¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*Discipline is not virtue,
but the solicitor of virtuous character.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
perched atop a muddy graze          
amongst the reefing centipede        
does lady jade a’ponder days          
  from whence the eldest had decreed.

"what's this a'fuss upon the breeze
that sings a song of fallen trees?"

          a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
                                        a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..

was broadening—a shiver, swift—
bespoken of her crown to rest?      
what way whereby these spirits lift
      that hide should (of the head) contest?

"what, unbeknownst, should overwhelm
this silv'ry shoat, what's felling elm?"

          a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
                                        a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..

amidst a cruel cacophony,                
the lady seed, she must concede      
the razing of her progeny                
beholden to appease a need.            

"what's this in want of dire good
that preys upon upholding wood?"

          a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
                                       a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..

on arbor brawn does ardor dine    
    does earthen daughter march to meet
as tireless as the vile design              
divesting mother's gen'rous ****.    

"what subtleties uproot the heart
as bodies from their souls depart?"

          *a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!
                                        a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
"O my dearest,
     darling, bijou,
          born the silver
     worker's daughter,

"how so fortunate
     mine eyes
          to witness thine
     palatial wonder!

"Mine pleasure t'would
     to take hold and
          to pick the fruits
     among your vine—

"the shyest heart
     of rose hips what
          has pewter cruxes
     bold t'shine!

"And as eyes and
     I pay credit
          to a distent,
     nearing nimbus..

"These gem'nate
     tongues b'twine as
          oaken staves—
     the Brav'ra Lingus!"

     (..she responds,)

     "Mine auburn falls
for thee, my dove,
          but thy fervence, once
          to mine, abates?"

     "Quite, my dear..

"tho, ginger trapped
     in tantric bond
          what's sweetness, rare
     n'a boon, belates!"

          "..well, then
please use a ******,"
     she said.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
I am but the flower
nigh the wild fox's den
I feel earthen worms
that crawl about
my sultry toes and then

they move the dirt for me
relaxing me
I stand *****
in wait for thee

I watch the *****
nurse her pups
and though she has quenched
my love before
I desire a name and
something more

I so desire the honey bee
without her I feel untended
much unlike the tended progeny
of neighbor mother mending me

though standing guard
I wait for thee
to call my name
and fall on me

to drone a tune
and dance on me
and rob of me
the toil of seed

for a wildflower
by another name
should thenceforth
be deemed
a ****

'til the
nomen
falls atop
mine pate as
favor of the
honeybee.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
this old
decrepit barn
reminds me of a tale
my grandfather
once told

it took him
a life to tell it
but he told it well

this barn has
been here
as far back as I
care to remember
but there's a beautiful
story kept in that
old place—
the story
of a good
man's life

it is a marvelous story
it was a beautiful life

it was filled with
responsibility
compassion
generosity
kindness
charge
love

a­ll these things
and a lifetime
more

but
the closure
warms my heart
more than anything
and we all had our
part to play in
the end

we gathered
thirty-two-strong
around that tiny little bed
in that pitiful room all
smushed together
and recycling
each other's
unwanted air

it was our duty
and none of us wanted
to help him tie that final ribbon
but we soldiered on
for his sake

and we all witnessed
the fruits of his labor

as one voice went
a song to accompany
that ominous death rattle—
it was a joyous song of
worship and
praise to
God
for His
blessings
and yet a tune
eerily timed by the
awkward percussion
of a tired and dying man

so that song
went over and over

and i heard him whistle
lightly along with us
like he used to with
that same ol' hymn
on his heart—his
children and his
grandchildren

that song
went over again

and i saw him look at me
with that crooked grin
and he nodded
letting me know
everything was
"copacetic"

and that song
went over still

and i heard him
laugh over the pain
and over the tears
and over our
resounding
voices

that song
went over
as he whistled
and grinned
and laughed
one last time

but he couldn't

and his lips didn't smile
and his eyes didn't open
and his lungs struggled
to take in as much
as they could
of that stale
unwanted air

so he must've
only listened

it was then
i realized
his only
life goal was
to breathe in that
air de trop and to be
there in that cramped
box with one window
one cheaply made door
and one unfortunately
unfilled closet which
was wide open and
occupied by two
or three more
beautiful
voices
for the sake
of space

so we all soldiered on
for the sake of closure
and for his sake
and for our sake
and for my sake

and for the first time

i had fully grasped
the concept of the
family unit

in my mind
we were no longer
separate and connected
only by heritage

we are blood

what
courses
through
his veins
his legacy
his essence

for he taught me that on
some bright morning
when my life is over
i'll fly away to that home
on God's celestial shore..

for he taught us all to sing

I'll fly away! O Glory!
I'll fly away! When I die,
"Hallelujah" by and by!
I'll fly away!

and
that joyous song
was finally over then

and at that very moment
with one final thump on
that beautiful drum
and with one final
breath of that
coveted
stagnant air
in that modest
one-window room
we watched as
our voices
found
their
purpose

and they carried
him home with a song
for the sake of
his heart
as he left behind
this old decrepit barn
for the sake of
ours

¯    - ¯ _ - ¯ - ¯ - ¯ _ ¯ - ¯ - ¯ _ ¯ - ¯ - ¯ - _ ¯ -    ¯
i   love   you   so   much
¯ -  more   than  - ¯
i'll   never
know
. . .
.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*There are
two types
of people,
but only
one evil.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*Choose
words wisely
for the ink of life
is permanent.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
⌘                            well, sure,                            ⌘
she is a poet, alright,
but quite a peculiar one.
the quill on her escritoire
has worn brittle. and it's
inkwell is mostly dry, but
not from good use. i believe
it was knocked over by her
spooked, yet shamefully
neglectful cat one stormy
afternoon. it was monday,
i'm quite sure. to elaborate
a little further, the cat's name
is 'monday.' honestly, i am not
that good at remembering days;
though, i do believe—yes, it was, in fact,
a monday.
⌘                                                        ­                  ⌘
regardless
of monday's impromptu housecapades,
the inkwell sat dry and unused;
yet, she still authors such rich,
beautiful poetry. she'll never
use fancy words and rarely
ever speaks, but i do know
that i am her muse. she'll
never confess that much,
but i am positive they’re
for me. i feel her scrawl her
loyal verse upon my fragile,
calloused heart; they have
made change within me.
i'm her living poetry and
i love her—i need her—
she is Quill and i'm
⌘                          her Paper.                          ⌘

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
You sure do like to play your games,
and I like mine, alright,
but you prefer to play the day,
where I play mine at night.

You garner this and that and let
the shoaling eye befriend
with a toothy grin—the pit, wherein
you choose to apprehend.

Alas, your game is rigged to wreck;
to brave, a sure chagrin!
Yet, mind your plight enmired in spite,
for I will always win.

The day we met, the day began.
I played your game as due,
but now the light is nigh to end;
the morrow starts anew.

I warn you of the end and still
you caustically abuse,
and like the fool, you broke the rule—
adorn a wicked ruse!

The turn is mine to spend as I
see fit to let diffuse.
Your tooth and eye reveal your lie,
my wily, darling muse.

And as the dusk'll take its stance,
what ethic will you choose?
To show no shame and chance my game
means I will watch you lose.

You capped your fate; I do berate—
what bitter, shocking news!
Hate breeds hate, it's gettin' late;
that's quite a nasty bruise.


Free Play: [ 50 ]                
                                         . . . [ 00 ]

— GAME OVER —
Thanks for playing!

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*Everything
will work out exactly
the way it's supposed to, and if
it wasn't supposed to work out
that way, then it won't
(unless it does)

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
do hail
      thine
                  -:- inhalation -:-      
be       
-:- annihilation -:-                
frequently                
-:-      
             and
                      -:- overlook -:-
                         these
                         stony heights
    o’er waters
        swelling
                           earnestly
                                              -:-
    ­                                                and where
                                                    do i
                                 -:- undoubtedly -:-
shorn shy of     
-:- serendipity -:-           
-:-        
 do i
           among thy
           laminae
in   
-:- laminate -:-                  
-:- mahogany -:-                                          
-:-                                                              
this                                                               
-:- pastel -:-                                                     
mem’ry                                
stain amidst                                      
the tainted                                          
once a                              
daunting lee        
   -:-
           thine
-:- airy -:-  
brethren            
shook the limb            
dispersing
sap all            
on the sea              
-:-          
           and then
                       love’s leaf the
                                            moribund
                                                  descendent
                                    of
                              -:- adumbral -:-
              thee
   -:-
-:-

-:-
-:-
-:- see -:-
-:- tumble -:-
-:- t’ward -:-
-:- the -:-
-:-      -:-          ***’bling          -:-      -:-
-:-    ­                  -:- one  ,  the -:-                           -:-
-:-      -:-      -:- mummer -:-      -:-      -:-
of
-:- the -:-
-:- bumble -:-
-:- bee -:-
-:-       -:-

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Sing of my deeds,
dearest viceroy,
and I'll think as always thought:

"What a tune—
a flightless bird what's
wings were chewn and apt to rot!"

For 'neath red skies
from the dawn of day
to eves a'marred in the brine of May,

you're e'er and o'er
and ebbed in rays—
a serendipitous luster!

O prithee, Lord,
this heart's desire!
Allay the mint in minds of men

and grant the
steadfast lee-side
of truly terrifying ends.

Consume the wounds
a'peak the pate
and **** the Lion's pride asunder—

*fetch your lantern by the dint
of thunder!

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
the girl
is quite comical.
i find it entertaining
to watch her fumble
about words and
apologize
to
the
air
.
the girl
staves off the
darkness when she
brings it to light and
my light burns bright
with the
words
she
will
share
for she's
full of hot air
(though a little
shy to spare)
.
the girl
shoves back with
an oxygen-rich burn,
but she listens well
and her heart
is good
like
the
weeds
that grow
under her
watchful
eye
.
the girl
gives me courage
to pray it all forward
and even though she
may never call me
a brother, i'll
surely
grow
stronger,
and i'll rejoice
in the Lord and
i'm thanking
Him for
both
the
girl
and
those
grins as
she struggles
admitting she is
simply illegitimate,
NO LONGER~!

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
To my tiny—so tiny, tiny butterfly:
To my muse of childhood lullaby:
To my fair maid in seas of chai:
all at once, I do love you!
You left me then, but
then came back!

Oh,
you came back,
my tiniest butterfly!
I see you flap your
wings as you do
sing your
artful tone
through pipes
that lead to nowhere.

Oh! There! You perch atop a belle—
that blade of grass you call your own!
You eat of the Earth; but your mind is
accursed of countless mites that leech
upon your tiny—so tiny brain.

To my butterfly,
your brood
will all sing the
same: so tiny, so,
so tiny the flying
of butter!

Oh!

Please
come hither
to me, hitherto the
brink of reality; alight
on my fingertips and
stay with me, you
stupid, whimsical
insect. For once, I called
you my own, my tiny butterfly.
So butter—such tiny, flying butter—
so fly. So—fly away? Then go and fly!

Let the wind guide you! You have no
place here, friend. May the owlet
never find you. Though, I'd
say you deserve to die
as I, you twisted,
unforgiving bug!
You’re useless to me
now, but I love you like
the day I stumbled
upon your
thought
of me.

Once you
were a curse to
me, and now you
are but dust to me.

So go and see what
waits for thee in the
unforgiving world
of endless, moldy
windowsills!

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*hmm..
do I feel like
thieving
time
today
or not?

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
i found
her alone
seated amid
sumptuous shelter
crafted of a most clement
terracotta watching
as those chaotic
worldspun towers
whirled around, piercing
through vehement welkin
then stretching down
to ground level.
they went
weaving through the coils
of an ethereal copper jungle
and gifting her skin
with bruises
as they
fled—
each one,
the sputum
of a septic recess
that was ceaseless
in its diction
of ruses
in her
head.
some
people
called her
the dark passenger,
yet she talked herself idyllic
using only stolen words.
only
twenty
years old?
what a mess!
several life events
had her under
duress
that augural
September day.
she was depressed
yet she was
pressing
answers
from the void
beneath the drop—
a top-to-bottom
nonsensical
blessing;
funneling logic
behind such curtains
had her stressing out daily.
she grew arrogant and twisted
with the shifting of seasons;
she grew humbled
and wary
for the worst
of reasons.
her life
had become
a shell in every sense,
but it made sense
in the utmost
of naïve and
senseless
respects
...
then
I opened
my mouth
to speak
again.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Love
is a fire
in each of us;
it is fueled by every
breath we take and it is
kindled by wholesome
faith and passion.

Love
is a persistent
blaze that is only
extinguished
by the
suffocation
of our death.

Love will
burn
until
there is
no air left
to feed it.

Hatred is
not the absence
of love; hatred is the
conflagration that sparks
from the haphazard tending
of the inherent love-flame.

Hatred is merely
the byproduct of a
series of choices that
ultimately result in
suppressing or
denying that
which is
undeniably
aflame within us.

Hate steals our breath—
the precious air—causing
the flame of love to wane,
yet love's fire will burn
at any cost.

Love,
of
its
right
to consume,
will always aim to
overcome and redefine itself
as well as any flame that rivals it.

Destruction is intrinsic of a flame.
Yet, love's fire endures to make
us pure.

Severe
structural damage
is inevitable, as love will
destroy all that is not of it.

But, love will never
destroy us.

Love
works
to destroy
the machinations
we have allowed
the ruinous
world
to
*****
within us.

We must all choose a
flame to tend and we must
also choose how to tend it.

We must never misuse
the bellows of faith, lest we
start another fire that will ultimately
starve that of atonement and purity—
the one we were all born with—
the one in what's absence
we would cease to exist.

Fighting fire with fire
accomplishes nothing directly;
it only succeeds in adding
'wild' to the fire,
encouraging an
incinerating confusion.

We must focus our attention
to giving the love-flame
the fuel it desires
and let its
nature
take
course.

As love thrives
to grow within us,
all other fires will
cower and die.

The flame
of love
will
leave
us clean
and whole;
a tended flame
by any other name
will leave us
ashen and
wasted.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
. . . of incantations in                        
cantankerous philosophy!                
Of these lying liabilities,                    
   what startling objection, so accosting,
has exhausted me? More so than    
named quite unfortunate atrocity!  
Shall hordes of thought be accursed
by degrees of displeasing hostility  
such that satiated curiosity                
be evermore abashed in me?            

                    “. . . but I have admonished thee,”
                                                            said­ he,

this subtle, blackened tenant            
with a tin man's tonality.                  
This paper drum that bends to sing
does beg of him the courtesy;          
yet, acrid rhetoric singes the hair    
with unfavorable flintlock fidelity.
His evasive guarantee then              
upends the pores relentlessly.        

“These words will compel a poor
                    foresight to bleed in the fray
          as cascading tears cast their weight
                              upon cheek in dismay . . .”

. . . to quash the cypress toxin          
of a caustic potpourri—                    
a dissembling toupee                        
to one's balding reality.                    
O lasting opacity                                
of such poignant translucency,        
this flagrant serendipity,                  
once spawned, must always be?    
Possibly; though, I cannot count    
how many sets see dawns at sea.    

                    “. . . but I have astonished thee,”
            said he

through this Möbius rebuttal          
like some soap on TV,                      
though, it’s ne'er some rerun          
what’s cliché wants creativity.        
The veiling lee of his lofty marquee
     beclouds that one pyrrhic mystery—
that now-clandestine oblation        
of one bless'ed unanimity.              

“Akin to a twin whose soul’s
                    one sin was mine to portray.
          ‘I’ll pay ne’er a thought!’
                              curs’ed common naïveté . . .”

. . . and yet, that's cause to bend    
reverent knee, not to thee,              
but to that which mine                    
eye's sole endeavor is to see.          
“So, leave me be!”                            
I lament, ostensibly,                        
“Lest that passage fall paved          
by none other than me.”                
Perhaps the Second World war    
is just my cup of tea.                      

                    “. . . or perhaps this darkness is me,”
said he

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*Without the ruts in life,
we wouldn't appreciate
the pavement.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
if any man's palate be perfect,
then let him also be perfect,
but if his palate be
untrained,
then
let him
eat until his
heart's content, for
there is plenty!

and if his
heart
remains
hungry, then
let him ask for
more for his soul is
malnourished and
there is plenty!

and if he
is full and
satisfied, then
let him ask for more
still, for there are those
that starve and still
there is plenty!

and let him share his ration
with his neighbors in good
taste, and let them
dine together in
fellowship, for
**there is plenty!

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*Careful
who you trust,
for the devil
plays both
sides.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
a song of gallimaufry!                
   of that lively—                                                    
lonel­y street                                                           ­ 

a Troubadour a'play
his fingers clog at fret passé
                   as charming women bravely seek―――――

                              “Red rouge and diamond eyes of gray
                             this fair and mellow-mannered mare!”
                                    his brilliant eyes went spying (and
they stole the skies of May from there!)              

                  to spite the clement nightmare!
     of that pungent—
porter street                                                

the cleats of noble mounts
they pace the pleasance he recounts
                his smile and case lay wide and chic――――

                                   “Red felt, if you would be so kind,
                                              solicit further coin and bill!”
                                 his learn’ed ears went hearing (and
what ditty does remind him still?)                      

of the love and subtle thrill!
       of that gloom ick—
                         ridden street

a drunk man kinks apace
an eager look be on his face
                 in wayward want of his mystique―――――

                                         “Ready nigh my pick-n-anchor
                                            pick on of mutt-n-mutineer!”
                                       his gentle heart went jarring (as
did he of sob'ring rancor spear)                          

t’ward gameless                                                  

watersweet                                                     ­ 
of that lone yet-                                  
lively    
                                                                ­          scene                 . . .

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Our World                        
          Is our delicate time and space;
          it drains us, yet sews
          all its wisdom in lieu.
          As an honorable thief,
          does it give and it take;
          yet, the World, it refuses
          to learn or give due.

          The World dons scarves
          as dark as the night
          as to peddle its eye
          round a vanity, fair.
          These beautiful veils
          of deceptive insight
          do shamelessly shade
          the reality there.

          And, so, the World speaks
          a fallacious demise,
          and helpless are we
          but to learn for a season.
          So, painfully teething,
          oft made is the choice
          that's ironically borne
          by the curse of it's
                              R E A S O N .

Our Life                        
          it is fickle, and its hurdles, astute,
          are hidden from sight,
          lest we brace for an err.
          Erectors of kingdoms
          and heroes of lore
          have knelt in submission,
          though truly, they bear

          as successors of wisdom;
          and, hashing the mind
          will lessen their fears
          and their Love beatify.
          For, whereas our Love
          will instill in us purpose,
          this World, of its greed
          shall indemnify.

          Blind to this study
          are those who are jaded
          by a constant
          societal scrutiny—
          what spawns of a whisper,
          one so oft mistakes
          as factual precept
          or a mystery.

          And, as nature's allowed,
          through the pain of what's seen,
          born of this mindset's
          a fear that
                              M I S L E A D S .

Our Fear                        
          can be weakness or a tool to enlight,
          and those of the weakness
          shall suffer the blitz;
          the absolute's waning
          shall surely bevex
          such disdaining and hopeless
          a reckless dismiss.

          Misplacing this fear
          makes a host most deranged
          and the doorway to
          failure falls wide.
          The fear of critique,
          and of silence and death,
          all are but wrought
          of the fear of one's life.

          For lesser is known,
          such siring mistrust,
          though, all but uncommon, herein.
          And, those who fear
          are as ignorant sheep,
          but those who do not
          fall astray to the spin.

          Yet, let ignorance be noble;
          for denying Love's endeavor
          be ****** as boiling waters
                              F O R E V E R .

Our People                        
          fall short of the brilliance of babes
          to pursue a suggestion—
          a swindling so grand.
          So, of what mystic gall,
          so bold to demand,
          has the World to serve
          as the Heart of man?

          The wise do not place
          fear in death or the World;
          they take solace in faith
          and fear not this affair.
          Their fear has been placed
          in the face of greatness,
          relieving an ignorant
          soul of despair.

          For only in death
          is there absence of question,
          and far beyond crossing
          will peace enrobe the wise.
          So, sharpen your motive
          and look to the skies;
          for alongside the answer,
          therein, lies the
                              *R E P R I S E !

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
alas,
my dearest
Xanthippe,
I do so pine
for thee—

arrestless
tender touch
what's left
mine eyes
b'labored,
beauty!

gen'rous hums
the crest
aroun'neath
ambrous
skye's
seduction,

'pon thy leather,
set me down,
coerced aback
by thine
induction..

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*a two-way street with
one-way frontage roads
and no U-turns.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
please let the
author'd
man
take heed!
let his steps
hold firm and
emboldened
by his only
Father
and
let him
compose a
life worth
reading!

﹊
for
ev'ry
man is
given a gift,
the quill of choice
and the inkwell of his
own will and reason,
and should he take
care to fill it with
his col'r—the
onliest brand
of his deepening
desire—then let him.
and, let him strike at the
pages with precision—as a
surgeon of the parchment for
he never wastes a page and
should he always have
a word to say,
then
let him
compose a
life worth
reading!

﹊
may
he teach
his children well
and may their choices
be a song—sweet lyrics
of their compassion
and innocence.
and let them
cherish
their
gifts and
practice proper
penmanship that their
choices in life may encourage
those both young and old and that
they may inspire those that misuse
their only gift not to author
their filthy obscenities
and blasphemies
and curses
against
both
Father and
fellow man. and
should any man advise
his own to embrace the
expressions of pace
and of repetition
or should he
encourage
them to
speak
once,
then
*let him
compose a
life worth
reading!

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*The author of a web of lies
lies in wait

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Heav'n rains a pillar wide
'pon Éire's bounty plent'
n' shylight licks the gold'n peaks
atop her jad'n spires.

but those betray'n her bless'n
bled to feed a foul d'sent
n' they that fed her armies
now d'cumb to fuel the fires.

mundus vult decipi
ergo decipiatur
~

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*Even gold caked in filth is
still burdened by the
worth of its own
weight.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Some say work smarter,
                              not harder,
but the wisest men are both.
                      Whether you're a
smart worker or a                      
hard worker, if you're not both
then                                             
you're
 ­                                          either
lazy      ­        or                           
                           an          a**hat.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
please
bear with me through
these turns,
for I believe it gets
much better..

i need help.

..much better than this
winding Caltrop
Way

please help me mind
these twists

no..

"not the TWISTS!

the twists betwixt
the ends gone
listing on
a list of modes or
measures—
lest my brooding
BOOM.

So vast,
and so cosmic,
so chasmic..
circumstasmic?

Could any of this be
happening?

Happenstance?

Perhaps a
dance—
a DANCE!

of eloquence enlisting—
of parables b'twixting
between..

..or was it betwixt?

betwixt!

the twist is
a'mix the
boundaries amidst
the sounding
absentees amiss
and all their revelries
gone missing,

they're so lost
among this misting lee."

i came upon this sanity.
alas!
this simple explanation,
what has brought me
to my knees
at last—

for

this hope so fixed
to kiss me,
as would bangles
on the wrist be,

then went
"begging and
dredging and
picking and *******;
through grand affair in
blissful beds
of rose and posey petals
pushing hedgerows!!

more and more
a bushless exposé
as days count down—
a maze a'drowned
in thornful
sortie!!

scornful,

hastily adorned and full of
fate-encrusted memories
of a trustless
misgiving.

My sin has shone its boldness
and has left me living cold.

**please, god,
don't let me
die this way!"

this heart,
o lord,
it yearns
away..

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*Love is a story that's
one chapter short
of a book that
you can't
read.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
"yeah, okay,"
she says to me.
such reticent
acquiescence,
we?

you did it
and again,
my love, and—

as did i,
dear's eyes
to mine—

again?

delicately,
what falls to me,
a smile—deeper—

one so deep,
and I'll so hide

that her eyes
are but narrow lies
to mine.

and so i beg of thee,
my love,

once more
and then
some more

e'er
with love
my love will be!


~the beggar of eels
in mores

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
a
fire!
afire,
his one
desire!
her name was hope
and her captors'
ire.
her golden hair
from air to he
so free she be
but soon transpires
a thievery!
with walls aflame
of loveless
fire
and daughter consumed
does father
inquire
of salt and sand—
his hands now
singed by molten
mire.
now his hands
hold nothing
as these visions
of strands a'gold
inspire.
and the all of she
so lovingly
does beg him to
retire.
he beg she see
that the all of he
still eyes
of his daughter,
eyer.
and the
fire
the
fire
grows ceaselessly
higher
and
higher—
he sighed as the
fire
grew nigh.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*Forgiveness is a bipartisan gift!
It's just as rewarding to forgive an
iniquity as it is to be forgiven one.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Some
people say
there's only one
thing to remember
when digging yourself
into a hole, and that is to
"drop the shovel." I say that we
all must dig our own graves, but
"the deeper the grave, the higher the
hill, so I'm diggin' myself a mountain!"
We're all given a shovel at birth and dig until
we cease in death. We are all gonna die one day,
and there's no need to understand the mountains we
make by climbing them. We must dig as deep as possible.

-----

The size of your                                                                         hill is
a symbol of your                                                                    legacy;
the size of the hole                                                          is a symbol
of your sense of duty                                                 to that legacy.
     Those who persist to                                             dig 'just enough'    
can afford to have one                                         foot in the grave,
but leave nothing but a                                      molehill; they are
just waiting around to die.                            Those that use their
time wisely on their path to                          death and persist in
their creating something much                  greater will establish,
           feverishly,      a      lasting
                \   legacy. /
So, I ask, which    stays    more
            noticeable  on the  sinking
                       horizon . . .

                                                       . . . a mountain or the
                                                             ­                       hole next to it?

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
I felt the rain coming.
A persistent wind
took swing
after swing
at my lashes
leaving behind
the occasional
hint of mist
(just on the tips).

In that moment there,
through then-rosy cheeks,
I began to experience
an unfelt appreciation
for something
I couldn't quite
put into words.

I felt a feeling
of sheer delight—
a feeling of comfort
and of good measure.

In that very moment there,
as I looked up
beyond the clouds
that now eclipsed
what no one else could see,
I felt peace.

I could hear, faintly,
the chilling rasp
of the far-off winds
that approached me.

Though I felt my body,
weak and frail,
I felt my soul
digging for truth,
steadily unearthing
something abstract
and nameless.

Reality then made
a swift pass
over my eyes.

I stood there
now galvanized,
though it all
left me feeling
a bit faint.

A surge
of blood rushed
to my head
like waters
through the cleaving
of a river dam.

I looked down
to see that I stood
on a spot of bare dirt
where the centipede grass
dared not grow.

My fleeting bewilderment
streaked lightly across
what I saw there.

The feeling
in that moment
had become a vapor,
which quickly escaped
the purgatory
into which
it was invoked.

I found myself
back home,
and though I was not
fully satisfied,
I smiled.

The cold rain
now covered my hands;
my wet fingers
were like bait
to the breeze.

I slid them
in the pockets
of my black leather jacket
as my smile
quickly turned to
‘brrr’
and a sudden
uncontrollable shiver.

“Was that it?"

I turned about
and hurled
a fervent wish
across that fluid sea
of sod grass.

I heaved
an unwearied sigh
as I then fell back
on the tin siding
of the wall
behind me.

I looked down
at my feet again.

One of my shoes
was untied;
its left lace
did lie atop
a muddy graze
upon the ground.

I looked up
and stared off
into the void
above the horizon.

I listened
to the sound
of the rain,
still so eager
to fall lightly
on the centipede.

I listened
to the sound
of the wind,
still so resentful
of restriction.

I listen
to the sound
of the automatons
that patiently
raze the forest
not too far
from where
I stand.

I wonder
what I could say.

The words
come to me:

"Thus
abounds
the nature
of wolves!"

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*life's but a river
what's essence sublime;
we're all but the water
and our bed is but time.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
*Water on the ground always
makes mud before a lake.