Ein Früh ist ein Procedure von Servieren von Speisen, within denen Lebensmittel in einem öffentlichen Bereich, wo pass away Gäste sich selbst dienen throughout der Regel gegeben. Es ist eine gängige Methode zum Zuführen einer großen Anzahl von Menschen mit minimalem Particular. Buffets sind a particular verschiedenen Orten, einschließlich Hotel rooms sowie eine grorre anzahl gesellschaftliche Veranstaltungen angeboten. Sideboards werden ebenfalls als Buffets bekannt, wie sie verwendet werden, um das Geschirr eines Smorgasboard, um bedroom Gästen werden. Eine Create der Buffet ist habe eine Tabelle durch Platten, depart this life festen Teile der Nahrung gefüllt; Kunden wählen Platten, cease to live was initially Lebensmittel sie wollen, wie sie entlang gehen. Diese Sort wird am häufigsten on Cafeterias gesehen. Eine Big difference tritt on einem Stained Add Haus, wo expire Mäzene ihre Auswahl aus einem Wagen mit Rädern die-off Platten von Lebensmitteln, expire durch das Eating venue zirkuliert enthalten. Ein weiteres Derivat von dieser Paintings von Buffet auftritt, wo Gönner wählen Sie Lebensmittel aus einem Food Style and design sowie dann zahlen auf, was gewählt. anderen Variety, wie das All-you-can-eat-Buffet, ist mehr Freiform: Kunden zahlen eine feste Gebühr und kann danach helfen Samsung galaxy s6 edge, sich which means that viel Nahrung, wie sie within einer einzigen Mahlzeit zu sich nehmen möchten. Diese Variety wird oft for Dining places vor allem in Resorts,. Eine dritte Art form von Self serve buffet üblicherweise in Feinkostläden und Supermärkten angeboten wird, ein Salatbuffet, bei dems Kunden zu helfen, sich für Kopfsalat und weitere Salatzutaten, dann durch dems Gewicht zu zahlen. Eine vierte Technique von Stücksbuffet wird mit einer Feier irgendeiner Artwork verbunden. Wie Kompromiss zwischen Selbstbedienung und Full-Table-Service kann ein besetzt Smorgasboard angeboten: Gäste bringen ihre eigenen Platte entlang der Buffetlinie sowie werden einen Teil von einem Host the jeder Train station gegeben. Diese Methode ist weit verbreitet bei gesorgt Sitzungen, with denen Gäste nicht speziell für ihr Essen zahlen. Buffets sind wirksam zum Servieren große Zahl von Menschen auf einmal.

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The English vice,
Some Etonian curse –
Set down in grass
And purple verse,

Lavatory bred
With ransacked blood,
Skin slapping and
With a falling thud –

Takes boys at childhood,
Wishes them away,
With promises of popper fuelled buffets,

And poisons them with
Vice and virus red,
And sees them unmarried
Giving head.

I don’t regret a single thing I am,
I’ve tried it out
And can’t abide the sham –

I’ll **** men
And make them beg for more,
I’ll scrabble for their love upon the floor,

I’ll love men
And love will love me too,
I’ll love for love’s own sake
And when I’m through

I’ll die and I’ll be thankful that your hate
Never made me beg that I was straight.

You put garbage in you get garbage out
Health food fanatics know what I am talking about
McDonalds, Arby’s and all those Buffets
Sluggish citizens working Twelve to ten
And to cover up their poor nutrition
We soup up the brackish black brew
Killing ourselves with more caffeine till
We collapse

You put garbage in you get garbage out
Good teachers with years of experience
Know what I am talking about
The tweet, the face book
Are superficial connections
Binge watching brain-dead reality show people
Speed reading unverified Articles
Peer reviewed paper by academic writers
Don’t get the press the talking heads
With party lines and hateful sentiments get

You put garbage in you get garbage out
Any poet philosopher knows what I am talking about
Flashing screens switching scenes while twitching teens
Sit texting banal and ephemeral things
No grand dreams but to be normal
No expansion of the human potential
Just block and block of picket fence prisons
Dreams are limited to advertised fantasies

I must report the passing of a dear old friend today
I'm not sure when it happened, but I felt I had to say
That the Vegas that's in movies, books, and on TV
Is not the one that you will find, it's not the one you'll see
I know your expectations are of glitter and of lights
Of singers in the lounges that play into the night
The lounges now are empty of the singers and the bands
Instead they're full of djs, and bad magicians badly tanned,
The song that was Las Vegas is not one thats in your head
The one you know with Elvis, is now gone, you see it's dead
The old hotels are gone now, It's not like it was before
The new buzzword in Vegas is now just, MORE, MORE, MORE
It's now a culture aimed at being bigger than the rest
For now it seems that bigger, means you're now known as the best
There's hotels full of bedbugs and the service is the *****
But, the casino doesn't care if there are people in the pits
The strip is nearly two miles long, and almost half is blank
It's like the desert opened up and ten casinos sank
At one end is the Stratosphere, it's got a real cool view
But, because of it's location it's not easy to get to
The Sahara was next closest, but now the Lady's gone
And to walk from this tram stop at night, well I cannot say it's fun
It's dingy and it's ***** and it's not a place to be
I wouldn't recommend this part, it's not a place to see
Freemont Street, The Old Vegas is off the beaten path
It's an hour ride upon the bus, and a taxi...do the math
It's just a place to go to once, there's no reason to return
And if you ever visit here, I think that's what you'll learn
The middle part of the strip is glitzy and spread out
It's kind of close to what Las Vegas is about
It's not all geared to people who have childeren all in tow
These ultra cool casinos is where you might just want to go
The other end is busy, but it's full of gloom and doom
And on every single corner, you can get girls to your room
There's people handing out small cards with women with a price
Who'll come up to your room and well....let's say they don't play dice
On every bridge across the strip, there's beggars and there's hawkers
They're selling everything from cds to bottled dollar water
It's tourist town, a fast food mess, it's Disneyland on crack
There's lots of things to do down here, but you must always watch your back
Did The Mirage **** it?, when Steve Wynn said let's go really huge
Hotels like this were ten times larger than the Moulin Rouge
It wasn't when Hughes came to town and bought the Desert Inn
You know the land that's now the new home of the casino known as Wynn?
It didn't die when Elvis left, it sill was full of life
But at someime since the town has died, it has fallen on the knife
The strip itself is two miles long, but you know that that's not all
In the years since Elvis left, it's become a big strip mall
There's stores here selling plastic , and the people shop in streams
I'm not sure, but to me NIKE is not the Vegas in my dreams
Rolling in their graves, I bet the stars who made this town
Are sitting in heaven or hell, saying when did it go down
There's more shows now of tribute acts and hypnotists galore
And you can find a Circus from Quebec through nearly every hotel door
At some point rigor mortis set into this old girl
I wish they could revive her, at least give it a whirl
There's buffets selling fried foods, obesity....my lord
And if you don't go out to Denny's, the restaurants you can't afford
My mind has got an image of Vegas that is cool
It involves going out late and spending daytime at the pool
You dress to go to dinner, maybe dancing and a show
And the concierge at the hotel is someone you should know
But now, you go out shopping to the outlet in the day
The casinos are all empty, since there's no one left to play
Getting dressed to go to dinner, means you switch from shorts to jeans
And the ways some people act now, well it's borders on obscene.
So, today I'd like to ask you all, for you may know more than I
But, can anybody tell me, just when did Vegas die?

The Checkout Line

I wish to speak with you
ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

The words and meanings you carry in your pants, the pick-pocket steals your hopes from time.
and the visions of empty trash receptacles
with their late evening drunken lovers' bouts, at restless end tables. And the bums with their ******* attitudes **** covered clothes, and soiled minds

the clarity of the curbside drunk, picking up shades of filtered cigarettes of twilight scandalous
pickup lovers in their evening best.

And to talk with you ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

They're Green Beret head ornaments
detailing the porcelain platforms of Delft
Lining up for one last line to carry them into another faded sunrise at dawn's forgotten memory of yester night
and they walk their gallows holding pride fully their flags of exalted countrymen.

The republic of teacups of literary proficiency.
Wearing the necklaces of paid tolls to an afterlife they find in the miniscule car crashes of engagement with a grinless driving mate in a neighboring car in its pass into the forethought of turned corners.
Where they befell the great disappointment of failure in the frosted eyes of their fathers' expectations.

Who carried the shame of their mother's incessant discontent through short skirts, and high heels.

Who disapproved of the **** whom wore the sneak-out-of-the-house-wear clothing line, and traveled by night over turbulent asphalt by way of sidecar through turn and turnabout hand-over-hand contracts of lover's affection, and slept in tall grasses of wet nightfall with views of San Francisco, and were trapped in the inescapable Alcatraz and Statesville of unconsenting parents and their curfews,

through trials and trails of Skittles leading to after school Doctor visits in the basement of a doting mother, whilst she sits quietly in her exclusive quilting parties with noble equities of partners in knowledge, listening to Edith Piaf and the like,

All the while condemned to time, trapped in the second hand, hand me downs of the 21st century, decades of decadent introverts with their table top unread notebooks, and old forgotten score cards, and the numbers of scholars of years past,

and to talk with you ten years from now will be my greatest pleasure, for you will be....ten year's behind.


They push the sterile elevator buttons, and descend upon the floor of scents flourishing from their crowded family rooms, only aware of distinctive flavors, in their middle eastern shades of desert gumbo,

Who speak ribbit and alfalfa until midnight of the afternoon, sharing fables of slaughtered giraffes and camels that walked from Kiev to Baghdad in a fortnight,

Who are aware the power is out, but continue to scour for candles in a dark room where candles once burned, where candle wax seals the drawers of where candles can be found. Where once sat gluttonous kings and queens in Sunday attire waiting for words of freedom from the North.

of Florence, Sochi,Shanghai
of Dempster, Foster, Lincoln
of Dodge, Ford, Shelby

Of concrete fortune tellers in 2nd story tenement blocks with hairy legs, and head lice, wearing beautiful sachets of India speaking ribbit and alfalfa.

On their unbirthdays they walk the fish tanks wearing their birthday suits to remind them who serves the food on the floors of the family room fish mongers tactics.

The old men wear gargoyles on their shoulders.

Lo! Fear has crept the glass marbles of their wisdom and fortune, blearing rocket ships and kazoos on the sidewalks of their Portuguese forefathers.

Where ancestry burns cigarette holes in the short-haired blue carpet, where Hoover breaks flood waters of insignificance across hard headed Evangelical trinities.

Who share construction techniques one early morning at four, where questions of Hammer and **** build intelligence in secondary faces of nameless twilight lovers, who possess bear blankets, and upheavals, finely wired bushes of ***** maturity. Eating *** and check, tongue and pen.

Where police caress emergency flame retardants over the fire between their legs, wielding the chauvinistic blade of comfort in the backseat of a Yellow faced driving patron.

With their innocent daughters with their nubile thighs, and malleable personalities, which require elite words and jewelry. Wearing wheat buns, Longfellow, and squire.

Holding postmarked cellular structure within their mobile anguish.

Who go curling in their showers, pushing afternoon naps and pretentious frou-frou hats over tainted friendships with their girlfriend's brothers with minimum paychecks'.

Through their narcissus and narcosis, their mirrored perceptions of medicinal scripture of Methamphetamine and elegant five-star meat.

Who amend their words with constitutional forgiveness, in their fascist cloth rampages through groves of learning strategies. And the closets, cupboards, and coins
with rubber hearts, steel *****, and gold *****,

Tall-tales of sock puppet hands with friendly sharing ******* techniques, dry with envy, colorful scabs, and coagulation of eccentric ****** endeavors, With their social lubricants and their tile feet wardrobes with B-quality Adidas and Reeboks gods of the souls of us. Who possess piceous syndromes of Ouiji boards in their parent’s basements.

When will fire burn another Bush? Spread the fire walls of Chicago, and part grocery store fields of food. Wrapping towels under the doors of smoke filled lungs, on the fingernails of a sleepover between business executives with the neoprene finish of their sons and daughters who attend finishing school, with resumes of oak furnishings,

And I long to talk with you ten years from now,
For you'll be talking ten years behind.

Who profligate their padded inventories breaking Mohammed and Hearst,
laying the pillows of cirrus minor
waiting for the rain to paint the eyes of the scriptures which waft through concrete corridors,
and scent the air with their exalted personas,

With the different channels of confusions, watching dimple past freckle, eating the palms of our tropical mental vocations to achieve purity from the indignation of those whom are contemptuous for lack of innocence in America,
this America, of lack of peace,
of America hold me,
Let me be.

Whom read the letters off music, blearing Sinatra and Krall, Manson where is your contempt?

Manson where is your manipulation of place settings?, you deserve fork and knife, the wounded commandments that regretfully fall like timber in an abandoned sanctuary of Yellowstone,
Manson, with your claws of the heart.
Manson, with your sheik vulgarity of **** cloaks exposing your ladies undercarriage,

Those who take their pets to walk the aisles of famished eyes,
allowing the dorsals of their backsides to wonder aimlessly through Vietnam and Chinaman,
holding peace of mind aware of their chemical leashes and fifteen calorie mental meals, holding hands, unaware of repercussion,

With their vivid recollections of sprinkler and slide, through dew and beyond,
Holding citrus drinks to themselves, apart from pleasure, trapped with excite from sunsets, and in-between.

Withholding reservation of tongue to lung.
Flowing ribbit and alfalfa, in the corridors of expected fragrance.

and to speak with you of ten years from now, will be a pleasure all my own, for you will be talking ten years behind.

They walked outside climbing over mountains of shrapnel, popped collars
and endless buffets of emotion,
driving Claremont all the way to art gallery premiers
and forever waited for plane crash landings
and the phone calls that never came

Glowing black and white cameras
giving modelesque perceptions to all-you-can-eat eyes
giving cigarettes endless chasms of light

Colored pavement trenches and divots
cliff note alibis
and surgery that lasted until the seamstress had gone into an
endless rest
and
empty cupboards

Classic stools painted with sleepless white smoke and bleached canvas rolling tobacco with the stained yellow window panes of feral tapestry and overindulgent vernacular

Like a satiated cheeseburger weeping smile simple emotion
on November the 18th celebrations
and Wisconsin out of business sales

Too much comfort, stealing switchboards from the the elderly, constantly putting gibberish into
effortless conversation.

Dormant doormats, with the greetings that never
reached as far as coffee table favelas,
arriving to homes of famished
furniture, awaiting temperate lifestyles and the window sill arguments from pedantic literacy

Silver shillings and corporate discovery clogged the persuasive
push and shove
to and from

Killing enterprise
loquacious attempt at too soon
much too soon
too soon for forever

Wall to wall post-card collages
happy reminders of the places never visited by drinks in the hands of
those received

Registered to the clouded skies of clip board artists
this arthritis of envy
of bathtub old age
wrinkled matted faces
logged with quick-fixes, anemia, and heart-break

disposed of off the streets
of youth, wheeling and wailing
rolling down striped stairs
of shock and arraignment
holding the hand rails of a wheelchair
suitcase
packed away in a life

Down I-37
into the ochre autumn fallen down leaves
and left memories behind
their green Syphilis eyeglasses

weeping tumuli
recalcitrant
mulish, furrow of beast and beyond

yelling, screaming, howling
at the prurient puerile tilling
of sheets

****** the voices of words
and vomiting the mind into the pockets of the turbulent perambulations
expelled from meat-packing
whispering condescension
and coercing adolescent obsessions
with fame, glamour, and *****

Creeping out into the naked
light of the Darger scale janitorial
closets, carrying the notorious gowns
of red wine spells, backpacks, and pins

henchmen, plaintiff, and youth

All the while
ripping at the incantations of the soul
whispering ribbit and alfalfa
in the guard-rail scars
of the dawns decadent forgotten

Big ships, small ships, yachts and dingeys
Floating across the mighty sea
Carving their way, displacing their weight
To keep afloat the Captain and First mate.

Old ships, new ships, schooners and cruise liners
Have crossed paths throughout the ages old
Once to explore, make claim, pirate and fight
Now to wine and dine on a luxurious bite

Salted beef, rock hard bread and weevil-friendly biscuits
A 3 course meal fit for Old Salts alike
Weevils & worms and bugs of all kind
Along with sparse portions of meat, you might find

French wine, filet mignon, sushi and pastries
Buffets and fine dining, variety is key
All you can eat, whenever you'd like
No chores, no work, just eating all night'

What a contrast exists between these two worlds
Only 2 to 300 hundred years apart
Once grimy, risky, arduous and fraught
Now fancy, lazy, and much to be bought

What if the Old Salts could teleport to today
And live aboard our floating hotels?
With no masts to climb or sheets to tend
Would they break or would they bend?

I suppose that switch would be easy enough
But send us back to Pirate-ridden waters
You'd be sure never to hear from us again
Swabbing the deck would **** us alone
Not to mention the food and disease of back when.

- BPW 
Dec. 11, 2013

Outside two squirrels foraging
Inside one hundred and one keys tapping
Three buttons clicking and one wheel spinning
Eight hours a day sitting badly
In an ergonomic desk chair
Soft fingers tap on plastic and glass
Weak muscle memory of calluses and splinters
And sunburn blisters from another life
Outside the old prairie wind howls like a phantom
Lost in urban canyons buffets the panes
Drives the torrents of freezing rain
Hard droplets tap on metal and glass
While inside our high-rise terrariums we sit
Generating transient value that flits
Up into the clouds till whenever
You tap plastic to trade your invisible worth
For a hot meal in a disposable bowl
Ponder and sip in another life you could be
Spending all day in the freezing rain
Hunting squirrels for soup

Whispering to each handhold, "I'll be back,"
I go up the cliff in the dark. One place
I loosen a rock and listen a long time
till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush
of the torrent almost drowns it out, and the wind --
I almost forgot the wind: it tears at your side
or it waits and then buffets; you sag outward...

I remember they said it would be hard. I scramble
by luck into a little pocket out of
the wind and begin to beat on the stones
with my scratched numb hands, rocking back and forth
in silent laughter there in the dark--
"Made it again!" Oh how I love this climb!
-- the whispering to the stones, the drag, the weight
as your muscles crack and ease on, working
right. They are back there, discontent,
waiting to be driven forth. I pound
on the earth, riding the earth past the stars:
"Made it again! Made it again!"

my palate favors
particular concoctions
over too many pots
and helpings spurned

I don’t need
to taste everything
imported from China
suped-up HFCS and MSG
the first bites are yum
across hungry tongue
but the rest are all meh
instigating regretful churns
and nutrient deficiencies

I just want that
raw, organic, GMO-free
concentrated, satiating
perfected recipe
crafted expertly
on my tongue
daily

x3

I would like this life of endless
Greyhound time schedules to cease.

What self-inflicted alien abduction
tore me from the valley of my birth,

leaving me to wander empty streets,
each the branch of a coppiced maze?

I grow weary of quotidian fastfood buffets
downed with the aid of espresso baristas.

My legs have lost the muscle-memory
that strode the river cliffs with no regard.

Time to end the sleepwalk of forty years;
rejoin the forward guard of Iroquois.

Like wind that buffets lofty trees
And breaks what’s loose and dry
The trials that bring us to our knees
Will cleanse us by and by

And like the winter snows that fall
To grant the earth a rest
The colder times that come for all
Will help renew our best

Like dusky eve and dawn so bright
Give cycles to our sphere
So let your dark give way to light
Let hope oppose your fear

Let rhythms flow and guide your way
In yielding - you will find
Both strength and joy in every day
Both wealth and peace of mind

Okay.

You used to be a *****.

Now don’t get self conscious. We all used to be *****. Check out the period at the end of this sentence. That tiny little dot is around 600 microns wide. When you were a ***** you were about 40 microns wide. And you were so cute back then too with your little tail wagging all over the place and your love of swimming. Boy could you swim. In fact if you hadn’t outswum your siblings, you might be a slightly different version of yourself right now. Maybe you’d have a higher-pitched laugh, hairier arms, or stand two inches shorter.

You had a great life as a ***** but always felt incomplete. The truth is you weren’t whole until you met an egg. And then you two began a nine month project to make a cool new version of you. It took a while but you grew arms and legs and eyeballs and lungs. You grew nerves and nails and eardrums and tongues.

For a ***** to meet an egg it means your mom met your dad. But it’s not just them. Think about how many people had to meet, fall in love, and make love for you to be here.

Here’s the answer: A lot. Like a lot a lot.

Before they had you, none of your ancestors drowned in a pond, got strangled by a python, or skied into a tree. None of your ancestors choked on a peach pit, were trampled by buffalo, or got their tie stuck in an assembly line.

None of your ancestors was a ******.

You are the most modern, brightest spark of years and years and years of survivors who all had to meet each other in order to eventually make you.

Your nineteenth century Grandma met your nineteenth century Grandpa down at the candle-making shoppe. She liked his muttonchops and he thought she looked cute churning butter.

Your Middle Ages Grandpa met your Middle Ages Grandma while they both poured hot oil from the castle turrets on pillaging vikings. She liked his grunts and he thought the flowers in her hair made her heaving bosoms jump out.
Your Ice Age Grandpa crossing the Bering Bridge in a woolly mammoth fur met your Ice Age Grandma dragging a club in the opposite direction. He liked her saber-tooth necklace and she dug his unibrow.

Your ancient rainforest Grandpa was picking berries naked in the bush while your ancient rainforest Grandma was spearing dodos for dinner. She liked his jungle funk and he liked her cave drawings. If it wasn’t for the picnic they had afterwards, maybe you wouldn’t be here.

You’re pretty lucky all those people met, fell in love, made love, had babies, and raised them into other people who did it all over again. This happened over and over and over again for you to be here. Look around the plane, coffee shop, or park right now. Look at your husband snoring in bed, your girlfriend watching TV, or your sister playing in the backyard. You are surrounded by lucky people. They are all the result of long lines of survivors.

So you’re a survivor, too. You’re the latest and greatest. You’re the top of the line. You’re the very best nature has to offer.

But a lot had to happen before all your strong, fiery ancestors met each other and fell in love over and over again for hundreds of thousands of years …

So let’s stop for a second and pull back again. Let’s pull way, way, way, way back.

Okay.

Let’s go on a field trip. Put your shoes on because we’re heading outside.

Take a bowling ball and drop it on the edge of your driveway. That’s our Sun. Yeah, the ball is only eight inches across and the actual Sun is eight hundred thousand miles across but that’s our scale for this little brainwave. Okay, now walk down your street ten big paces and drop a grain of salt on your neighbor’s lawn. That’s Mercury. Take nine more paces down the street and drop a peppercorn for Venus. And then take another seven paces, so you’re now two or three houses down the block, and toss down another peppercorn.

You got it.

That peppercorn is Earth.

Here we are, basking in the blazing sun, twenty-six big steps away from the bowling ball. Our giant planet is just a tiny speck in the middle of nowhere but here’s the crazy part: It gets a whole lot bigger.

If you keep walking, Mars is only couple more houses away, but Jupiter ends up ninety-five big paces down the street, out of the neighborhood, and halfway to the corner store. By now a dog is probably slobbering in the bowling ball finger holes and kids are flying by you on their bikes, slurping drippy popsicles, and wondering what’s up with this nut tossing crumbs on the sidewalk, acting out some demented suburban version of Hansel and Gretel.

If you want to finish up our solar system, you’re going to have to start taking two- and three-hundred paces for the remaining planets, eventually dropping a grain of salt for Pluto half a mile away from the bowling ball. You can’t see the bowling ball with binoculars and it’s getting cold out for your long walk home.

But here’s the crazier part: That’s just our solar system. That’s just our bunch of rocks flying around our big bright bowling ball star.

Turns out our big bright star and all its salt and peppercorns are racing around a cosmic race track with two hundred billion other big bright bowling ball stars. You’d have to cover the entire Earth with bowling ***** eight thousand times to represent the number of stars in our race track. Did we mention this race track has a name? Yup, it’s called the Milky Way galaxy, presumably because the scientists who first noticed it were all eating delicious Milky Way candy bars late that Friday night down at the telescopes.

So basically our bowling ball, salt, and peppercorns are flying in the fast lane around a ridiculously giant race track galaxy called the Milky Way with billions and billions of other bowling *****, salt grains, and peppercorns, too.

But are you ready for the craziest part: That’s just our galaxy. Guess how many giant racetrack galaxies are in all of outer space? Oh, not many. Just more than we can possibly count. Honestly, nobody knows how many galaxies are out there in the big blackness. All we know is that every few years somebody stares out a little further and finds millions more of them just shining way out in the void. We don’t know how deep it goes because our rocket ships don’t blast off that far and our thickest, fattest telescopes can’t see that far.

Now, all this space talk might make us feel small and insignificant, but here’s the thing, here’s the big thing, here’s the biggest thing of all: Of the millions of places we’ve ever seen it appears as though Earth is the only place that can support life. The only place! Oh sure, there could be other life-giving planets we haven’t seen yet, but the point is that Earth could easily have been a clump of sulphur gas, be lying in darkness forever, or have a winter that dips a couple hundred degrees and lasts twenty years like Uranus.

On this planet Earth, the only one in the giant dark blackness where anything can live, we ended up being humans.

Congratulations, us!

We are the only species on the only life-giving rock capable of love and magic, architecture and agriculture, jewellery and democracy, aeroplanes and highway lanes. We’re the only ones with interior design and horoscope signs, fashion magazines and house party scenes, horror flicks with monsters, guitar jams at concerts. We got books, buffets and radio waves, wedding brides and roller coaster rides, clean sheets and good movie seats, bakery air and rain hair, bubble wrap and illegal naps.

We got all that. But people, listen up.

We only get a hundred years to enjoy it.

I’m sorry but it’s true.

Every single person you know will be dead in a hundred years — the foreman at your plant, the cashiers at your grocery store, every teacher you’ve ever had, anyone you’ve ever woken up beside, all the kids on your street, every baby you’ve ever held, every bride who’s walked down the aisle, every telemarketer who’s called you at dinner, every politician in every country, every actor in every movie, everyone who’s cut you off on the highway, everyone in the room you’re sitting in right now, everyone you love, and you.

Life is so great that we only get a tiny moment to enjoy everything we see. And that moment is right now. And that moment is counting down. And that moment is always, always fleeting.

You will never be as young as you are right now.

So whether you’re enjoying your first toothpicked turkey cold cuts and marveling at apples from South Africa, dreaming of strange and distant relatives from thousands of years ago, or staring into the blackness of deep, deep space, just remember how lucky we all are to be here right now.

If you feel that sense of wonder and beauty in all the tiny joys in life then you’re part of an international band of old souls and optimists, smiling on sidewalks, dancing at weddings, and flipping to the other side of the pillow. Let’s all high five and keep thinking wild thoughts, dreaming big dreams, and laughing loud laughs.

Thank you so much for reading this.

And thank you for being

AWESOME!

Gentle ladies, take a while
And choose your mate with lesser style.
Beware the charismatic charm
Of the misogynistic arm.
He’ll ply with love charms, charmingly,
Until he has you all at sea
With this imagined love you’ve found.
He’s swept your feet right off the ground
And carried you away with stars
That twinkle in your laughing eyes.
Yes he can play this game for years
If need be.  But slowly he tears
You right away from those you love,
For you to him your love must prove
In every tiny detail now.
And if you can’t then face this row
He’ll find your weakness, badger you
Until your broken health ensue.
His buffets then you can’t oppose
Yet constantly inflicted those
Abuses in the verbal might
Turn physical, and then the fright
Brings on its shame.  You will not tell.
Results of that you know full well
Amount to just some more abuse
And then some, coming so obtuse
From left and right.  It’s your own fault.
Well so he tells it.  You’re the dolt
Who so upset him, made him fire
Assaults at you.  Not his desire.
And you believe him.  P’rhaps if you
Had not done this or did eschew
That other thing.  
                                You cannot win.
You finally will see this thing
For what it is, and pack and leave.
That’s if there’s some-one who’ll receive
Your brokenness, and take you in
To give you time to heal again.
‘But he’s so nice’, they say in town.
“We can’t imagine him knocking you down.”
He tells them how you selfishly
Took off with children.  You must be
The meanest woman round this place.
He’ll find someone to take your place.
He must have someone on his arm
Whose looks are sweet and full of charm,
Who’ll do the work he needs her to.
What else is there for him to do?

For all of the months we spent together, I thought of you in neatly organized sentences. “I love you.” Always with a period, because that’s how you know someone really means it. The first word of every sentence about you was capitalized, because you weren’t some sloppy diary entry splattered on an old composition notebook page. You were a carefully crafted novel, bound by alternative rock bands and chinese buffets. You were different, and you could not have possibly been summed up in a measly three paragraph essay, like the one I wrote about Abraham Lincoln in the fifth grade. Every comma was the pause I had to take when I saw you, because I swear each day you continued to take my breath away. And with you, there were no misspellings, there were no grammatical errors. You had flaws, but they were so deeply hidden in between the lines that I didn’t even bother looking for them. I guess that’s why I didn’t notice when I became less and less of a priority. And when the “goodmorning” texts came to an end, that should have been a red flag. Your copy of How to Treat Someone You Love would be similar to a guide on how to take care of a goldfish. “Feed twice a day and change water once a week”. It’s really that simple for you, because you have the mind of an engineer. Logical. Precise. There is no such thing as passion and forgiveness, just empty “I love you”’s. Because you once told me that we are just in high school. You never really explained what that meant, but I got the hint. So I left.
            Because if there’s one thing I realized, it’s that you cannot make someone love you. You cannot make them care, and you cannot make them stay. And it’s one of the hardest things to do, but once you realize it, you get this new sense of… freedom. Not the feeling you get after the last bell on the last day of school, not that. But more like you see the world for all it’s worth, for the first time. Because it feels good to let go of the idea that you need closure. People don’t need closure, they need to turn around and walk away. They need to not put up with the people who wouldn’t put up with them. I don’t need closure on why we ended, I don’t need to know why you never took me back. You made your decisions, and now it’s my turn to make mine. Because if it were meant to be, my birthday would not have passed with nothing more than a text saying “hbd”. Hbd. I guess that’s who you’ve become. Your novel-like qualities have become nothing more than text lingo in the inbox of a teen girl. I swear I use to look at you like you were a poem written by e.e. cummings, but now you’re nothing more than a piece of scrap paper under my bed. And it’s sad because although I don’t know much about love, I knew enough to make you see the world in shades other than black and white like you’ve been raised to see.
            And thinking back on what we had, I see it as an art collection. But it wasn’t structured around the basic principles of primary colors and symmetry. It had life and depth and meaning. Things I could never get you to understand. But now I realize it wasn’t because we had it all wrong, it’s because we try to make it too right. But art isn’t right, it isn’t pretty. It’s brutal and honest, but it makes you feel things that engineers can’t. And I guess that’s what a poet gets for messing around with numbers and figures. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’ve exhausted every word and every sentence that could possibly be used to talk about you. I paid you the highest form of flattery, I made you into my art piece. I made you dance across the page, and brought what we had to life, because in reality it was dead. I tried to salvage us, but now I’m happy with letting my idea of you go. Because it’s not closure that I need, it’s distance. Especially distance on paper. So as this course comes to end, so does my time spent on you. Some people are better off wrapped up in the laws and theorems, because not even words can make them beautiful.

Some Asian folk revere the Tao
the way of Yang and Ying.
Others worship ancestors
and of Confucius sing.
Buddhists seek a one way trip
with no wish to return.
Hindus think we're born again
just not in Christian terms.
Some follow in the steps of Christ,
this life, their cross to bear.
Others say Carpe Diem
and just don't give a D*mm.
Islamiscists eschew alcohol
and never lunch on ham.
This place has many faiths and creeds
to suit our every mood.
The voodoo that you do so well
is with suspicion viewed.
The foodists are the latest cult-
a blight upon the land
like Joey chestnut at buffets
consuming all they can.
To them no cow is sacred
and wine just slakes their thirst
They walk among us and they breed
and I don''t know which is worse!

Is it just I who awakes
To the pounding buffets on the tambour?
Bellowing howls of the morrow
Faint spasms in the mind?
Does our nervous tension beckon
At the crepuscular beams
Of a pristine new day?
My chest will skip to tremor,
My legs will fail and stumble
I can’t sustain the efforts necessary in this society.

I wouldn't blame a parent,
Teacher or friend are not at fault
None but I, in my strength’s demise
Am to blame for these miseries of failure.

I've given in
Giving you this in

Black and white

Kinda floundering
Finding
Not a rainbow
Near me
The magic is lost
Fearingly

Like ghosts
These illustrations
Of the heart

The gifts missed
From distances
In **** tube dreams
Boxed in
When we give a ****
Only now in this century
Twenty first class
Calamities

Our oceans dying
Malformed embryonic cells
Of sea shells
She sells to the sea shores
Supply and demanding
Foodies going for sushi
Tuna rolls not in season's
Greatest catch
Babies of King *****
Vegas Buffets
(Hashtags hazmat)

Overpopulation
Cities bowdlerizing nature
Iron teeth
Skyscrapers
and weeee!
All Are wanting,

Hunting, stunting, grunting
Undaunted
We sport full
Stadiums like
flagella

Single cell organisms
Goliath

mammoths now we mount,
Life best preserved in ice
Gene spliced
Playing dice
A stadium obese
With single minded
Bacterium

Gone viral

Vanities and victory
Of youth wasting time
Herding sheep
Mastering a perfect sling / swing
Knowing where to aim

Without fame
Without fail
Twix the eyes
The larger will fall

When it begins to hail
Gray
desert granite
Rocks
Throwing, rolling
Stones
on high
Or from below
Mantle, plates
Tectonics
Floods
Don't wait for names
The Hurricanes
Categorically mad
A High five

Climate changes cataclysms
Undoubtedly
No need
For
Catholicism catacisms
Or celebrations for
Dunking drowning
Under Christian steeples
Luke warms
Water

Ceremonious
Ways to cleanse

Drink and capitalize,
Divide their minds
As conquered

The fountains
We deny our youths
By learning only
Monkey see monkey doo
Masses
Congregation
A peaceful gathering

Recitations
Incited legions
Again again
religions own
What we believe

Schooled by whom no one knows
The vicarious
Malleable history

proof defining

The shapable feast of mean
and meaning...

Since it has been
All about
**** / Black or white
Just a reminder
Reminiscing
from a loss
Rather than reason
as one family,
Much more loss will
Fill your glass
But let me remind you
That thirst cannot be quenched
With empty

Actions speak
peacefully louder
When words
lift
Up like into laughter
No news of war to speak of pastor

When a summer day
In black AND white
Is still beautiful
In the shades and rays
Of a Polaroid
Picture of the day
Star : Sun,
In black and white
Still
Is bright

When the sky looks
Drab in
Gray...

The cage bird sings
The rainbows
Bright
Soul that flows a river

The living day
                   song of words

Utmost
Hearts
The Beloved

poetry
Of
The truth
When we chose

To give love
The life

Our world
Balances...

Even in black & white, I see  
The rainbow wave

               In the sky dances.









**(Continue into poetry about that universal
Ideal or melancholy, represented by the color
Gray feelings or the visits into gloamings and
Mists of dreamy worlds that host the ghosts of
Our downward spirals and dismay... The I between
Stranger things and sorrows heavy feeling, familiar
Or alien, gray as multiplcitous a color, it's shades
Of Heaven or bones, paint by writing
your feelings down, show me all or none,
Your neglected shades... The darkest to light.
Tell me how your gray turned white)

how on earth
could steaming squash and Brussel sprouts
be as good as Doritos and a soft serve swirl…
sure, I desire to be a healthy old man
but my taste buds wish me dead at 45
they long for sweet wheat and extra large
portions of meat
indiscrete feedings at fried food buffets
all the while maintaining the look of a fella
only slightly over-weight
…..still, I feel poorly
headaches and joint pain
racing brain and an inability to refrain
from the foods that are doing this to me
I never thought after conquering
8 years of ****** addiction
and 15 years a tobacco ******
that candy bars would be my greatest foe
forget candy bars
let’s talk bread….
loaves of sourdough golden roasted
rye to die for
and cinnamon…rolls,
banana or zucchini
sprinkled on toast with a touch of sugar …
it is no wonder I am larger than need be
the BMI calculator says I am 84 pounds
from defeating obesity
so much for my professional lineman physique –

The Most Boring American Legion Meeting Ever

A Monologue in Two Parts

I.

Voice:

“Ya wanna talk prostrate1 cancer? I’ll tell ya
About prostrate cancer those PSAs
Don’t mean nothing and those doctors don’t know
Nothin’ I’ve had 15 on my PSA

“Ever since when and I ain’t got prostrate cancer
But this feller I knew he had a one on his
PSA and he had stage five cancer
And he died, so don’t tell me nothin’ about

“Prostrate cancer ‘cause I go the meetings
And so I know, I tell ya, yessir, I do…”


1Prostate, of course

II

Same Voice:

“Say, did y’all have any good buffets in Iraq
Or that other place Afghanistan
The buffets in Manila were expensive,
I tell ya, expensive, they cost forty dollars,

“Yessir, they did, and that was right down the street
From the embassy and that was too much
Just too much for what ya got, I tell ya
And they gave us ‘phone cards and they were made

“Right there and sixty minutes disappeared
Off it right when you dialed the number, yessir…”

L’Envoi

A Second Voice (in pain, weak, much like the voice of the Bleeding Sergeant in Macbeth):

“I move we adjourn.”

With every passing day my body begs,
Consider that all drink, all food consumed
Will shorten breath, and weigh on swollen legs.
But thirst and palate are no less attuned
Though appetite has slaked as time goes by.
Instead of gluttony, I must select;
Notice what I eat and drink and why
To savor flavor to its best affect.

A poet learns their mindfulness of words
The same.  With small or no restraint at all,
They gorge themselves on overstuffed buffets,
Well-salted with their tears.  Yet, to be heard,
A simpler line cuts through the caterwaul
And quenches thirst and hunger on its way.

Summer nights are pushed in
with cold breezes and robins wings.
At night the sun never truly fades,
a yellow phosphorescence lingers
kin to the sticky heat and light bugs.
It hangs in the air, light caught on nothing
like dew caught in a web.
The mosquitoes wings twist the air
into a dour chorus
like a poorly tuned violin quartet.

And sweat sticks to the brow.
And to the sheets.
And to the thin shirt that twists around beneath tight covers.
The eyes that no longer reflect blue
only the slow blink of the fireflies.
Crickets sing the ears to sleep,
and if the ear is trained,
or looking for something to hear,
it might catch the very light buffets
of the frenzied flutter of bats.
The moon hazed from the days heat
hangs low making the sky like the inside
of an immense pin hole camera.
Promising an interesting and bright world on the other side.

Those leaves were once green
When once I looked out that tall window
Those branches will be bare soon
Frost may cover those nine window panes
Snow may be piled precariously,
Holding its breath to stay atop top branch.

Time passes slowly here, words pelting
A tired mind. But wind stirs again
Wind buffets fall’s leaves, forced suicide.
I do believe I may not recall the proper
Amount of time, neither in time before
Or in time after. But wind stirs again.

Leaves stand still now, only stragglers
No awareness of leaves above or below
Torn and ravaged, missing their once
Cheerful red friends. Wind buffeting
Their small limbs and fragile veins.
No hope for them. But wind stirs again.

Those three days of warmth seem imagined
Was I dreaming when one night’s dusk
Brought us forty and below while the
Next day’s dawn ushered in the seventies?
With ups and downs winter and spring life
Cycle's nonsensical meaning. Mind stirs again.

Bien ****, quand il se sent l'estomac écoeuré,
Le frère Milotus, un oeil à la lucarne
D'où le soleil, clair comme un chaudron récuré,
Lui darde une migraine et fait son regard darne,
Déplace dans les draps son ventre de curé.

Il se démène sous sa couverture grise
Et descend, ses genoux à son ventre tremblant,
Effaré comme un vieux qui mangerait sa prise,
Car il lui faut, le poing à l'anse d'un *** blanc,
À ses reins largement retrousser sa chemise !

Or il s'est accroupi, frileux, les doigts de pied
Repliés, grelottant au clair soleil qui plaque
Des jaunes de brioche aux vitres de papier ;
Et le nez du bonhomme où s'allume la laque
Renifle aux rayons, tel qu'un charnel polypier

Le bonhomme mijote au feu, bras tordus, lippe
Au ventre : il sent glisser ses cuisses dans le feu,
Et ses chausses roussir, et s'éteindre sa pipe ;
Quelque chose comme un oiseau remue un peu
À son ventre serein comme un monceau de tripe !

Autour dort un fouillis de meubles abrutis
Dans des haillons de crasse et sur de sales ventres ;
Des escabeaux, crapauds étranges, sont blottis
Aux coins noirs : des buffets ont des gueules de chantres
Qu'entrouvre un sommeil plein d'horribles appétits.

L'écoeurante chaleur gorge la chambre étroite ;
Le cerveau du bonhomme est bourré de chiffons.
Il écoute les poils pousser dans sa peau moite,
Et parfois, en hoquets fort gravement bouffons
S'échappe, secouant son escabeau qui boite...

Et le soir aux rayons de lune, qui lui font
Aux contours du cul des bavures de lumière,
Une ombre avec détails s'accroupit, sur un fond
De neige rose ainsi qu'une rose trémière...
Fantasque, un nez poursuit Vénus au ciel profond.

Sitting in place, watching for each breath to follow. Sitting in place while the pulse of the universe passed through, washing over me like a quilted array of colorful threads.

Waiting, resisting any urge to categorize it while breathing…..

From here to vapor clouds of yellow-green shapes, familiar and yet strikingly new and delightfully unique; letting go of any hold on my place, sitting in place.

Complete stillness in unison with an amplified propulsion of movement, surging through my body while the crafted, colorful texture buffets any notion that it could ever stop.

The fabric woven from strands of green, red, rainbow hues, standing and waving but endless; recognizing its elusive presence. Here, then gone, new forms and ideas.

There, but whipped away in a reality of thought; throbbing back to a joyous cacophony of brilliant cobalt spots melding into pools of glaze and meandering laughter. Rich with a deep knowledge of comfort and creation.

Rolling conveyors of electrified strands in textile grids, carrying me through existence; not away but throughout. Not alone but connected in a field of saturated love and reaffirming energy. Beckoning to participate in a communal array of shared newness and fascinated creativity.

Beating, pulsating, reverberating through my being; lifting and transporting from here to here. Flashing, stunning, gripping yet gently releasing me to a river-stream of floating and mellow current.

Elusive to comprehend yet immediately sure. Breathing with a singular rhythm but bombarded with a magnanimous abundance of photons, blasting through into an ambling state. Smiling, soothing, mirthful but astoundingly reassuring and irrevocably present.

Sitting in place, wanting to stay and receive while being pulled to a new place of possibility and self-perpetuation.

Sitting in place in the middle of nothing. Delirious.

i love winter for the sole fact
i can invent living
in alaska or honningsvåg,
and never see the sun for four
months - it helps that in england
the skies are blissfully gray
at sunrise in this ideal season;
i'm adding to the cult of the moon,
a subplot of islam you might
call what i'm doing - no cult
of the sun, copper skin and
the cliché holiday in the bahamas,
no dream of all-you-can-eat buffets
at a holiday resort - tatar steak
for me and a chance conversation
over hákarl (kefir meat) watching
a volcano errupt in the night.

p.p.s. (pedantic post-scriptum):
the diacritic a in hákarl
is a sign of elevating the k, or at
least prolonging / exfoliating it,
stressing the two syllables -
well at least in my optic theory
of interpretation; or interpreted
to ensure the first syllable acts
like a definite article (the) in hebrew,
e.g. ha shem (the name) - not that
it does act like a definite article,
i'm sure in icelandic the definite article
is not spelled like the hebrew articulation,
but it's about the distinction in
the presented syllable compound
with the diacritic mark over a - also
inverted using a different notation
akin to compounded words,
id est ha-karl.

History of people

The stone walls and vaulted ceiling held memories the light seemingly superficial human identities have
Passed in and out like the outward wind that briefly buffets the outer structure then moves on if only

We could use a tool like the archeologist not to deface or change but take scrapings their work tells the
Grand story of people and place I would like the more personnel their struggles and their outcome we

Can and do learn from history and in time be able to take DNA when the science is stronger to take  
From these living libraries through test tubes and meaningful searches that will connect people even

Closer than ancestry search sites this shows your long ago relative was a silver smith and how impressive
If the very searcher himself works in a similar field someday I’m sure they will have applications that

Will be virtual it will be made in the same village you can set in your easy chair and have the unfolding
Of how it felt the highs the lows the commutable variable of life’s most cherished meaning what is to

Exist to be such time and effort is expended in the thoughts of this will serve our posterity what a
Precious stream flows from solid rock just like life giving springs in ancient and modern day where life

Would have to be deferred but out of a pristine valley not only nature but human enterprise is giving the
Opportunity to devise many wonders traceable back through time we lose essentiality when we don’t

Build bridges to our rich past cares can over run us or as they say they can provide stepping stones it is
So easy to defeat someone who has lost the chain links that tells who he is and where he comes from

This erodes his knowing and sense of belonging take careful measures to shore up the present with the
Glories others fixed in the earth as guide posts that will not fail no matter what the storm is now go in

These sacred blessings that hold back fire and flood in them you will feel your stature enlarge nothing
Will be to big you already have been given the mastery of them it’s told in the stone

There's a girl that comments on your profile
You use jokes i thought were ours
It's like hearing the same pick-up line used

I was at an internet booth in an arcade
My expression was too raw for the shoppers
All i could think was "out went my heart's new fire
and left it cold"

So now i sit in a restaurant with hideous buffets
being comforted by the sounds of other people eating
I can barely face a bite
My plum sauce is the same colour as the carrot

It's always simple
Eventually
The reasons
Add up to one

The door leads
To the
Road
And to your
Tomorrow maybe

Your pained trail
Will fade
With a borrowed ride
Windows down

There is happy
In dog face wind
Leaving buried bones buried

That wind buffets
Slaps you
And you wake up
Towards your Not Yet

Black is the seed, and black, the fruit.

The blossom of light an affront:  wrought of nothing,
illuminating nothing, reverting to nothing, the blossom is—
Everything.
And a man contends, endures,
knowing, in his moment, that all that matters
matters not; that in the crowd
he is alone, that in the cosmos
he is lost, that in his writing
he is written. He is a coal, shot hot between voids.
Intense to evanescent,
each pass of a life has a spectrum.

Red is the womb.

Here, at riot’s eye, all bellows howl,
all fires bend to the harlot wind of becoming.
And the nub is a lump, and the lump accrues,
marbles dreamless, in liquor weightless, defining:
Liquid ruby, clinging vine, tallow flower in wine—
the little ogre, caught on a briar, kicks.
Comes a marvelous trophy, squirming and gory,
naked and pendent, blind and grotesque—
wound about the hollows and seams,
spat in a maelstrom:
one more shape in the window,
one more shadow exposed,
in the ****** triumph of light.

Out of the whirl, the faces gather round.
The boy has opened his eyes,
but the infant makes no sound.
Shapes loom to the sides, to the front and rear:
The faces grin, closing in…grow enormous fingers
to point, to pinch—to peel back the veil
and make his eyes scream.
In the dimness a nimbus, a prism, a pearl.
The faces part. The prism paints an image in the whirl.
The figure is a woman, whose seeming lips recite:
“Come sunder the night. Little ember, ignite.
I am mother, I am mother. I am life, I am light.”
But like oil on a rainy day,
the colors blend and wend their way
into the whirl, and there,
subdued, the voice is slurred,
the light, obscured,
and night
renewed.

Here on the lattice,
morning embroiders the tatters of night.
While tall beaded glasses
squeeze melody from melting ice,
the diced and slanting shafts of sun
checker the shadows with tangerine light.
On the sidewalks April’s children run,
but the eyes in the faces see
nephew on the august perch
of uncle’s wicker knee.
Graven in air, the faces shift,
their eyes a flickering stream.
Loosed features drift, expressions run
in subtle strokes of shade and sun.
The stream ***** him in:  swirls of abhorrence,
pools of disdain. Succumbing, drawn under,
he swallows his eyes. But the eyes in the faces remain
watching.

So scrawny it grieves, he eats too ****** much;
ever absent, he is always in the way.
Sickly, quiet, submissive, shy,
he hides when the faces quarrel,
cries when they crack his lie.
Craving love, he learns early to fast;
contriving a limp, he is weaned at last.
What hold wanders here—there are no bridges,
only walls. Every scribe is a master of cant.
The learned are jaundiced, the ignorant smug.
And those who would name his demons,
when maintaining “this will pass,”
fashion their webs of pap and straw.
This animal man is a thief.

Mother,
My world is a stranger.
My eyes are wounds on a mind that will not heal.
I saw more range, more warmth, more mother,
in the dance of sun on heather,
in a single kiss of dew.
Now your urn, blessed bowel, fouls the cedar
of father’s mantel, while he grows blacker,
blending bile with grief and gin.
Those lips that never tendered,
that heart I never knew—mother,
who were you?

Ubiquitous, the emerald **** lies splayed, exploding:
from her pores an eruption, on her belly a rank,
stinking moss. She bleeds life, vomits it,
into bud, into blade; sharing with a passing star
the silent scream of spring.
But here she dreams, perfumed,
a picture of grace, her verdure in groom.
Secluded, seduced, sedated. Churls put on her face
while zephyrs attend to the scent of her loom.
Time purls. The zephyrs flit sweetly,
chasing motes in fibers of light.
Playing tag in the sun, currents weave into one,
near a still-life of mourners and fatherless son.
The figures seem rooted, unreal.
As the gust musses trees, light leaps between leaves.
The greenery breathes. As if shaken,
the scene comes to life:  huddling in sync,
the faces incline, their eyes like slinking thieves.
The young man implodes. He reels.
The tension relents and he straightens. He wheels.
He limps off alone, wind hounding his heels,
the moment too eerie to bear. Sedans trickle by.
A raw widow grieves. But the faces continue to stare.
And the wind pirouettes, finds a wing,
has a plunge, brakes low on a rest,
makes a guarded descent. The breeze buffets markers,
losing vigor and bent, then slips thru the stones
toward the beckoning trees.
The draft riffles leaves, where its whisper is spent
and lost a sigh.

A stipend, a shack, a lessor in wait.
Such are the fruits of his father’s estate.
He breaks no bread, seeks no sweet;
strange dynamics govern his blood,
preclude his seed from the common fire.
Music of amity, refinement’s caress,
are brute concerns; abrasive, obscene.
In his quiet aching way he is whole.
Seasons burst and smolder, surrender and brood.
Their pageant revolves about him.
The years breathe, driving the crowd,
steeping its fevers in jasmine and sun.
Humanity brawls, exalting the flame.
But without him.
And he grays, sinking, certain his pain cannot,
could not possibly, be borne by another.
The silence condenses, sets.
At last even pain deserts him.
But near the brink he hears the nervous hum
of impermanence, feels the white pang of being’s wing
as day succumbs to the fist of night.
Dawn burns deeper, duller,
each beam towing a filament of dusk,
each round of the wheel a salvo
in the stunning of his eyes.

Now the years are mired in sameness.
The day wears on. Guests come unbidden:
Conscience, the despot. Sentiment, the leech.
Misgivings sojourn, transmigrate, return,
as Lonesomeness plumbs his moribund vein,
metastasizing.
Still he rooms with the wind, dies waking,
dreams sleepless. And it haunts him:
All this teeming while an instant, an irrelevancy,
a rube’s view of the pulse careening downstream,
working its rhyme into a billion like irrelevancies.
Here must be real, Now must be sound, and yet—
no sooner are the moments cast
than shape is shadow, and present, past.
Only the day wears on.
Blue is the evening begotten, the twilight of our lives.
Dark gathers, mooring its stain
where a dreamer weighs the deep,
his eyes in ruin, his color in vain.
Only ballast and mind, merely ego and rind,
growing blind as the day wears on.

Down this grim promenade,
a musty wind hustles gaunt silhouettes.
They are loth to be borne;
they are patiently measuring stones.
Eyes leap in their caverns, looks light and remain
on a smudge in the gloaming, a scarecrow with cane,
tapping out his tenure in a cold feeble rain.
And now the purple veins of near-night
thud sluggishly, almost grudgingly.
The black earth splits wetly, obscenely.
There:  something impatient stirs, exposed—
Limbless, sightless, the lamprey rises;
her breath unbearable, her length immeasurable,
her age—
impossible!
Preening *****, hypnotic.
In one vile kiss she is sieve and abyss.
Her bruised lips are splayed, her violet mouth, made,
and her churning, insatiable craw is
pitch.

Out of the whirl, the faces gather round.
Was he hurt? Can you hear me?
But the old man makes no sound.
Shapes loom to the sides, to the front and rear:
the faces glare, stealing air…grow enormous fingers
to ****, to pin—to pull down the veil
and make his eyes seize.
In the dimness a nimbus, a prism, a pearl.
The faces part. The prism paints an image in the whirl.
The figure is a woman, whose seeming lips recite:
“Come sunder the night. Waning fire, grow bright.
I am mother, I am mother. I am life, I am light.”
But like spectra from a dying sun,
the colors flare, are torn, are spun
into the whirl, and there,
subdued, the voice is hushed,
the blossom, crushed,
and night
renewed.

Thanks for reading Faces. NOW PLEASE CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS, ABOUT THE FIRST HUMAN TO CIRCUMNAVIGATE THE PLANET. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com

Look
over your shoulder, again.
Hear
whispers slice through the darkness
Frantic footfall
A muffled scream
It's
Behind you.

Waning willows
lean into the wind
ominous warnings
echo, around...
the back of your head
A pair of
Eyes
fixed there, too
Behind you.

A howling tempest
buffets your body
raincoat billowing
behind you
as you run.
Hear

nothing.
Silence swept
across the ashes
You stand
at a crossroad
Limitless lines
to follow...

But you
retain your route
through the darkness
through the cold

Torrents of trees
tower over you
Ingrained into the bark
a skull
Rustling leaves
whispering willows
Each,
        step,
               you,
                     turn to look.
And tremble.
It's behind you

Sprinting through sickle
You stumble and fall
into a clearing
Pathways all around
like arteries

But you
don't see them
can't, or won't
Keep
       limping
                   forward

A dark silhouette
Blocks the path
Look
over your shoulder
for another way
Too late
Shrouded in night,
the shadows crawl
towards you
Hear...

footsteps
Behind you.