not to care. Live each day as if it may be your last, I told my brother that often.
Dad, one of 13 kids, mam one of 3, like me. Dad, I hate your sisters that are alive they remind me of the Moirai, or the three witches from Macbeth, I've tried to like them but I'm terrible at lying, and to be honest they are in their late 70's so they must be close to dying.
Mam, your sister is a lesbian, I think her army days gave that away. Your brother like mine a source of consternation a Navy man that never went to sea????
Now, my grandparents are all dead. Apparently, I have inherited my father's mother's temper. She disappeared for 3 days when she thought she'd killed my grandad!
I'm married now, no rug rats thank God, I'm aunty material, selfish and wicked.
Now, this sounds I know a little quaint and odd, but I know we've had our share of bad luck, but, 42 years wed, still in the family home, surrounded by trees, neighbours we've known for years and people we'd like to poison. But,we've laughed so hard mam you have a hernia, dad you are the male equivalent of a ****, you'll be flirting in the OAP home **** yes, sorry parents as one of your three I get to pick the residential home! And, as they say,that is a good life.
Jo **
P.s I didn't mention our family mental illnesses, early 20th century communism, possible adultery, coveting the neighbours Ford Capri, or pet cemetery in the garden. I'll wait til all are dead then spill about the good secrets.