~

<>


nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees

Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)

poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence

compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...

the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.

a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious

the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty

bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips

a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example

listen, see!

silently presenting,
this,
this!!

a day that demanded perfection

Pandora gave us many gifts
Disease, poverty, misery, sadness, death and all the evils of the world
All which gave humanity balance and morality
Without disease, poverty and death
We wouldn't know compassion, humility or cherishment
Without sadness and detestment
We wouldn't know happiness, excitement, longing or love
Without the evils in the world
We wouldn't know anything outside of ourselves
We would be selfish, lonely, sinful, greedy and gluttonous
Most important of Pandora's gifts, she gave us hope
Hope that touched the shadows of evil and healed the wounds of hate

It's a small world
for some girls. They live

in shadow
of the Himalayas,
and other assorted mountainous
peaks. They daydream

of being followed
by the camera eye,
adored for the top heavy
weight they carry with
a grinning bounce. They want

to be a cruise ship,
stacked to the deck.
They want to be
fashioned with torpedoes,
a bombshell to
reckon with. And so they lie

on a table
to become a sculpture in plastic
for a renowned
architect. A mad scientist
in his own right,
experimenting with his creations
on fragile psyches, banking

on insecurities,
giving them a deflated hope
that what God didn't
bless them with,
his derangement will.

It's a mind game.

A mantra to "she who sends up gifts":
if you feel as good as you look,
all is well.

There's no harm in that, right?
Let's ask Pandora...

This is the story of a box
and a girl.
And this box –
and this box
was like no other box – No,
like no other box that owned its existence.
Eons of history lived on its walls – I mean, moved on its walls,
I mean, carvings of history played out on the walls
Waves smashed their own heads onto ocean floor dunes,
The lightning swung fierce on the clouds into squalls,
The engravings – the caves shook with war, the volcanoes,
They spat and they hissed, and the nymphs in their watery mists
Danced with haloes on graves of the fallen.
The lifeblood, it pulsed through the veins of this box,
Through the veins of my palm as I held it, the carvings,
They danced with their raw, starving ardors, their bloods and their stardust
And lifeblood, it seeped, lotus droplets, it leaped onto grooves of my skin
Splashed as sparks on my skin and spilled into my palms,
Till my body was filled with the life of this box, with the thrums of this box, with the force of this box
Till the sweet little voice called my name through this box
Whispered, “Open the lid and release me. This box
Is my prison. I’ve risen through hellfire and sunlight and war-blood,
And isn’t it time for the earth to revere me? I am Hope,
I am weary; I am tired of Death and Despair huddled near me
I yearn for the taste of the earth and the Furies
Release me, my vassal, unchain me, release me.”
This is the story of a box
and a girl,
and a thrum, and a voice, and a palm, and a life -
and a war, and a choice, and a hope, and a price,
and a voice that implored me to open the lid
through the trembling, quivering walls,
and I did.

Very few deserve to live long enough in peace
Aren't we all bandits in this god-forsaken place?
Under our feet, dormant evil sleep like a baby
Leaving is salvation, but we chose to **** ourselves
To know that we deserve reward is to gamble with death
How did we end up in this god-forsaken place?
Under the impression that this is an ordinary stroll
Now, we are stranded, lost, but still alive
To know and to move forward is to invite death
Even in the face of flora and fauna and trauma
Ready we are, guns blazing, we'll move forward

Look closely,
Listen carefully,
But Do. Not. Touch.

No one ever asked how I felt

When the box was open
And all the demons flooded out
No one ever asks how that felt

I’ll answer anyway
Crushing
I felt stupid
I had allowed my curiosity to get the better of me

Remember, though, that I was created for this
The gods made me
My curiosity engineered
So they could release evil into the world through me
And condemn me for the very act they orchestrated

Sure, my hand pulled the lid off the box
But the God's created the box and my hand
My will and the evil inside that box
All beyond my control

I was created as a weapon
And so I will be one
I force against the very gods
Who
Tricked me
Betrayed me
Created me

Who I am now is my own and I scream to the Gods
“I am nobody's creation.”