A *** called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter.

The passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads to mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to cleanse the lanes, to rid the road of clutter.”

A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.

12 BARS

Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.

Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:

               12 DREAMS

... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
devining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;

... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;

... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;

... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;

... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;

... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;

... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding chains,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quite drops of solitude;

... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship in midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;

... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;

... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;

... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.

A lad is stopped by roving cops, who shoot in disregard.

His face is black, he’s on his back, a breeze is breathing hard,

He bleeds and dies, his mama cries, the screaming sky is scarred,

The sheriff and his squad at hand are laughing in the yard.

The fire in her eyes tonight
calls forth the thought that they invite,
though I recall, not long ago
my absence seemed more apropos.

The smile that lingers on her lips
says more than many verbal slips -
the times it pierced me, sad and grim
lie in the past, though far from dim.

She flayed me once... nay, more than twice,
she flayed me both with flame and ice,
and once again, predictably,
she primes me for catastrophe.

The curious naively watch
her try to carve a deeper notch,
for even they don’t claim to know
the depths to which she’d really go.

Upon my face a smile appears
which hides my thoughts, obscures my sneers,
for now I too have learned the rules
from her - ah, yes, the best of schools.

Because I’m acting somewhat cool,
thus pouring on her fire, fuel,
she  burns and yearns and wants me more
than when I was her cuspidor.

Since, unbeknownst I’m not the same,
she plans again her guileful game.
But when her teardrops seep and swell,
will she be proud she taught me well?

The others leave, I stay behind
(they all know what she has in mind)
and take her in my arms once more
then slip her through her bedroom door.

She whispers secrets in my ear,
as I once did (she didn’t hear);
I listen with a mirthless smile
while thinking of a desert isle.

The night is passed, her trusting grows;
I leave before the morning glows.
Aroused, she’ll seek a waking thrill
but find instead a dollar bill.

Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned
their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.

With veiled excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
His eye despairs above the stairs, he’s never had a friend
to talk about his hidden doubt of how his world will end -
to die unknown, forlorn, alone? No use a farewell penned!

And soon the boys chase phantom joys then, presto when they’ve gone,
the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features wan,
no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
(like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, though fairy dust's withdrawn).  

With twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue;
Wind, the wind bemoans her loss of reins and calm control;
Crows, the crows flee men of straw, sleeves slapping at the wind;

Grass, the grass defends with blades, impaling truant gusts;
Rain, the rain descends aslant from angry ashen skies;
Stones, the stones repulse the pearls, exploding tears of gloom;

Woods, the woods assuage the angst of misty brooding trees;
Leaves, the leaves desert their branches, dropping one by one;
Fields, the fields imbibe a quaff to quench an arid thirst;

Streams, the streams meander, hushed, to distant vapid shores;
Breeze, the breeze intones a tune, a mourning monody;
Sands, the sands, in chaos, dance across the dappled dunes;

Shades, the shades appear confused, alone in lurid haze;
Mice, the mice discern the dawn, their beady eyes ablaze;
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue.

Mid *** shots from vacant lots, which strike and ricochet
A painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
To tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
And indiscreet along the street she gives her pride away
To any guy who’s passing by with cash and time to pay.

In concert halls, beyond the sprawls 'round shabby cabarets,
Unjaded thoughts of Camelot imbue divine ballets.