An old man smitten against the odds;
what could be more pathetic?
He knows a lot. He knows better than this.
He has been to war, married, divorced.
He knows all the games from both sides.
He knows she is young, beautiful, far away.
He knows that she chooses whom she wants;
that she runs the game.
He knows he brings nothing to her
but empty hands and a worshipful soul.
He has stayed alive this long
by knowing and covering the odds.
In that, he has always been smart.
Never play the other man's game.
Keep a clear head. Surprise your enemies.
Know when to laugh and walk away.
And yet, he wants nothing more
in the world than a seat at this table
in this most unlikely game.
A chance to win what can't be won.
A chance to have what can't be taken.
One very much last chance.
An old man smitten against the odds;
what could be more pathetic?

  ~mce

six string serenade
she smiled
she played
as her fingers bled

cool blue in shadow
a memory flees
caught sipping China tea
all the way from Spain

if I call
on a phone
hung on a wall
can I call
in all my memories
of tomorrow
. . . collect

(follow anybody , every grain of sand has destiny . . . and a duty . . . every single separate , meaningless , grain . . . of futility)

i constantly think about your well-being
where you are, with whom you are sharing your time
not your romantic companions
but just your companionship

its ******* that i care
you never cared about my feelings
your actions have shouted that in decibels
but i can't shake my desire to care for you

i hate myself for this
because there is nothing i can do
or that i should do
my heart aches again, this time for futility
stupidity
and the inability to love myself more than you

I wait

for the return
of the warm summer breeze
despite feeling winter's kiss -
for all my stars aligned.

I wait

for the bloom
of the lilies
despite the barren land -
for allmy star s aligned.

I wait.



I truly wait.



for the sound
of your footsteps
despite a love long lost and forgotten.


f or al lm ys ta r sal i gne d.







fo ar il m n ts a rlsa lg  yed.















aro  l sf m yl sla rgs a ni ed

Not to worry, Doc.
Don't mean ******* nothing.
We are all dead men here.
- mce

Bumble bee wants in  .  .  .
Strikes the dining room windows,
  .  .  .  Fake flowers on table.

In an age of emptiness
in the ways of nonsense
the meaning of life
has become meaningless

If we stand
do we each alone ?
Single thoughts under
single days and nights

"The fertile fallow furrow
fleeting under flurries of
freshly fallen snow "

. . . . . . for sure . . . . . . .

And we are the huskless stalks
shivering in the wind
row upon row
thousands upon thousands
going no where
and no where to go

your every argument held together by the glue
from a thousand children's bones and
the mercy box lies empty of anything but
your celebratory cigars
yesterday should wear a disguise
to hide its shameless joy
yet markets the efficacy of its deceit
with paroled butchery
even as today bullets freshen the neighbourhood

the act of now is the charcoal bloomed eyes
gun dead through the, NO! the no holds barred
the dials of a solid *******
and charcoal in turn will sublimate the sun
for its drone tucked brethren, NO! no crowns
or breast for the committed smirk or ersatz worth
and dying grants a detached view
an eager cut of prettiness directed
where blue melts belief
and white your teeth

and this is the easiest, NO! the gathering
shells from the beach, the streets, underneath the sheets
stepped through the brethren tuned around
in living colour, NO! dying horror on subscription
credit accrued where credit due
and shall we leave it seventy two now the ratings
start to falter?

Why talk
When they don't listen?
Why be
When you don't feel?
Why yield
Unto submission?
Why earn
When you can steal?
Why fight
Against the darkness?
Why love
When love will die?
The past is dust and vanity.
The future is a lie.