buzz, ****
doit, mute
hustle first
then bustle
screamin' chops
tired lips
crimson ties
broken blues
closed circles
open arms

wag the dog
book the gig
call the cab
hit the beat
play the set
chew the fat
sell the axe
make the rent
let the next
be the last

Start now knowing joy,
that’s an order,
overcome a deepening solitude.

Like a bee at a bugle
or me at the deli
on Third Avenue.

I said to Joe when do you think this weather will break?
He jokes, April.
That’s no joke. Weak creatures die and the strong barely survive.

Half a year goes by
another cancer checkup.
Cheer up. Any weather’s

better than no weather at all.
There’s always governance
even when there is no government.

My candidate drops out
after Iowa. Why do I always lose
at politics and poker?

Peace at last!
No lawnmowers, no leafblowers.
Big comfy couch.

Meditate on this: Do what has to be done.
Find your lover gazing at the moon
and take your garbage to the dump.

Your web site evaporates
and your possessions are thrown in the dumpster
except your trumpet which finds its way to a future trumpeter.

When air becomes breath,
Love submits to valves pounding.
Horn sounds, soul music.

One and the other of us had a mission
That only God can gave
Perceptibly that you can execute it
For He is our Life and saviour

God acquiesce to navigate our procedures
Coherent in haphazardly to be set
To effectuate His words on this world
For His kingdom comes on earth

Individually of us has an end
A term of life back to grime
In heaven we will exult
For His eternal love for us

Sun scatters splendid splendors in utter silence
Flowers shed their pure fragrance without any aim
Never once they never trumpet their excellence
Real wisdom, real merits acquires great fame

The moon maps her magic hue in silent midnight
Wind swept in melodious tone scenting surprise
Ever did they ever boost their mettlesome might?
Never fool can ever shine bruiting his own praise.

Hey
Tootle toot boy
Why don’t you take those strong hands
And hold me tight?
You marched right into my life
Now why don’t you just be the drum major
Over my beat-beating heart?

I step through the door
of the place which feels
more like home than my house

My ears fill
with sounds of drumsticks on drums
mallets on marimbas

My eyes fall upon flutes, clarinets
trumpets and tubas

I look up at my family
none of which are related to me
yet they
make
this
place
home.

There is a word or two
A cartographer if we go in one piece
There's prose and it's about to get long
It can get opaque and you see the scenery
THere's no place to change who are you and if you left him
Did you break your heart or your leg
If he got you in the midriff is this the best you should expect
Men can be nasty teasers
Fighting for you
The stance on the women and the experience of how paintings still feel.
Thespians are taking over is the feeling of millennial pie in the old English millennial idiom
There's a nasty stranger reading a novel far away
There's a chance that the place you're at is a violent storm
There's a right you have kept
It's the rendition of a short story of Jack Kerouac
Beats me how the place hasn't changed with such green spin on everything
Breathless by the imaginations of long prose, captivate them by the lines
Present a story and bring them to the end of a very poetic journey and protect that it's that last journey you're going t have with them
Some busy people know by now
There's a prettier character in the other person
You'll realize you've ****** them both in the end
A simple end of to a prose
How could you?
There begs the question if there should be storylines in the poetry
Or write novels on free platforms