Settled in days of wine without rose
And forever nows we trudged along,
Making our way to the ordinary
Greeting of the always new.
For we always knew, our time
Together was but a means,
Of make believes and almost
Alrights, a travelogue to nos
In destinations of plain, we spoke
To each other as if then never was,
We drank coffee in meeting places,
Where grown ups frequent as they
Barter to themselves, in cursory
Smiles and similes unsaid, for they,
As us, knew that no future would arrive                                                
As we numbered to each in numbness
Searching for one breakaway day,
Seeking to blind ourselves looking
For what was already, maybe there.
How timeless is a child in fantasy?
What play dates we revel in,
With others we do not know?
This is a song we played, we played
At being joined, as if our lives
Depended on it.

Dumpsters rain on lots,
Seagulls fly over asphalt,
  .  .  .  Ocean food waiting.

Oceans teem with life  .  .  .
Some creatures left mothering seas,
  .  .  .  Empty shells on beach.

Tired, I awoke upon a lonely island beach
And gazed on a Goddess above the shore,
With sea foam hair, coral skin, what dream,
My salt eyes, blinded, open, wanting more,

Conspiring with rays of summer she shone
So bright, this daughter of the sun, we stood
I and my castaway crew, to that siren prone
As she led us to her mansion in the woods.

Her potions tamed the forest wolf and lion,
Spellbinding warrior poets to liven feasts.
Why then must she turn ***** men to swine,
By what she most desired contented least?

Desert falcon, my moly held Pharaohs' breeze
And what nil escape above the wine dark seas.

When love grows out of time
And huddles in a grey season
Of distemper, beware chilling
Same, the deep low downing
Doldrums, the browning burn                                                                    
Of the left alone flower, deftly
Dying laughter, stale motions,
The hollow rings entrapments
When love grows out of time.

To my ears her gift  .  .  .
Sound of ocean in seashells,
  .  .  .  Whispered she loves me.

Insects buzz through moors,
Rodents chirp and lizards hiss,
  .  .  .  Kestrel sings above.

Flycatchers in dusk  .  .  .
Frog at end of herons beak,
  .  .  .  Last jump into air.

Backward-man loves his dog.
Ties him up before and after
His walks, likes to goad his pet
Too, speaking as the weather wails
And howls then dog looks down,
Sad on his master dumbfounded.
A chain is worn as it scrapes
The ground connecting dog
To his master.  They both love
The sound of it hissing as it strikes
The concrete pathways, sometimes
Man and dog feel free, not a part
Of each other, the chain may break,
And fear is for forks in the road,
The rusty pockmarked grip of his links
Have always been there on walks
Ahead and behind though it makes
Things confusing as if in a dance
And sometimes they wonder which way                                                      
They might end up after all—
And when the dark and golden
Rope, as always, is finally tied
To some old fruit tree, the man
Is happy his dog has both sun
And shade, but also has joy watching
Dog beg for ripe apples he cannot
Reach.  Some people might come
To think that dog thinks those apples
Are not for eating.  Everyone loves
Fruit, don't they?

Backward-man built his dog
A house as cold as a three-
Storied barn, out of things
He could not afford, things much
Too good for dog to not care
About, maybe man built dog's
House for himself, he cannot
Really impress his dog.
Backward-man likes to think
He knows what dog is saying.
Barks and whimpers have deep
Meanings, 'world is a good place,'
Dog says, but when pooch says,
'World is cruel,' crying, disobedient
Whines gets him a serious kick
Out of old anger from backward-
Man.  And man can be a hell-
Hound on his own, the way
He twists and unravels the things
He needs, like truth and food
And love— that goes without
Saying for backward-man hates
His woman, but loves his dog.

.
So many ****** birds,
Grey, brown and black,
Suited as they sully in sun,
In feather and windy-speak
And dream, drifting to profit
Points, marring the globe,
They have so many ways
Of singing on their swings
Behind bars, murky birdies,
Gawking in the crowded fields,
Fielding, flighty questions without
Answer, winging all souls to oblivion,
Who fly, flustering, dusting with song
Twisting the air into pure falsehoods,
Curious, grounded pets for kingdoms,
For masters, fly-hoping in their cages.