This is a poem of a girl. A girl who is so cliché, that she needs to write angst-filled poetry to keep herself conscious and her thoughts free, but is too hipster to believe it. A girl who is too freckled to be fair, too fleshy to be flirty, too conspicuous to be classy, too prominent to be petite, but too small to be seen. A girl who’s piercing blue eyes absorbs everything and regurgitates emotions like a tampered slots machine—excessi vely and noisily. This is a poem of a girl who is so over-stimulated with color, texture, love, and life that the numbness in her head is a pink eraser. A girl who was brought up to have opinions and dreams as long as they kept her on the path to perfection, poise, and parenting. A girl who is experienced enough to know the difference between sorrow and guilt, manipulation and cowardice, hysteria and hyperventilation but is too naïve to know why certain boys are a bluish green, why math is a bafflement, and why ground up chili peppers in dark chocolate ice cream isn’t everyone’s favorite food. This is a poem of a girl who salivates at the mere thought of classical music, couture fashion, and feminine heels. A girl who breathes in culture like a caterpillar inhales hookah smoke. A girl who Alis volat propriis (flies with her own wings) but ultimately plummets to nosus decipio (Let’s just cheat) because her humanity held down her Heredity. A girl who thrives on music of every variety: as long as it can paint out her emotions in front of her. This is a poem of a girl who is so acerbically witty and harsh that she could unarm Napoleon but is so vehemently protecting that Mother Theresa herself would be awed. A girl with an attention span of a fish, short-term memory like sea foam, thoughts that outnumber armadas, and a bad habit of dehydration. This is a poem of a girl who talks but shouldn’t, speaks but doesn’t, and who is so badly burnt by the enticement of affection that her wallflower camouflage is now charred ashes around her stubby toes. A girl who has such infatuation that she could pin Lust against the wall and make Passion jealous. A girl who wears red lipstick because she knows it will keep a man’s gaze for 8.2 more seconds than with chapstick and the 50’s will never grow old. A girl too nervous and traditional to make the first move, but too strategic and over-analytical to lie back and forget. A girl who loathes the word mamihlapinatapai because it describes her every circumstance since the day she befriended the purple-brown boy who thought her personality tasted of Raspberry ice cream and to this day she still can’t pronounce it. This is a poem of a girl who needs a bed so crowded and protected with blankets and pillows that her monsters can’t penetrate her mazed-up mind. A girl who drinks tea with her lips, and philosophy with her soul. A girl who can’t spell the alphabet backwards but can make great mnemonic devices. A girl who can’t tie ends together because she doesn’t want to leave anything unsaid but whose tangents are kite-strings. A girl whose sentences are distracting fences in front of her literal eyes but doors for her mind’s eyes. A girl who has Synesthesia but keeps it quiet because of the condescending kids in kindergarten who called her a freak, and a liar. This is a poem of a girl who thinks about Death and whether he is a snatching thief or just the ferryman. A girl who dances with her eyes shut, her heart open and her toe-socks on. A girl who will clean her room at 2 am because she can’t handle the sight and the night is too lively for sleeping anyways. A girl who wears her heart not only on her sleeve, but on her chest, open as a blushing book playing poker with hockey players and still winning a game. A girl who’s emotions are kept in a Tupperware box and left in the refrigerator but if you shake it hard enough the lid just might pop open

Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless of investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

Outside an average sort of house
Upon a quiet street
There stood a man of honest heart
All grim and weather beat
His face awash with bafflement
A letter in his mits  
With Lots of Love from God himself
And golden twirly bits

He'd read it over breakfast
Then read it on the loo
Considered re-addressing it
For number forty two
Within the silver envelope
In angel script, embossed
Were plans to build a massive boat
Materials and cost

It seemed, he'd have to build  it
As the letter looked legit
So off he sped, to B&Q;
To show the holy writ
The manager was confident
The price was mighty bold
Delivery on Saturday
For every item sold

So late, on Friday evening
He popped out for a walk
Upon his road, he drew a boat
In vivid yellow chalk
When morning dawned, a knocking
And some paperwork to mark
For a thousand tonnes of timber
For construction of an ark

He set out with his hammer
And he smote the nail and tack
By afternoon, the road was blocked
With traffic tailing back
A keel was just discernible
Beginning to take form
By evening, the media
Was whipping up a storm

Up marched a bold reporter
From the Three Times Weekly Herald
He said "So you'd be Noah then?"
"Not me" said he "I'm Gerald"
"I got this 'Oly telegram
And God has chosen me
I fill a boat with wildlife
And sail the salty sea"

By night he was a laughing stock
On YouTube and the news
But a sturdy man, was Gerald
And most vehement in his views
When asked to show the letter
He graciously refused
"Just have a little faith" he said
"We'll soon see who's amused"

The church were being skeptical
And held the press at bay
The Council sent him letters
At a rate of four a day
The hull was soon completed
And he laboured on inside
Constructing some amenities
To house them on the tide

A swimming pool for waterfowl
A wall of rodent wheels
With bowls for every kind of fish
And a big one for the seals
A filing box for butterflies
To stow them all away
A pigeon hole for pigeons
For the bees , a large bouquet

A puzzle for the monkeys
A wardrobe for the moths
A lion for the antelope
A jacuzzi for the sloths
A fully fitted nursery
For when the ewes had lambed
The wasps would have a picnic
And the beavers could be dammed

Through night and day he toiled
He relieved himself in shifts
In time, he built a sauna
And a pair of turbolifts
The council grew impatient
And the neighbours were in fits
They begged him to remove his boat
Entire or in bits

Then promptly, after dinner
As he sat upon the deck
There called a suited doctor  
With a badge around his neck
There followed many questions
With a host of funny looks
While outside went from 'fine and warm'
To 'just the thing for ducks'

That night, began the deluge
So Gerald found his crew
He robbed each local pet shop
And attacked the nearest zoo
Collected every animal
And fastened them in tight
The waters coursed along his street
As dawn replaced the night

'Twas then a thought occurred to him
A kind of mental swerve  
His road was more a crescent
So his ark was on a curve
But just then the currents took him
He sailed off along the bend
For six weeks, going round and round
To land at home, The End

**

The clown would’ve been beaten up and down
a long time ago, if he didn't know
how to force scowls into smiles,
bafflement and battles into laughs
like startled bells and baby rattles.

Who would he be now, if he didn't know
how to play the jester, how to stitch
his words together
like the mouth of a snitch
or a quilt of dodo feathers?

He learned it from pain: how to be a joker,
how to act the fool.
Does it count, still, as stand-up comedy
if he's just crying on a stool?

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Gather up, all you roaming and innocent true eyed youths,
the bells that chime the maturing of years will dictate.
And our minds, even in dreaming, are flashing,overloading,constantly ON.
Burning ourselves back towards the sediment,
back towards the eve of light and the horizon’s sweet ascent,
the hope of the bettering of Man (Woman, Child, Subject, Dependent, Enemy, Statistic)
to be played out by actors unsure all over again,
Plot, attempt, market research, unlikely success, unforetold rapid decline
Walk on down that road.

Twenty-Three years of Searching and Bafflement
I still walk on down that road.
The air smelling of leaking chemicals of exported decorative garden plants
the odd fir tree to remind me of a progressive upheaval.
I’ve read about Everything, I’ve sought out Everything; I’ve tried Everything
And yet still unsatisfied.
And yet onward I trot....
Left with the only things I still enjoy doing
Reading, writing about reading and writing about life
listening to music (Both new and the old, same old...cycle ending cycle re-entering brainwaves)
Thinking about ******’
and occasionally enjoying non-self centered ***
(Giving, once in a while, such unexpected joy, and who’d have thought?..)
And always at the back of my head
wondering how if I could get hooked on some supposed poisonous deity
Billfold notes stained ******* or some equally widely condemned non-popular pariah seal
And if I managed not to impoverish myself and become alienated from friends and family
And the moral majority
Then perhaps I could evolve to enjoy even that.
What is pleasure and its pursuit if not some guarantee of routine?
So I continue walking down that road.

Away, away, soon to return another day
Fresher (hardly) enlightened, the same...
and still I cannot recommend to myself
anything else but walking.
For to which valley the wise one goes, who knows, who knows......
Turn left, turn right, only the principles of geography can begin to decide fate.
(Though I would suggest bringing an umbrella, every now and again, just in case....)
To search for others, who would bring a chance of difference, on that self-same route
who share jokes about this one man...
Who was walking down that road.

There's many pairs I've fathomed
A poets stock and trade
A thousand couples counted
And a hundred poems made
But I'm awash with bafflement
A word eludes my wits
My sleep is interrupted
And it's getting on ****

Nothing rhymes with 'women'
I've run fresh out of words
I'm sick and tired of 'wenches'
And bored to death with 'birds'
It's hard to write a love song
To 'crumpet' or to 'totty'
Yes, nothing rhymes with women
Those women drive me *****

There's loads of rhymes for 'menfolk'
And equally for 'men'
’Aggressive' goes with 'Passive'
And 'Possessive' now and then
My brain is drained and knackered
And almost rhymes with 'lead'
I'd like to rhyme with someone else
And leave them in my stead

For nothing rhymes with women
And I loath abbreviation
There'll surely be no rimmin'
Or unsightly punctuation
The odds are stacked against me
So, exhausted, I persist
To find a rhyme for women
A word to coexist

the pyre of my soul
incinerates my interior
as I watch our flames burn
relentlessly from my lips
like the words that removed
love from around my heart

who would have believed
your whispers would burn
like the sun; singeing my
entirety with venomous
blisters flung with displeasure

bafflement sears...

there's no more emotions,
forgiveness is shamefaced
a misdirection of affections
your misunderstanding
leaves me naked in this
moment, heated in affront
this second fore, nothing
matters anymore

inner abashed turmoil...

roils like a cauldron upon
a campfire, its embered particles
I breathe and ingest for naught
in whimpering gasps
wanting to desecrate that
smirk rising upon your
handsome features; a look
I once found to be endearing
once in awhile

that you took away, too...

your total disdain; dousing
our flame of eternal love of
all that beheld us in God's
light; which, now leaves me
awash in bile, dazed, open-mouth
stares from dimming eyes
is all that looks upon my beauty
with such pain; makes me want
to scream, take me
want me, love me as once
before

re-ignite our flame...

those thoughtful embers are
undirected words drenched upon
an uncaring mind, directing
my soul and heart towards
the moon and the burn of stars
that light up the sky of my
heart and mind as if I could
have altered the course
of your bitterness, until
I can no longer sigh in want
of your love

thoughts of me gone asunder...

filling my lungs with silent
animosity towards all that you
stand for, my only want now
is for you to stay away from me,
allowing me to live in solitude
inside the hunger that pours
like stinging tears from my eyes,
let me be without changing
the sound of love still singing
within my heart

The poor boy knew Christmas beckoning at the door
He saw every house bright with many a lamp
And streets illumined with colorful lights and stars
But his tiny hut looked dismal n’ dark like a prison camp

With a suppressed sigh, he inhaled the festive air
His little heart grew weary and dim
There has never been a merry Christmas in his life
As the days advanced, he grew moody and glum

He, born into a cheerless, crammed shack
With parents so poor having very little means
To bring up their children and foster a family of seven
At a tender age, saw shattered all his budding dreams

Year after year, he had seen the city in dazzling lights
But never once on Christmas he could feel any glee
While the rest of the world partook of umpteen delights
Never his heart, from sorrowful thoughts, was free

When children of his age feasted on roasted turkey and ham
And their mothers baked Christmas cookies and cakes
He and his siblings had to be content with a meager fare
That left their cheeks wet with saline drops pooled in their eyes

Their house in winter was too damp and cold
No blankets had they to keep themselves warm and snug
They lay huddled together in biting chill
On the wooden floor on a worn out woolen rug

One evening, on a leisurely walk from school
The boy saw a man selling colorful balloons
With the little penny tucked safely in his trouser pocket
He bought a balloon and headed straight to the lagoons

There as he sat on the sprawling silver sands
A strange idea had come upon his little head
To send a letter to Heaven asking for some urgent help
Hoping Jesus would help, he too being born a poor kid

On a white paper he carefully scribbled these lines:
“Merciful God, look upon us, this miserable seven
Here in our humble hovel, we die of hunger and cold
On this Christmas, send us a little cheer up from heaven”

He folded the paper and fastened it to the balloon
Nevertheless he didn’t forget to put his full address
When the wind was strong, he let it go off his hands
And watched it soar high with his earnest plea for redress

Days went by and the awaited Christmas Eve arrived
While the world splurged in all gaiety and merriment
The poor hut remained dull and cheerless as before
The helpless parents were lost in grim bafflement

Abruptly, there halted a Mercedes before the hut
A man, old and graying with a graceful smile
Alighted with his hands loaded with Christmas gifts
Looking for the boy, he had travelled many a mile

It was during one of his daily strolls around the lagoon
That the gentleman saw a balloon suspended on a willow tree
The white paper tied to it made him curious
He took it up and saw an innocent’s earnest plea

The man so rich and kind was moved at heart,
He from his wealth decided to donate a large sum
To support that family of seven in dire straits
And give them the merriest Christmas with no trace of gloom

The little boy believed Jesus had answered his prayer
He came in the guise of a man, he had never before seen
With rising delight, he saw a star in the graying sky
It shone right over his head with a brighter sheen

They told me that the ultimate arrow
That would pierce its way
Into my mundane heart,would be
The death of a loved one,
But as time flipped its own pages,
I embraced the realisation that
Losing loved ones is not as painful as
Intentionally letting them slip
Through your hand like grains of sand
That merrily mingle with the rest-
But no,the girl next door said that
She saw warm blood flow from the throat
And along the flaky skin of her
Abusive father,whom she despised
With all her soul and that was when
Her heart felt lacerated,
But then the old lady at the bus stop said
That when her step mother,
A lady of fine taste,
Burned her hand with a piece of coal,
She heard her heart shatter,
With a slight tinkling noise,
As if it was made of glass.
Bafflement took over me,
And I sat on the couch,
Pondering about the‘ultimate arrow’
They warned me about,
Wondering how the Arrow could have multiple forms,
And then, I found what
I was searching for-
The Arrow,
Is not just a single sardonic notion,but
A quiver full of sorrows
And grievances, that shot
People’s hearts, one by one.

He walks gracefully like the sun
You can not help but marvel at the sight of the tufts dancing on his forehead
His countenance pierces into your ***** and tickles your insides unmercifully
The ebony stars in the highest kingdom long for his attention, with him, there is no compromise, either he faces your dirges aptly and revives the bits of what-so-called hope, or he does not look at you at all.
No, you would not understand unless you see him, but beware the maze of his eyes, for I tell you..
My placid atoms rest like ember and every bit I have left of pride declares its obeisance.
His outburst of loud laughter makes the goddess of beauty mutter out of envy, and the distorted harmonies of my own seek refuge in between his eyelids, like the diffused light rays run into the twilight zone.
But listen, love
out of all that you are, all the sacred paeans chanted by your name, all the symphonies that you dress in, the land within your ring, the silence you stand amidst, all the birds, the tunes, the melodies, all the chocking sounds and all the ominous insecurities, all the serene electric waves, all this bafflement I could not comprehend nor the seraphs would comprehend
Out of all that you are
all what you are
is the annihilation of a bullet
that leaves pansies where it's shot.

I can’t quite comprehend your role,
The pros and cons vary,
I am quite baffled,
For should I be weary?

The friendly looks you present to me,
Transition to a ridiculous, yet peculiar look,
I’m not yet satisfied with being in your presence,
I’m a bit worried,
For your foe’s life you took.

I don’t know yet,
If I’m your worst foe,
Or your closest female friend,
Oh, please let me know.

It’s absurd how smart you are,
But the bafflement I experience,
I’m turning to dust,
I’d rather die without absurdity haunting me.

I can’t quite comprehend your role,
The pros and cons vary,
I am quite baffled,
For should I be weary?

The friendly looks you present to me,
Transition to a ridiculous, yet peculiar look,
I’m not yet satisfied with being in your presence,
I’m a bit worried,
For your foe’s life you took.

I don’t know yet,
If I’m your worst foe,
Or your closest female friend,
Oh, please let me know.

It’s absurd how smart you are,
But the bafflement I experience,
I’m turning to dust,
I’d rather die without absurdity haunting me.

Howdy mate, you got some time?
I will buy you a drink,
90ml neat,
if you be a lamb, old sports,
and lend me your company prime.

You see, I am dazed,
awfully blazed,
stunned to the core
the things you will lore
makes me want to tear this heart,
and pull the strings apart.

Don’t you judge so soon,
for I have the calmness of the moon,
but you know the whole story,
how moon survives on star’s glory,
and  the cosmos has been rude,
and I don’t mean to be a *****.

For it gave me my sunshine
so gorgeous, pristinely divine.
But feels like entoiled by the fate,
oh, how badly I hate
this bafflement, I have conceived,
unable to let go things I have perceived.

Doesn’t that make a demon out of my soul
unwilling to let go the stigmas
and let love be my destiny,
my gift and my goal.

Wait, don’t leave, please stay
the refill in on its way,
Will you speak, if you wish,
say words I am craving for,
that will strangle my dilemma
and all my pain will perish.

ummmm…
you are a colossal idiot…..

yes, not to miss a whiner, so profound
stuck in someone’s past,
who is gonna make you feel warm,
and hold you till the time unbound.

I spit on your coffin,
if you could ever afford one
for doubting her sanctity,
you pathetic hypocrite *****.

Yes, the left behind in the past
and there is so much to hide, in fact,
she opened herself to you,
coz she had her integrity intact.

She could have had with you her way,
and left you in utter dismay,
but she chose not to sting
coz that is not her thing.

You don’t yet understand her, do you?
Else, you won’t be in this lousy place
in a tuxedo that you rented
talking to a stranger, seeking solace.

Don’t get cold feet, have some pride,
Don’t you dare let her slide,
coz I have a woman, to whom I surrendered
and life has been one dreamy ride.

Now, here she comes,
cradled in her fur
I am so sure about her,
you too don’t be a blur.

Do the right thing,
I hope you will,
the *** is gone
and here comes the bill.

always so **** serious
why can't I relax?

near death experience
relentless panic attacks

solitude is comforting
a woman would be more

but my mind is off in Copenhagen
his in Elsinore

        What exactly am I searching for?

India has karma
Rome had fortune
Greece had Fate

What has happened to the United States?

Sandbox constructs, talk to me.
Play to me.
Dancing straw, pull on the wind,
give color and shape, give name.
I will be straw too one time, then many times,
and will dance with the straw in the wind.
These are joyful times, all alone, no interference. No you.

Mouse you sneaks in the sandbox,
chews on my straw and nests in my sand.
In possession of some key.

(I want to ask about the key, but I can’t.
I am supposed to be made of straw.)

Perturbed, I chase you out.
My world of sand and straw is too fragile for your beating heart.
It will fall apart, will be rubbed raw and threadbare.
But you sneak in again,
and look at me as if I am not straw,
and the ground as if it is not sand
but solid earth, rich and full.

Clearing the board I start over.
Drive you out
and begin to map out the pattern of this cloth.
Time begins to unspool, following its slow track.
Joyful in this beginning, this gradual awakening.
Patience.
Humility.

I never know when (or if) you’re going to appear.
So often the game plays out without a hitch,
or you appear so late that it makes no difference.
But I hear your heartbeat now: the rapid thudding,
and know you are here.
A mouse nuzzling through the straw,
invading the gentle morning of this world
when all may be ruined, all may be averted.

Bold, undisguised you,
and I, perfect shaft of damp straw;
it does not fool you.
Discovered at the worst moment,
tender and caught.
You, unruffled by the wind, realizing the position you’re in.
Realizing the position I’m in:
holding all the keys but unprepared to use them.

You have your own plans and ideas.
You dance around me,
playing provocateur, trying to make me
show my hand, my key.
I pretend I don’t know what you’re up to.
I hope you lose interest and give up.
Hope a chance wind sweeps you up,
like a great swell from the sea,
and I never see you again.
Hope you suddenly doubt yourself, blinking,
finally convinced by my damp posing,
my mute bafflement and loyalty to the wind
and wonder, isn’t this straw?

Dare I play your game?
Dare I nod to your tune?

I use one of my keys.
Walk through a door that shouldn’t open,
you at my heels, all eager to see backstage,
to see the actor who plays me.

You already know what you have known since you saw my face.
The same face you have seen dancing in and out
of pale replicas of borrowed worlds.

And finally I let you hear from my lips
what you have suspected the whole time.
That I am not the straw or the sand or even the wind.
That I know you aren’t either.
That I know that you know.
That yes, it was a character and it was a role.
That it was a game I play, usually alone.

“It was just for light fun and idle amusement,” I say.
“Nothing was at stake.
So why the sabotage?”

Then, in spite of our twin hearts,
I see how different you are from me.
What calms me enrages you.
What worries me soothes you.
What I call “light fun and idle amusement”
you call “life and death.”
“Everything was at stake,” you say.
You say, “this world is full, full to the brim. People just like you.”

Fool.
Don’t you realize where you are?
Look around, it is a world of sand and straw
blowing in the wind.

Will you still love me the same
Will you marry me; will you make my day splendid, even though I've hurt you so many times
Even though I got no penny; No dime and no any and all I've got is rhyming line
Through losses and the gain; through hardship and shame; would you keep playing the game?
Through hustling and suffer; when I have nothing to offer; would you still love me the same?
In time of bafflement and weary; when the whole world thinks I'm crazy; would you still call me your baby?
Would you stay with me till it ends; when I'll kiss you in the head and call you my lady?
If I showed you my secret; will you reveal or keep them tied to your heart?
If I showed you my weakness; will you stay and never let us fall apart?
If we lost all that we had; and to feed is very hard; would you switch?
Would you stay with me whether we are poor or rich?
When you learnt that I am not the man I used to be
Would you stay at home and spend your whole life with me or flee?
If you become richer than I am; would you still love me like you did?
If I become abnormal; and my life turns upside down; that I can't provide all that you need
If I become dumb and deaf; or turn blind or lost my strength
Will you want me dead; or will you lie with me in my final hour upon our bed?

A beauteous happening. A chance moment. A spark born from dark feelings echoing within the soul. Needless yet perceptive. Meandering through a habitat not of its own design. An idea is born. A massive wave of energy transported through space, interrupting the gatherings of ancient galactic breath and the birth of stars exploding with energy. I offer only this love. It knows no boundaries, for boundaries are created by humans. It creeps with glacial aura, seemingly frozen where it is sprawled against the lush blackness that is the night sky. Cold. Comforting. It explodes and erupts with passionate fury raining down from a heavenly origin. This is my love. It removes you from your soul and cleanses your body, before gently placing you back. It causes complete bafflement. Its torrential force can frighten you to tears. Its inner workings cause you to throw your arms up in defeat. Don’t think of it. Do not perceive it or try to encase it in your understanding as this is against the nature of my love. Feel it. Let it take back to its home and show you its world. Its place of origin. It comes from a place that I cannot yet touch. A place where colors streak endlessly and without purpose. A place where universes are born and simultaneously eradicated without a trace, and without a sound. A place where nothing requires anything. It is random. It is gorgeous. Endless. Sausage.

I have garnered such wealth as I have
Through, if I may be so bold as to say so,
A preternatural ability to observe and catalogue
The foibles and follies of my fellow man
(This hard-won sagacity not the product
Of what I have learned as much as
The sum of what others do not know of themselves)
Yet, even though I believed
I had plumbed the very depths of absurd behaviors,
The prospect of kings--no, more than that,
Kings among kings-- bearing gifts
And complete fealty to some rank infant
Rudely swaddled and propped upon damp straw
Has brought even myself to bafflement.
Understand, the charms of children
(And the commensurate commercial usefulness)
Are not unknown to me,
But they are mercurial, undependable beings,
As ephemeral as the light of stars
Which allegedly acted as a guide to that trio of sovereigns
As their retinues crossed sand and savanna
(I sometimes chuckle to myself at the notion
That perhaps unwarranted clouds
Could have obscured the object in question,
And that the triumvirate could yet be
Wandering, searching, ruminating in vain)
Such intangibles are nonsense, of course;
Mere fol-de-rol entertained by those
Who would disdain the heft of solid coin,
The grit of good sand and dirt
Providing the assurance of good footing
As one saunters across the landscape
Upon such a night as this,black and unilluminated
As the aftermath of death itself.

Questioning the rationality through agony,
Considering the exam an act of barbarism.

The quest determines individual character,
Examining morality during torturous times.

Answering to a higher power with bafflement,
Not understanding God’s plan when scars are inflicted.

We can doubt the unknown by hating the riddle,
But must realize that misery is the first course.

Never knowing when the track will steer into hope,
But people have to solve the puzzle through grace.

Even though God’s intention with happiness is confusing,
The concept that’s clear is there no easy road to God.

Our Sweeney nurses his Falstaff,
Joining his hail-and-well-met fellows in mirth
This man of hearty life and laugh,
His fingernails rife with the stuff of earth and labor.
Outside, the moon’s reflection
In the sluggish and slatternly Canisteo
Is a portentous dot-and-dash thing,
Its light here-and-gone
As incongruous evening thunderheads,
Great wavy pompadours rolling off the big lake out west,
Growl sullenly as they move through;
Sweeney pays them no mind, as he has other fish to fry,
Regarding a frowzy pair from the sisterhood of round heels,
One of whom, catching his glance,
Crosses the room, mounting his lap and mussing his hair,
Purring ‘Jus wanna see how your lap feels, Hon.
At which she falls on the floor
(But softly, in the manner of an old campaigner)
Thereafter taking a moment to pull her skirt up just so
To adjust a stocking (black, with a run or two on display)
As her compatriot stands nearby,
Making calculations and considerations,
And with a barely noticeable nod to her co-conspirator
The pair head to the bar
While Sweeney, grinning the grin
Of a toreador expectant of victory and its spoils
Rises to join them and, just as suddenly, pauses,
Perhaps cognizant of the old poker saw
That if you look about the table
And can’t figure out who the mark is, it must be you,
Or perhaps it was the ringing of the bells on the hour
From Our Lady of the Valley
(Normally inaudible inside the tavern,
But the wind had made an odd swing to the southeast,
Allowing the chimes to occasionally outshine the jukebox)
Or perhaps something else intangible, inscrutable,
But in any case Sweeney bids his congregants
A hasty farewell as he saunters to the doorway,
Exiting into the humid, fecund evening,
And as he negotiates the sidewalk homeward,
He notes the odd evening singing of birds,
Their songs, even though he is part and parcel
Of this small city and its streets to his marrow,
Unfamiliar to the point of bafflement.

why didn’t you ever want more?
I don’t understand
is this really all you wanted?
really?
were you loving someone else?
was someone else loving you?
did I meet some obscure niche in your life?
these are rhetorical questions
a reflection of my bafflement
despite our storied past
I am not a disturbed person
I think you know this
maybe that’s how you know it never would have worked
I’m a healthy person
I won’t accept your half measures
you have whole measures, you do
that you choose not to share
somewhere inside you is a real thing
and I have loved it
every bit of you I have loved

but that real thing, you
maybe give him a chance too

All night she wondered
If there was a door
Or a window in the sky,
Hidden by ink and sparkles!  

It was the first time
She had longed
To cross the fence
Separating the yellow world
From the busy streets!

Why fence to reach into peace?
Bafflement overwhelmed her.

A lamb, in the learning of AC,
Went closer to her and said,

"we dislike hypocrisy,
But it's their preference.

Spring knows no boundaries.
You will get your dream true. Wait."

My lie is bigger than yours.

So it is Sunday early afternoon light rain
and I'm not a weather forecaster, and   no one pays me
for this observation, perhaps the seagulls do
they are flying low today.
The journalist who bravely fought 15 men, was put him
in a rocket that exploded when high enough, I found
a finger that looked Arabic, but the dog snatched
out of my hands before I could examine it more closely.
The world is so full of lies we grasp at nails
to accept the lie that is implausible yet has a ring
of bafflement enough so it can be business as usual.