A black cat with a grin and
A scythe, slashing thru
Space-time with a giggle

Invulnerable & finite. Untouchable rabbit
Stretches it's torso many meters out
Evading a cannonball.
Time to go to work; no doors here!
Rabbit shaped hole in the wall
Ever never fear!

4 Thirty minutes on a Sat. morning network 
Talking animals accordion back
From falling crate crushes
Index fingers stretch their cheeks
Ha ha ha ha!
& a wagging red tongue, almost all week.

Piano dangling by a thread
Shrinking Shadow under your feet
It's right above your head!
You step aside just in time -
An anvil smashes you instead.

Too hard to explain to a real-lifer:
This has no point!

Inhale. Hold. Submerge.
This is all the grandest illusion
that’s one disappointment away from shattering.
Take a deep breath
feel the pain in your chest.

Every night
I drown in a wine glass
Dive off the ledge with such fever and ferocity,
The splash of a cannonball--
No high marks from the judges.

When you look at me,
I know now it’s irreverent.
We are a lie.
In the deep end, where I can’t touch anymore.

Time to wash away this sin
Hurt doesn't go,
It just lingers
Like our ghosts, lurking behind closed doors.
I can’t be rid of you
Because I don’t want to be.
Go on,
Haunt me until the end.

But I know
You cannot swim
so for now,
I'll sink further and further
into wine so dark
I disappear.

Cannonball!!!*
Diving from the tattered rope
into the writer's pool,
drenching any nearby poets
with a tsunami of images.
Remembering the sheer joy
of finding such a swimming hole,
and grabbing the chance
again and again
to drop fearlessly
into soul's center.
Today,
a toe tests gingerly
familiar water,
as hands open
the poet's chest
with cold-blooded intent
and wrap themselves
gently about
a muse's heart
and
begin...
to squeeze...
to pulse...
in time...

Spirit, please, in time.

somewhere along the way i lost
my caution
i lost my panic
i lost my naiveness

i stopped wearing my seatbelt and saying please
i stopped deleting messages and looking twice before crossing the road
i stopped waiting for you to tell me youre sorry because i knew you wouldnt mean it and i knew i wouldnt believe it

i used to put my toes in the water then slowly wade in
but now everythings a cannonball and this pool of
hot frustrated tears and exasperated sweat is overflowing onto the cement and evaporating into the purple clouds faster than my heart when its jumping out of my throat when i slip out of my window under the blanket of stars
stepping over twigs and stealing
kisses in the pines

somewhere along the way i stopped believing in god and started to create my own purpose and found salvation under the suns rays
somewhere along the way i lost my walls and turned my hallow
bones into my home

i have just come home from a long walk. the time is around 6pm
on an august sunday in new york city
i am listening to a record by cannonball adderley as the early evening sunshine streams
through my windows. i prefer vinyl to digital music. my apartment on 86th street is small but clean. there is fried chicken and fresh strawberries in the refrigerator but i am not hungry right now. i have 2 cats that are both 5 years old. they are well fed and happy. later tonight i will fall asleep in my big beautiful bed and dream of you and about how God works in such wondrous ways.

Jim Nabors always said "Shazam", that was his catchphrase.
Because of his contribution to television, he deserves praise.
It was hard for him to watch the opening credits of Gomer Pyle because many of those Marines died in Vietnam.
We always know that he's on Gomer Pyle or the Andy Griffith Show when we hear him say "Shazam".
We also remember him yelling "Citizen's Arrest".
All of his fans are sad and they're also depressed.
He also starred in some movies, two of which were Cannonball Run 2 and Stroker Ace.
His friends, fans and family have to say goodbye, his death is hard for them to face.

St Simons Island, Georgia USA
East Beach, 12/4/2011

"Your focus determines your reality." —Qui-Gon Jinn


Witnessing an
amazing low-tide
phenomenon,
as if a walkway to
a parallel world
has suddenly appeared,
extending one-half mile
from East Beach
out to sea

People are slowly
gathering, walking, stopping,
stooping, staring in silence,
speaking softly—
I'm as eager
as Simon Peter
to join them, yet
somewhat afraid of
walking where
there has been
only seawater
minutes before—
Chattering dolphins
beckoning in the distance
instill confidence

So I join them,
stepping from the
beach onto the
other-worldly terrain,
first 42 steps confirming
we are not alone!
Surrounded by
a menagerie of
sand *****, clams,
beach flea amphipods,
sea roach isopods,
ghost, hermit, and
fiddler *****, even
cannonball jellyfish—
shades of the
Mos Eisley Cantina
on Tatooine
in miniature

But beware of
semidiurnal
tidal cycles—
Twice a day
at high tide
the sea, like an
unstable vortex
of a Chappa'ai,
consumes the
phenomenon,
even the beach itself
to the edge of
the dune


"The mystery of life isn't a problem to solve, but a reality to experience." —Frank Herbert

"So long and thanks for all the fish!" —Farewell message from exiting dolphins, translated by Douglas Adams



Mark Toney ©️ 2023

Theres no looking back

sometimes the past just stays gone

If I could, I'd never say your name

        Unwind me of time

I still see your face clear

Overgrown, and tangled up with weeds

       Like a prisoner alone

I just mark the days long

    Drowning in bioluminosity

Oh, darling you, take my breath away

     A heart tied with knots

I lost sight of the coast long ago

Thats okay, I belong on the sea

       Take all you can, I ain't got no rope though

only handmade cannonballs and curiosity

Darling, you take my breath away

I am disaster
With killing cuts in my face
For the drool when it rolls down
From a face held in place with staples and tension cables

My laugh lines are chuckles at best
Like a pity laugh at a joke that went one step too far
A mouth that settles down, literally
And strains to bend upward

Its so ******* heavy and I cant bare it
Pulling open my ribs to operate I can see this dark heart
Crusting over, hardening over with hate
Being petrified by all the things I distrust from happiness

Im pulling off those bits and pieces too necrotic to save
It hurts but it has to be done
Theres no other way to do it

Unmonitored positivism will dull my perception
While absorbed in this placebo state
I know that this heart will turn to stone
And buried beneath scar tissue, Ill change
Thats why a smile is the worst vitamin

The muscles used to form a cartoonish frown
Are not real, you have to try real hard to make that ****
But when your face is aimed downward
When your eyes are built for crying
And filling in the cracks with gold only makes your wounds visible

The weight of a smile is
A clown mask, over flesh burned from the inside out
Feeling like youre digesting a cannonball every hour of the day
Wanting to grab someone and hold them because the floor is falling out from under you
Feeling the size of your own thoughts crushing down on lungs too asthmatic to breath
Being acutely aware of every second of the day
The dying sun inside your chest feeling like it's going super nova
Being connected to a hundred different points, and seeing no change in distance
Slaying a sentence before it leaves your mind because you think no one cares
Being okay for everyone else because you cant be for yourself anymore

**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park,
this is an ode to you.

**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park
ambles behind
the kids sprawling out of the entrance
like baby spiders spilling
out of the crushed mother’s abdomen.

**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Waterpark
flip-flops his way to the lazy river,
shies his black Harley Davidson tanktop
to reveal his sunburnt
abdomious belly
flopping over his camo swim trunks.

He shakes off his flip-flops
and awkwardly wades in,
his hulking mass shifting with
each foot and tree trunk
of a leg smashing into
the shallow water,
sending shockwaves towards
screaming toddlers
in his wake.

Finding a vacant tube,
he turns his body around
and heaves himself
into the neon green donut
with considerable
and farcical
difficulty.

Mother at the pavilion
opens an eye from the lawn chair
and chuckles to herself,
applying another layer of sunscreen
over ruddy cancer-sensitive skin.

Sporting oblong racecar sunglasses
atop flushed puffy cheeks,
**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Waterpark
basks in the baking mid-summer sun
and the cool ****-ridden waters
he sinks his hands and feet into.

What is on his mind?
I imagine it is as close
to nothing
as he aims to get,

free from responsibility
like a wiry youth
he knew
from long ago.

The piercing screams of laughter
from ambulant children
splashing about him
are fruitless
in penetrating
his enclave.

He coasts about this way
for an eternity,
his red leather hide
burning in the hot sun
enwreathing his glasses.

Meanwhile,
mother reads
under the cool shade
of the pavilion,

the kids tumble down
slides and splash gleefully,
endlessly,

and life lingers on a moment
for a necessary
sojourn.

**** Middle-Aged Dad
awakens from his sun-cooked daze,
approaches the exit
and prepares himself
for his departure.

Waddling left and right,
he flops starboard
splashing magnificently
like a cannonball rolling off the deck
into the ocean.

His sunglasses leave him in the ruckus,
he gropes blindly
with chlorine-infested eyes,
til he grasps the visage
and stands up in the water.

His great body surges
from the waters,
fading tattoos gleam
along with a bald spot
in the sunlight.

He ambles through the waters—
water spilling out of rolls of fat
undulating in the motion—
and sensuously runs a baseball glove of a hand
through thinning hair.

His trunks bunch up around
firm, beefy buttocks
and a tired old *****,
thick tree trunk thighs,
ending its constriction just above
the wrinkled knot
of kneecaps.

Mother snapshots a photo
of the visage,
his fruits spilling about him
in perpetual glee,
his stolid look of authority,
wisdom, drive,
and endearment.

Years later,
the ambulant youths
on the cusp of adulthood

leaf through old photo albums
suddenly eyeing the Father piously
in a newfound awe,

aware of his gargantuan countenance
that shielded their efflorescence.

He was their sun,
he was their shade,
and their sky—

for he knew
when to plant,
and when to water,
and when to wait.

Running a thumb over
the diaphanous visage
exemplifying
an analog adolescence,

they jeer each other
over the Father,
secretly harboring
an amassing reverence
for the great figure,

the **** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park.

Ever felt like you had the one
for you, and
you just let her duck out?

See, I got this girl.

See, I had this girl.

See, this girl really ****** me,
see?

This girl was an island girl.

This girl ****** in torrents.
Argued in cannonball barrages.
And hugged like a linebacker.

Those island girls are thick:
all thighs,
all ***,
all fire
like the volcanoes we all come from
and forget to remember.

But they remember.

And they live it.

See, this island girl, was a bigger, thicker one,
and I could throw her around any way I wanted.

And she liked it,
and I liked it,
and,
I'm telling you,
this island girl could take an ***-canning whooping
like nobody.

I mean, I'd make sure her ****** became
a bruised rose
and she felt it.

But,to talk about love,
the *** was a good thing,
but she could argue,
and I think I like that
more than I'm beginning to realize.  

Just like a short poem on a ***** day.

Come one,

come all

and

join me

for a night of

unadulterated madness.
--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------
“I see a dreadful fright in your future.”

–Madame Tarot
-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------
Poor, dizzy fools.

Watch how they

go round and round

until their eyes pop

from their sockets,

until they *****

pink streaks of cotton candy

onto the sweet

horses with golden hooves

and blazing eyes.

–Cursed Carousel
--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------
My lovely Lady Tightrope

I do believe that skirt is

far too short and

that leotard far too snug.



When you said you wished

to put on a show for us,

I did not realize this is

what you had implied.

–Getting Freaky
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
They say these grounds are haunted

by little girls in feathered bonnets

and little boys in blue trousers.


And, if you listen carefully,

mingled in with the pervasive

notes of carnival music

are the morbid wails of these children–

children whose balloons have burst,

and whose ice cream cones have been dropped.
--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------
“But Mr. Clown, mama says I’m not supposed to take candy from strangers.”
-----------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------
How ironic that the ringmaster

is missing his own ring finger.

–She purred like a kitty but knew how to pounce
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
“Why, what terribly big teeth you have.”

“The better to eat you with, my dear.”
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
I present to you

The Great Dr. Whim.



Watch how he saws his

assistant in half.



Relish in the piercing

serenade of her screams,

and how they ricochet off the

tapestried walls.



Grin wildly as her blood–

thick with candy floss

and other disgustingly sweet

delicacies–

drips down into the

cracks of the floorboards,

slowly inching its way

towards the audience.

–Magician’s Corner
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
See there?


Hidden among the

silhouette of the trees

is a man with

blistered lips and

charred teeth.


If you look carefully,

from a distance,

you will notice

a gray fog curling above the

pines–

it is the smoke billowing from his

nostrils,

threatening to wrap

its angry hands

around any guest

who dare venture too far

from the carnival grounds.

–Fire Eater
-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------
More often than not

his daggers do not hit the target,

but instead find themselves

embedded in

the backs of our

lovely attendees.

–Knife Thrower
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------
And to end the evening,

we have something spectacular

in store for you–

our human cannonball.


He is to fly,

but to never come down,

cut from his tether

to this earth

like a balloon that has been cut

from its string.


And at the most climactic moment

of his soaring escapade,

his flesh is to ignite,

leaving for his viewers

something resembling a firework show,

as a mesh of burning cartilage and

scorched bone set the night

sky ablaze with horror.
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------
Oh?


You say you are afraid?


But I am simply fulfilling

the promise I made to you

upon your initial arrival–

it was madness I promised,

and it is madness you have received.

The ceiling of the grand ballroom
Opens as if it were taking in a deep breath.
All of the golden oil painted negative space
And striped Moorish arches allow the chandelier to shine
Blood red.

The pirates hung from the ceiling,
Each with his wrists bound to his ankles,
Festooned in the shape of a teardrop
Or a bell or a drop of blood.
The Jolly Roger slowly turns
Without even a slight breeze or breath,
Dangling from a single chord of rope.

How jolly Roger used to be before the navy came,
Smiling at the sinking enemy ships set on fire by black powder.
Perhaps he still smiles, even through the darkness,
Even through the gaping, gasping
Cannonball holes you can almost hear moan
On the side of his ship far below the surface of the sea,
And hangs high and proud on his ship’s tallest mast.

Perhaps the pirates hang high too, robust and glorious
Like their billowing flag, shameless and naked
With nothing to hide and everything to be proud of, a trophy
Not for a queen and her navy
But for themselves and the successes of their wanderlust.

So you come from this place
and you're a person I've never met
so how come I can't get your face out of my head -

it lingers like a river of perfume
aromatic and brilliant and impossible to catch -

I can see fragments of moments
in a life blissfully unconscious of anyone
someone
myself
the wind winding through your hair
a coffee-cup you clutched one Monday
all there in blocks of colour -

a smile
static
radiant
something I've seen
but not seen -

I've come to accept this as normal
that gathering a stack of names that glitter like crystals
is perfectly fine
as long as nothing is done
as long as they stay names
as long as no ingredients are sprinkled in
because then people will talk
say freak or creep
and shriek at me -

you only give a hoot about looks
but it's just not true -

but maybe it's best
to avoid a blast of embarrassment
as a cannonball to the chest -

these days compliments are met by a frown
strangers stay strangers -

what is it about making friends that is so tricky
who cares if you’re blonde or brunette
foreign or not
make videos or sing or knit jumpers for fun
what’s wrong with a hello springing up now and then
if a personality shimmers
exudes warmth through a screen -

so no
I don’t know you
may never know you
but forgive me one day if I send a hi there
it’s platonic
it’s short
I hope it’s alright

There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase,
Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons
Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon.

Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy.
While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing.
The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries.
A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight.

Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling,
Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying,
Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men
The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens.

If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores.
Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns.
How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock.
Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep  of each lot.

Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake
In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes.
Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes.
Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials.

Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began
Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.

Some girls have flowers in their hair.
Some have forests.
Some girls keep their head under water their whole life
Refusing to face the sky,
Closing the curtains, and telling the sun they are not interested.
Not today.
Some girls have heart beats like morse code.
But you won't get the message unless you're close enough.
Some girls wish on stars that only stare back,
Some stare at the blinding moon until it's beams shoot out their fingertips
Brighter than city lights.
Some girls have mouths full of gunpowder.
Their "i love you"s will leave you breathless, wondering whether you enlisted or were drafted into this war.
Some girls have eyes like pesky fireflies you will try to put in a jar for when it gets cold.
They will fly too far out of your reach.
Some girls have eyes like swimming pools, and you will bravely cannonball into their depths.
Some girls have flowers in their hair.
Some have forests.
You have wondered too far past the garden's gate.

Dastardly shovel
Mine blister inaugurator
Hand twisting back blazing wretch

Oh, the oasis pool
Cool; are you crystal clean, heaven seem
To this pyramid bottom letch?

Dean swims jolly fat
Pharaoh tan lazy landlubber ham lover
Fat ****** life quite a catch

Shovel I should launch you
Waterwards rust absurd curb lust
To watch you bust in a watery death

Maybe not before a cannonball
Six-foot tall water wall a lot of gall
You got kid, did you learn to save your breath?

Hide away from this blue collar day
Backbreak reality returns, furnace fanfare
Sailor sweat jumping ship not a hand left

From a distance designed for instant intimacy you begged me
to satisfy your earthbound,
dirt-grounded fallen-star needs with hands carved from the Moon.
Writhing between wildflowers and weeds
I danced my discretion on the definition of ecstasy;
pleasing your pleas with partial gravities—
like Atlas with sweating palms.
And I felt compelled to apologize as habit has trained me to
for loving you less like great lovers do, and more like
a high school “C” student who can’t remember the answers to the test.
But you kissed me mute.
We are daunted by the constant reminder—
from history books,  reality television shows and A.M. radios—
that, today, fame is a cannonball’s shot away
and insanity is as volatile as gunpowder.
But you,
You told me that beneath a sky bombarded by the broadcasts of bad news,
my skin made you convinced that the rest of the world were skeletons.
So under the thunder and crack of artillery facts,
for a moment we dawned the ignorant crowns of amnesia and
allowed ourselves to forget, as you let
your fingertips orbit the cores of my crater-faced palms.

We’ve both
(at the same time but never together)
mourned empty shells filling themselves with liquor and beer
at mid-morning barstools.

When we talk, we don’t need words to fill the space between smiles.
You’ve perfected the art of the gently bitten bottom lip,
while all I’ve got to offer is this goofy grin—
flashing a mouth full of teeth like typewriter keys,
craving to spell out in some brand new word,  
that I’ve never used and that you’ve never heard,
how wonderful you look today.

I bet you’ve left stronger men than me kissing sparks out of wall sockets;
craving something that shocks like your electricity,
but I’m just happy that your static touch has got my hair standing on end.
And even though I’ve never known the face of God,
You’ve given me belief in rebirth.
You make me feel funny and young:
Like Saturday morning cartoons.
Like midnight skinny dipping
And *** with socks on.

The truth is, you make me want to fall in love like it’s 1945.
I’ve been shipwrecked on war torn foreign banks.
Lullabied to sleep by the ratta-tat-tat of
machine gun harmonies and
the horseshoed hoof beats of in-sync cavalries,
and your portrait warming the breast pocket
of my jacket is the only thing reminding me
that there’s real music in a place called home.
And even though I’ve never been the gentleman
that the storybooks promised
when you were young,
someday I’ll wear a three-piece suit and learn the piano for you.

After three years digging in dirt,
weaving roots and planting seeds
in the most unnoticeable lingering looks.
thing I’ve learned it’s that gardeners
make the best lovers,
and together we’ve grown a grove out of un-regrettable mistakes,
midnight stairwells and
out-of-state license plates.
There are things about myself that were nameless until you
embroidered them a set of initials on the insides of my eyelids.
Now my rapid eye dreams read about the best parts of me –
and the long nights, they don’t idle so much
when I have something to be proud of.

Raw wood creaking
beneath leaden feet
For today is the day
I know who I'm to meet

Pacing up steps
of solid deja vu
My heavy head bobbing
it's way back to you

You still linger here
while I'm trying to sleep
and inside my slumbers
you stoically creep

You're triggered so fast,
yet reach me so slow
Your image is the
only weapon I know

Reeling from the impact;
fragile bones amiss
Forever lying shredded
in your destructive bliss

Death scroll on the stone brick wall;
"Died in battle, year eighteen oh six".
'On first name terms with a cannonball'.
The mind said lies the eyes played tricks.

Must be the tiredness. Where am I?
Lady Luck is a bad dealer. Counting sheep.
Can't shuffle and I keep rolling snake eyes
In this cruel game. I need some sleep.

Time for your close up, get on stage,
Curtains up, intermission, curtain call.
Turning mustard yellow with old age,
The rules were written on the death scroll.

Script me a play with no direction at all.
Sinning sleep, work is a virtue we all hate.
'On first name terms with a cannonball'.
Kiss for a cross, Lady Luck named Fate.

When I was born, my parents loved me
They raised to be brave and happy
They taught me how to smile and to laugh
They showed me how to build a castle from just scrap
They told me all the reasons to enjoy this life
And to this day… they still don’t know the reasons why I own a knife
And I’m afraid to show them that their little grown-up princess
Holds beneath her body-castle, just a burned-down body-ruins
There’s no way explaining how I got to this
I remember flying as an angel, when suddenly I was drowning into the abyss
From the daughter that they know, there is nothing left
They don’t understand what I hold buried in my chest
And how would they, they don’t know a thing
I never told them why I started hating spring
They can’t hear the wish I make to my birthday candle
And they are blind to my invisible battle
I can’t tell them I’m depressed
And I don’t tell them that for no reason I feel constantly stressed
They can’t understand my fear and need to be alone
I hide how much I want to cut me to the bone
How do I explain why the Devil feels more reasonable than all
And that I don’t want to fly, I want to be hit by a cannonball
I can’t show anyone the mess that I become
When no one knows what I hide from

I made this image of myself
That I’m a happy innocent elf
And no one should uncover
What cannot be recovered
That deep inside
Where nothing can be eyed
Lies a broken figure of a girl
That’s mommy and daddy’s little perfect pearl

Step right up just come inside
We've got food, attractions and rickety rides
It's only ten cents to lose your mind
It's the carnival-circus of Cedric and Clyde

The magic man cuts the conjoined twins in half with giant shears
Then makes them instantly disappear
Then shows you your card as he chugs a beer
"Who's next?" "How about you my dear?"

Something isn't quite right with this side show
You sense there's something going on but you don't know
You need to get out of here but you still won't go

The sword sallower has something to say
But can't for hes devouring a flame
He tells the audience to try and imitate
He has them **** themselves then goes on his way

The snake charmer plays his tune
Down at the midway people lose
They throw the ***** but the bottle are glued
And the bearded lady and amazon women have decided to get ****

Something isn't quite right with this side show
You sense there's something going on but you don't know
You need to get out of here but you still won't go

The fortune teller looks into her crystal ball
And predicts society's failure and fall
And insists that you put up a wall
She gives you the number of a contractor to call

The muscle man and ****** are doing lines
As the lion tamer ***** on lemon rinds
You ask if everything's fine
They answer you in some sort of coded rhyme

Something isn't quite right with this side show
You sense there's something going on but you don't know
You need to get out of here but you still won't go

The clowns ****** each other for a laugh
They use exploding pies and poison gas
You see the fully loaded clown car crash
And they all lay lifeless and gashed

The merry-go-round is going mach five
The freaks and weirdos come out to say hi
The geek takes you on the Ferris wheel and get you high
And shows you the spot where they put those who have died

Something isn't quite right with this side show
You sense there's something going on but you don't know
You need to get out of here but you still won't go

The fun house mirrors are all cracked
Except for the one that makes you look fat
The roller coaster has run off the track
Those who went on can never come back

The contortionist talks backwards
The acrobats are up in the rafters
One is pregnant and plans on seeing the back alley abortionist after
She just needs to knock and give him the password

Something isn't quite right with this side show
You sense there's something going on but you don't know
You need to get out of here but you still won't go

The rabid animals come out from the petting zoo and under the tent
The elephants tear up in lament
The tigers eat the trainer and smile with content
And the escape artists swims with shoes of cement

The ringmaster walks out with his top hat and cane
And says "thank you all for coming, we'll return again"
With his handle bar mustache, hes looks absolutely insane
The whistle blows and they all board the train

Something isn't quite right with this side show
You sense there's something going on but you don't know
You need to get out of here but you still won't go

The jugglers and unicycle bears all have gone
The illusionists and tight rope walkers pass on
As have the knife thrower and human cannonball
The haunted house comes down, the brass band plays a good bye song

So there you are surrounded by dead bodies and horse ****
Stale popcorn and some kind of hit list
Of souls and cities they plan to visit
It's the Cedric and Clyde Carnival-Circus

All proceeds go to Mr. Jacques

Another day playing chicken
in my head on the tracks
laid out strategically rich
through fog .. woods and city.
I follow nothing but the tracks
today, a few times hitching pretty,
sitting in an open car to smoke
and watch the land and water flash by,
now sunny, then rainy ..
I stay south in the summer climes.
A fight with a Wabash Cannonball
wore me out enough to make me smile,
hands on hips, I ran a mile to get hit
but the train lost again.
Having fun in my head, wanting
to be dead tired, and I am.

It was starting to snow as I entered Pere Lachaise cemetery. The few that had ventured in, were streaming out, as daylight faded, fast giving way to twilight, on this 1st of February night. I had 30 minutes of daylight left, to take the shots that I’d planned for all year.

I knew where I was going, having visited the cemetery in the summer, to scout locations for this moment. I walked up l’Avenue Principale towards Le Monument aux Morts and took the first right on l’Avenue des Puits. My pace quickened, not wanting to waste a single second, of the dying light.

I crossed path with the the last stragglers, most likely having paid homage to Chopin or Morrison. I was entering the oldest and most forested area of the cemetery. It sent a chill up my spine, not because of the cold February air, but because of the surreality of what was in front of me, a cobble stone path, lined with old trees, surrounded by an ocean of tombs, fading into the white and gray of a snowy afternoon.

I arrived at my location, the tomb of Heloise and Abelard. I set down my tripod and camera bag. I stopped to take it in. It was eerily beautiful, the snow slowly falling, lightly covering the tomb, the flowers, the love letters, laying around the plinth.

I was surprised at the number of single roses and love letters that were strewn in the yard, between the wrought iron fence, and the tomb. Even during the dead of winter, young women pilgrimaged to the tomb, leaving letters and prayers, hoping their love will last forever, in life and in death. Sadness overwhelmed me, as I felt the longing and pain of their and my,  unrequited loves.

I pulled out my camera, turned it on, double checking the battery indicator and exposure. I put the viewfinder to my eye, slowly pressed the shutter till I heard a beep, as the auto focus sharpened the view and my world became crystal clear. I zoomed in and out, composing my shot. I was too close for my lens. I picked up my tripod, turned around, and surveyed my work area.

I moved up the path, three tombs over, next to an old wide trunked chestnut tree, set my tripod and bag down, and recomposed my shot. The snowfall had intensified, to a heavy flurry. The snowflakes were thicker, fluffier, slowly drifting down like dandelion seeds. I was swimming in an ocean of white magical specks. Everything around me was dusted in ******, pure white powder.

I unfolded my tripod, mounted the camera to the head, and verified it was securely attached. I zoomed in and out till I composed my shot, stepping down the aperture and up the speed, till I achieved the dark, moody, feel I wanted. I pressed the shutter and captured the shot.

I was looking through the viewfinder when a woman stepped into my shot. For a split second, I was angry, then confused, then intrigued. I looked up, stepped back from my camera, to see and understand what was unfolding before me.

She was wearing a full-length white Lynx fur coat and cap, black leather gloves and boots. She was stunning, breathtaking. Was I hallucinating? Was she real? She hadn’t seen me, as I was behind her, catty corner, partially hidden by the chestnut tree.


She was holding something. I couldn’t quite see. I looked through the viewfinder, zoomed in on her. She held a single long stemmed blue rose in her left hand.  Instinctively, I pressed the shutter, captured the shot, the photo, the image, of this unworldly scene.

It was late, almost dark. What was she doing here? Was she praying, why, to whom, Heloise, Abelard, or both? She moved up to and placed her right hand on the protective wrought iron fence. I took a shot, then another. Then with her left hand, she gently threw the blue rose, time slowed, I pressed the shutter, never letting go, as the flower arched in the air and landed perfectly, on the plinth, at Heloise's side.

I released the shutter, still looking through the viewfinder. She placed her left hand on the wrought iron fence, bowed her head, just stood there, in the darkness, in the snowfall.

She pulled her right hand away from the wrought iron fence and wiped her eyes. Was she crying?

She slowly turned around. I pressed the shutter, held it down, for a continuous shot. I saw her face, her raven black hair, her incandescent blue eyes. Like a cannonball hitting me in the chest, I realized and recognized who she was. It was her, the woman from the metro.

She looked up, turned her head, and looked directly at me. I zoomed in, framed her face, continuously pressing the shutter. Her face expressionless, her eyes aglow. Had she seen me? I don’t know. She took a step, turned her head, and walked back up the cobble stone path, and faded into the night, into the falling snow.

i haven't wrote to you in awhile. actually I don't think you ever wrote me back or maybe you did and i never got it. maybe that guy i saw getting coffee the other day somehow got his hands on it. we haven't talked to each other in awhile either so let me clue you in really quick. i just started doing this thing by myself where i see people on the street and i come up with stories about them. this guy was named Norman. Norman had problems internally that he never really talked about but when things went bad Norman would flirt with his coworkers even though he knew he had someone at home to come to. Norman would only do it every blue moon and the second he did he instantly thought to himself that this was worst idea ever so he would sweep it under the table and pretend it didn't happen. one day Normans wife found out and things hit the fan. instead of trying to fix it Norman went and messed even more things up. he started drinking. he spent all his money. he said every bad thing about the person he loved with all his heart. Norman ****** up and ****** up even more. Norman didn't know what to do. Norman couldn't sleep. the only thing he could do was get coffee at his wife's favorite coffee shop when no one else was around. he couldn't go out on dates. he couldn't stop comparing everyone to her. he couldn't stop crying. Norman kept saying sorry and he still saying sorry. actually I'm not even entirely sure Norman got your letter because i never did. you see,  I lied no one was there when i got coffee. the place was empty. i got your favorite coffee though. i really hope you write me back. hell i hope I send this to you. i think Normans getting better. not really. I'm not entirely sure. i just think he's starting to realize that not a lot things matter since his wife isn't around anymore. he wants to cannonball into her life like she did his but I'm not sure that'll work. Norman is very unhappy but he's trying. he's working at least. he's not really sleeping as much anymore but that's okay because that gives him more time to work. maybe he should relax though. i don't know the guy isn't even real.
love, N

You are not visiting me
You are staring at murky terrain
Which underneath holds a hallow husk
Turn around in your five inch heels
Make your way back home
If you yearn for my presence
Look into the infinite whirlpool
Of indigos sapphires and celeste
Wave to a mass of white wisps
Remember that I’m always with you

I’m the squeak from your shoe on a rainy day
To instill everlasting confidence
I’m the splash from your cannonball in hot July
To inspire extraordinary inner youth
I’m the generous breeze that blows the same night
To remind you of compassion
I’m your one piece of hair that stays out of place
To show you that imperfection is angelic
I’m the excess of softness in your cotton jacket
To comfort you in dour times

Remember that I will always be your anchor
I will be the reason your Facebook goes blank
When there’s still schoolwork to be done
I will be the flat tire on your pink mini
During that dismal drunken night
I will be the espresso between
Those extensive college hours
I will be that dazzling glimmer
On the ring that he picks out
I will be the tear in your honey-cinnamon eyes
When you say your vows
I will be the one to whisper “grow”
In your unborn child’s ear

So don’t ever go back to that wretched place
You are not visiting me, you never will
From this moment, until
The end of your convivial journey,
I will be visiting you