Day breaks over a sleepy village
Morning absolutions completed
An excited buzz is in the air
Everyone is a buzz with cleaning
Hundreds gather wild flowers in the fertile fields
Many were in charge of raising the fires
Soon the whole town had bright blooms weaved from one end to the next
The horizon alight with smoke and power
Goddess and God rights invoked within circles round
Pulsating, rhythmic energy racing through each dancing body
Gyrating to the cosmic beat of life
Couples jump merrily together over cauldrons ablaze
High hopes rise and give way for dreams of children
Lovers round and round they twine
Maypole ribbons rainbow hued passing through hand to hand
As dusk falls the Queen is crowned
Mead flows freely through the jubilant worshippers
The moon hangs round with fullness above their heads
Lighting the way for love into the night

They call me bohemian,*
a lost intellectual
hidden with no ambition

A happy go lucky,
who hops and hits
like a river flowing downhill

A philosophical dreamer
with subjective absolutions
unrealistic surreal expectations

They see my eccentric fashion
the chic grease of mismatch
A happenstance of my day's mood

My mind is indigenous
My soul is gender fluid
A vessel of masculinity and femininity

One day, it's a skirt and blouse
The next is a bow tie and shirt
The other is a blend of two

A maverick in a world alone
I felt it all my life, the lack of connection
No motions with the convectional

Their whispers cannot be heard
I am done with biting my nails
Let them pull their hair with their noise

Their chitter and chatter complaints
As I gaze and talk to the floor
*weary of their mediocre complaints

Freddy krueger?
Kreuger?. Kept a leuger as backup. Sharp edged steel ?
Made him feel the essence of perdition.
But high speed projectiles made him smile just like burning cordite did.

So freddy hid. His piece in his back pocket. Wrapped around it was a chain and locket ,wrapped around a crucificx. For absolutions sake.

What made freddy tick.?
A temporal trick.
Wrong place right time.
Tick..... tick.... tick.

I don't know where to begin with this

All I can say is that I am tired

I was given dreams
dreams like fresh fruit
Ripening in my palms
My world was blue skies and
orange slices
litchi juice on hands
climbing the jungle gym

My youth was flora
sprouting out the earth
branches picked clean

we were absolutions

I don't know when that all disappeared

Grown-ups are supposed to know everything
When did I start seeing adults crying more often than I did

We are grey specks in the sea
tumultuous
overwhelming
absolute

We are droplets
whirled into the horror of bloodstains on the road

I am lonely
Endless
Mattress on the sea
Floating
Sinking
Drowning

This is carnage
terror
silent genocide running through our veins

The hours are passing

The air is smog

the trees are dying

the fruit is gone

There’s a drum set in my room. Just beside my bed.
I have 4 pairs of sticks; one has a broken head.
The cat is roaming around, finding a place to sleep.
He plays around with my blanket. Needling it with his feet.
A bottle of beer, half empty, half full.
Another half drank bottle of wine, a commodity of a fool.
A ***** ashtray in the table and a cigarette between my fingers.
Just right between my pinky and the ring, where it putridly lingers.

No one’s playing the drums, yet the silence is deafening
The broken stick head is still on the ground, where it fell from breaking.
The cat now quietly resting, just licked his nose after yawning.
His name is Sae, the syllable I say in a high pitch when I call him.
The beer is now quarter full, around hundred fifty milliliters
It’s 750 if full, but empty when touched by drinkers
The ashtray, dozen of butts, ***** of ashes
The loneliness, the silence, an evidence, a witness.

It’s just another night of my life, my joy, my agony
They said young life was fun, not for me.
I have no job, I have no partner, I have no money.
And just to make it worse, my father was taken away from me.
Now, I’m alone, though I still have family.
One from my father, another from my mother and a brother younger than me.

I’m not complaining about anything, I love my life and I live it too.
A philosophy of mine, ‘if you love love, love has got to love you.’
Even if love loves me, fate has other plan planned for me.
An invisible web of thread hidden from me.
Though it would be easier if I knew where I should go.
And not think of excuses and impromptu responses once the troubles grow.

I see the Sae staring at me, his eyes mildly close, but looking at me.
He wants to sleep but still waiting for me.
If only it was that easy, that one can sleep and forget everything.
A beer and a cigarette and every problem would be nothing.

A potion, a smoke couldn’t change anything, nothing at all.
But helps you forget the times fate made you crawl.
It would only give music for a silent night but noise for the trouble.
Lets you sleep, but wake up in the morning with the trouble doubled.

Fate, oh fate. If beer, smoke, music and Sae could only convince you.
That I’m young and senseless, would you make it easier for a fool.

If only the silence bear music, the beer give solutions,
the smoke give predictions, and Sae tell me that in fate, there’s no absolutions.

~for me~

no food in this house, badly bruised fruit,
leftover congealing overdue-past pasta with ketchup and cheese,
moldy bread testing the outer boundary of edibility,
jeez, even gotta drink water direct from the tap!

the worn out endemic pandemic comatose wakes up next to me,
“even this fickle friend is thinking its time for them to go, who knows,
cause we no longer count the time, where time goes, it just goes”(1),
don’t want it to go, because the ideation of life totally alone terrifies

looking out at the water, waves relinquish their sooth-me-ability,
now, they looking like masses of commuters and tourists weaving,
pushing, on Fifth Avenue, everybody trys gain a step in this old get-
ahead life we used to liv, believing that the way to, the right place

a poet here has cancer, doesn’t answer me when I’m checking on him,
another has memory sickness, cannot ever let go of her life’s losses,
as well she shouldn’t, some losses are wars by definition un-winnable,
and me, drifting in and out of this poem in the early morning thinking

if I could get back to sleep, that’ll be a couple more hours used up,
don’t want to mislead, no answers any to the perennial flowering
question of where shelter can be found, this wretch like me, can’t see,
grace has fled (2), see it, rowing away, can’t blame it, I would too

so many come to me with pain, wasted opportunities, looking for
guidance, or worse, absolutions, the dishes in the sink, last weeks,
saying they deserve a second chance at a useful life and the coffee
machine flashes “Empty Grounds or Leaving Town,” a decent rhyme

don’t give a **** if you’re thinking this writ, gotta quit, too long,
take your tiring eyes and scram, skedaddle, mine until I get a decent
answer to questions that never let go, they’ll keep coming back and
somehow that prospect, is crazy way is comforting, for all parties

can’t let go, only thing that gets me outta bed, the need  reheat, reheat
old, cold coffee that someone stuck in fridge just in case, the electric
gets hurricaned, stormed, another tree comes down this time that doesn’t just miss the house, like last week, that a stupid way to die

answer to where shelter ain’t, gonna start a collection of awnings, keep one handy, no matter time and luck take me, a stopgap answer to the quest-ion at hand, I’m liking that word,  it’s emotive, aaawww-ing, comes ready, handy guttural name, & to the beat, flapping wind

thought I’d get answer by writing this all down, none come along, meaning I’ll write some more some day soon, when the eyes open, should they open once more-row, the questioning, the pandemonium blues, wake up beside me asking where I’ve been, they’ve been

waiting all night for some bad company.




notes
__

(1) “Who knows where the time goes” Fairport Convention
(2) “Amazing Grace” Judy Collins

Blue and somber white, I ask that
you ponder in your waking dreams and solid songs to bare the fruits with these eyes
like children and horses and such.

Naked and trembling. You frighten me.
Words of a thousand suns are witness.
They cross out the years of servitude and grace.

Absolutions. They yearn
to survive until they crave mortality.

I am about to give way. To see you with fresh sight,
hear the voice of another betrayal. Thus far,
there is only One

I have never seen
I have never heard
I have never known.

Cruelty abates
itself, shuns itself.

We wait in silence and petulance,
longing for a day to last
a thousand days
and more.

i can’t believe i’d forgotten how
you would talk to me until two, sometimes three
in the morning, nonstop messages
fingers taking flight over the keys,
telling me stories, sometimes just
listening, incessantly
exposing yourself in
uncompromised open wounds.

now, it’s not quite the way it was
now, i tell myself
this doesn’t mean anything.
that we shift & settle
like dust
upon past incarnations
of us, but i miss what you gave me
early in the morning,
filling the space within my chest
that is often
empty, giving me truths &
performing absolutions
for all my past sins.

the truth is, i am no longer
the shiny new toy you are
desperate to play with
every second
of every day
i am the book at your bedside,
measuring my days by
when you turn my pages
& when you don’t
wanting you to devour me
whole
once again.

Mornings are a time of brand
recognition, are the affirmations
of our silicone dreams, are the
insipid anchor of our biological
imperative, are an invention of
themselves.

Much like the poem writes
itself, the morning spreads
as part of its self-invention,
how particles of light are self￾fulfilling prophecies similar
to a spontaneous stream of words
filling a vessel in no particular
order.

The morning appears flat, but
at its edges it bends seamlessly,
is a disc of unfettered
centrifugal absolutions,
posits unanswerable
equations until night
overtakes it and makes it mine
again.

We keep morning hidden
under the sink like a
disinfectant, like spools
unwound and repurposed,
faded spectrums of
observable patterns, fixed
in the sense of observation
as industrial strength glue,
inviting God to see if It can
undo what consciousness has
borne.

Though the real cleaver marks
the rashes on pastoral lands
In the dark the fascinations with **** fields
an assailing cut
With no remorse in you
never closed or can renounce this levity
These dreams in the realms waxen never hives
no you didn't see
Learning Laws for the Day and the Night
There are no free souls set upon your passage of rights
Take now the severity the flay of bodies and limbs
No place for fury purity and attacks of the worlds within
Perception never ceases
under all slithers..
plagues and illusions
Torn of no elations fleeing a cause for revelations...
now only ice and fire
sinners disquisitions
We're mere lambs lead to that forthright poison
the constitution of Heaven
Maybe the soul needs to endure meanings
other docile plays for rights, strength dies a contrition

Placing a foal for an Antichrist within the morning light
So as did your prayers can God and Satan answer a fight!

Take now the severity the flay of bodies and limbs
No place for fury purity and attacks of the worlds within
Go now with your mind all suffered people
their derivations
Never know what of the darks halls
into peoples absolutions!
The real you running with more.. all the breezes
Life with erratic lows can be live to avow surety turning seasons
Once and right now the dreams were remorse and empathy
Revealed now demagoguery arrested oscillating of light
Nether worlds there's no way through when the attack begins allright
Searching for sunshine a flight liquid spirit of waves cries out
Do not of my sins as the sinners will do to you for the rest of eternity the mark of torture veils the sun as a new day dawns

Take now the severity the flay of bodies and limbs
No place for fury purity and attacks of the worlds within