Whether virtual or actual paths cross,
     aye great thee ahoy
no fear Mademoiselle or Monsieur,
     thy harried style haint cloy

rather, when embarking
     on introductory acquaintance
     ship, aye employ
swiftly tailored indistinguishable,
     asper this wordsmith mebbe goy

or Jew, yet genealogically
     thine Semitic lineage,
     unknown descendants begat,
one generation after
     stitched another thread,
     whence warp and woof, sans dat

     (moth eaten tattered wool worth
     coat of arms), twas slim and/or fat
chance biologic dice throw
     adumbrated me Matt,
a skinny, quirky,
     and nerdy kid, who sat

alone during lunchtime
     at school pained, plagued,
     and pronounced with extreme,
     where introversion didst agitate
chronic state of misery being alive
     immobilized, hogtied, and forfeited

     natural predilection
     to discover and create
heterosexual relationships,
     viz interpersonal experiences
     re: raison to date
initial intimate rapport

     (anxiety fraught) fate
full situation with a gal
    giving her good grief great
(yes, twas Maryann Sage),
     who understandably became irate
predicated on lack

     of mine demonstrative affection
     quickly becoming an unsuitable mate
though now in retrospect
     (hindsight always 20/20)
     a sudden resurgent spate

finds remembrance of things passed
     (with her) engendering
     cerebral tete a tete
rankling memories,
     hence for death aye cannot wait!

It’s been raining for 22 days straight and I
couldn’t tell you why the evergreens weep like
they do but if you must, the skies ravens are
bellowing what they’ve witnessed in a song we
will never understand and will endlessly hear.

Feathered armor protects the branches that starkly
plead for handfuls of the sponge-clouds above.
Why don’t we listen to the warning calls
of the floods coming from God’s eyes?

The sticky moss resting on the north side of the
rusty hemlocks will tell you, the record is 55 days
since they’ve seen the sun---a dialect less penetrating
than the all-too-inviting cries that echo the woodlands.

Whispers of the breeze flowing through the trees
are not enough to overcome this tempest that is steeping
slowly and surely the habit of nature will wash its face
clean of any inadequacies.  Now, if you told me

it rained here over half the year, I’d believe you.
Not just because it’s the Pacific Northwest, but because
I’ve witnessed the consistency of the pure quietude, of the
circling crows that count every beat and divide every lap.
Their dependable vantage forecasts any storm.