all bite at first,
but some do not lose the taste for it,
and they become the haters,
needy to be put down,
or at vey least,
restrained and retrained

but I doubt most can

I am not a hater, just a doubter

the error rate of rage and snarl,
so very high

the youthful intolerance of every sad slight,
wearies me

the political correctness of the day spoils,
both the day and the night,
words can never harm me

who owns the truth?

the truth I belove is the opened arm,
the child comforted,
the kiss of the
parent and the child

not a fleer, or unafraid,
a grown man who has raised his fists in anger,
I defend fierce mine and my rights,
attack me with stick and stone,
and you shall run into my knife unsheathed

but the snarlers and the goose steppers
almost always fail,
choking on poisoned vitriol,
their own petard does not hoist them,
except to the gallows of the nothingness of infamy

I fight for tranquility and green pastures
where all shall lie down with whom they want

yet all I see is the valley of the shadow,
all I hear is the rattling from the valley of the bones

strange is the calm I feel, for rage is an old companion

my weapons are neither dull or rusted,
or put away for never to be used

come to me in peace, one by one,
come to me with chivalrous acts and kindness
spread like thick butter on dark country bread

I will easy embrace, protect and defend,
all the days of my life

rage against the dying light if you must,
but do not deny that rage hasten the dark

touched where it both
pained and pleasured

she, he, they,
son, daughter, husband, lover
returned the same,
in kind

there was no irony
that it was the same place

irony was in the kind

it was of no import
that the touching
was not physical

it was different though
in the how, in the what,
that is what made the difference,
the why was why
it sometime
pleasured and sometime pained

in the meeting place of the eyes,
revelation - then always results,
in the meeting place of the eyes,
contact most fierce,
yet no contact at all

the seismic radius of the tremors
were comprehended,
even measured,
but incomprehensibly
awesome and awful

this is how we love,
this is how we hurt,
our nearest ones,
so oft so far away

absent forever
or next door
in the same safe bed,
under a roof close to collapse,
sensible insensitive *

[this is senses insane shining mad]

this is how we love,
this is how we hurt,
our nearest ones,
so oft so far away

with a glance, a sneer, a moan, a snarl,
weeping, even when not openly,
a smile, a caress, a passing kiss,
a hard embrace,
emanations all from
the same place

in the one and the same place
where pain and pleasure coexist

who among us does not
know well this place

the place where reason absents itself,

at roll call the answer is always

Present

and that is the signal
to that place
to commence the uncontrollable
weeping