in the midst of an emerald slumbering forest
laced with pungent scents of jaded wood
a burgundy blushed tail
of a chestnut hued fox
scurries as copper sunbeams part the day

a hospital lumes starkly nearby
its aura exudes hints of melancholy
commingled with faint impressions
of halcyon futures
not yet lived

at neighboring dartmouth
a student sprinting to class
drops his crimson colored backpack
the prospect of cancer
far from his budding consciousness

my beloved sits patiently
pondering pensively
his last chemo treatment
elusion of death
not far from his mind

i feign to fend off future catastrophes
watching letters scramble across my screen
earnestly writing
in a desperate attempt
to be with him forevermore

an aquamarine hummingbird drenched in tranquility
senses the inverse
its amber tipped wings stand seemingly stationary
while it steals a quick glance through the window
curious at chemical infusions meant to heal

my beloved walks out
of the austere building
with rose colored glasses i feel
that we’ll whirl on the tips of gilded stardust
dancing with another chance to fly


©2016janetaylor

Droop, droop no more, or hang the head,
Ye roses almost withered;
Now strength and newer purple get,
Each here declining violet.
O primroses! let this day be
A resurrection unto ye;
And to all flowers ally’d in blood,
Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood:
For health on Julia’s cheek hath shed
Claret and cream commingled;
And those her lips do now appear
As beams of coral, but more clear.

Nota: his soil is man's intelligence.
That's better. That's worth crossing seas to find.
Crispin in one laconic phrase laid bare
His cloudy drift and planned a colony.
Exit the mental moonlight, exit lex,
Rex and principium, exit the whole
Shebang. Exeunt omnes. Here was prose
More exquisite than any tumbling verse:
A still new continent in which to dwell.
What was the purpose of his pilgrimage,
Whatever shape it took in Crispin's mind,
If not, when all is said, to drive away
The shadow of his fellows from the skies,
And, from their stale intelligence released,
To make a new intelligence prevail?
Hence the reverberations in the words
Of his first central hymns, the celebrants
Of rankest trivia, tests of the strength
Of his aesthetic, his philosophy,
The more invidious, the more desired.
The florist asking aid from cabbages,
The rich man going bare, the paladin
Afraid, the blind man as astronomer,
The appointed power unwielded from disdain.
His western voyage ended and began.
The torment of fastidious thought grew slack,
Another, still more bellicose, came on.
He, therefore, wrote his prolegomena,
And, being full of the caprice, inscribed
Commingled souvenirs and prophecies.
He made a singular collation. Thus:
The natives of the rain are rainy men.
Although they paint effulgent, azure lakes,
And April hillsides wooded white and pink,
Their azure has a cloudy edge, their white
And pink, the water bright that dogwood bears.
And in their music showering sounds intone.
On what strange froth does the gross Indian dote,
What Eden sapling gum, what honeyed gore,
What pulpy dram distilled of innocence,
That streaking gold should speak in him
Or bask within his images and words?
If these rude instances impeach themselves
By force of rudeness, let the principle
Be plain. For application Crispin strove,
Abhorring Turk as Esquimau, the lute
As the marimba, the magnolia as rose.

Upon these premises propounding, he
Projected a colony that should extend
To the dusk of a whistling south below the south.
A comprehensive island hemisphere.
The man in Georgia waking among pines
Should be pine-spokesman. The responsive man,
Planting his pristine cores in Florida,
Should ***** thereof, not on the psaltery,
But on the banjo's categorical gut,
Tuck tuck, while the flamingos flapped his bays.
Sepulchral senors, bibbing pale mescal,
Oblivious to the Aztec almanacs,
Should make the intricate Sierra scan.
And dark Brazilians in their cafes,
Musing immaculate, pampean dits,
Should scrawl a vigilant anthology,
To be their latest, lucent paramour.
These are the broadest instances. Crispin,
Progenitor of such extensive scope,
Was not indifferent to smart detail.
The melon should have apposite ritual,
Performed in verd apparel, and the peach,
When its black branches came to bud, belle day,
Should have an incantation. And again,
When piled on salvers its aroma steeped
The summer, it should have a sacrament
And celebration. Shrewd novitiates
Should be the clerks of our experience.

These bland excursions into time to come,
Related in romance to backward flights,
However prodigal, however proud,
Contained in their afflatus the reproach
That first drove Crispin to his wandering.
He could not be content with counterfeit,
With masquerade of thought, with hapless words
That must belie the racking masquerade,
With fictive flourishes that preordained
His passion's permit, hang of coat, degree
Of buttons, measure of his salt. Such trash
Might help the blind, not him, serenely sly.
It irked beyond his patience. Hence it was,
Preferring text to gloss, he humbly served
Grotesque apprenticeship to chance event,
A clown, perhaps, but an aspiring clown.
There is a monotonous babbling in our dreams
That makes them our dependent heirs, the heirs
Of dreamers buried in our sleep, and not
The oncoming fantasies of better birth.
The apprentice knew these dreamers. If he dreamed
Their dreams, he did it in a gingerly way.
All dreams are vexing. Let them be expunged.
But let the rabbit run, the **** declaim.

Trinket pasticcio, flaunting skyey sheets,
With Crispin as the tiptoe cozener?
No, no: veracious page on page, exact.

Thank Heaven! the crisis—
  The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
  Is over at last—
And the fever called “Living”
  Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know,
  I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
  As I lie at full length—
But no matter!—I feel
  I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
  Now in my bed,
That any beholder
  Might fancy me dead—
Might start at beholding me
  Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
  The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
  With that horrible throbbing
At heart:—ah, that horrible,
  Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea—
  The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever
  That maddened my brain—
With the fever called “Living”
  That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
  That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible
  Torture of thirst,
For the naphthaline river
  Of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
  That quenches all thirst:—

Of a water that flows,
  With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
  Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
  Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
  Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
  And narrow my bed—
For man never slept
  In a different bed;
And, to sleep, you must slumber
  In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
  Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
  Regretting its roses—
Its old agitations
  Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
  Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
  About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odor,
  Commingled with pansies—
With rue and the beautiful
  Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
  Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
  And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath
  Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
  She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
  To sleep on her breast—
Deeply to sleep
  From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
  She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
  To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels
  To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
  Now in my bed
(Knowing her love)
  That you fancy me dead—
And I rest so contentedly,
  Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
  That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me.
  Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter
  Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
  For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light
  Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light
  Of the eyes of my Annie.

I took a stroll down my childhood lane
These neural pathways took me back
Multilingual versions of the narrative
Warned me of imminent attack
I made it work for me my people
Bedeviled on behalf of all my greater good
I took my time in stride with sidewalks cracked
And broke my swag along a scattered beach
Came down with that viral capacity to fluctuate
According to what gut feeling feeds heart pumping
Where we intersect that jazz bebopper inhabiting art
Draw outside the lines come together in stark contrast
To the words we negotiate with each other in exchange
For favors better left unpaid yet enacted cross-purpose
To our intended lizard goal to wrap our prey entangled
Tongued in the mail entreated globally galactic guardian

I’d simply settle inside ambitious repose armed by you
Draped across our gossamer webs wet commingled faces

Now I am all
One bowl of kisses,
Such as the tall
Slim votaresses
Of Egypt filled
For a God's excesses.

I lift to you
My bowl of kisses,
And through the temple's
Blue recesses
Cry out to you
In wild caresses.

And to my lips'
Bright crimson rim
The passion slips,
And down my slim
White body drips
The shining hymn.

And still before
The altar I
Exult the bowl
Brimful, and cry
To you to stoop
And drink, Most High.

Oh drink me up
That I may be
Within your cup
Like a Mystery,
Like wine that is still
In ecstasy.

Glimmering still
In ecstasy,
Commingled wines
Of you and me
In One fulfill,...
The Mystery.

With my Beloved I alone have been,
When secrets tenderer than evening airs
Passed, and the Vision blest
Was granted to my prayers,
That crowned me, else obscure, with endless fame;
The while amazed between
His Beauty and His Majesty
I stood in silent ecstasy
Revealing that which o'er my spirit went and came.
Lo, in His face commingled
Is every charm and grace;
The whole of Beauty singled
Into a perfect face
Beholding Him would cry,
'There is no God but He, and He is the most High.'

How rich and pleasing thou, my Julia, art
In each thy dainty and peculiar part!
First, for thy queenship, on thy head is set
Of flowers a sweet commingled coronet:
About thy neck a carcanet is bound,
Made of the ruby, pearl and diamond:
A golden ring that shines upon thy thumb:
About thy wrist, the rich dardanium.
Between thy ******* (than down of swans more white)
There plays the sapphire with the chrysolite.
No part besides must of thyself be known,
But by the topaz, opal, calcedon.

What repose and subtle wonder it is
to venture looking backward
upon my written name.

Scribbled, lacking coherence in its characters,

doctored suggestively towards containing
 an inherent “literary” edge

out of just what it is,

an association of sounds,

(parent’s gifted accidents of intention)
commingled and pushed into

an accepted truth by repetition

and repetition alone.


The surges of black-tongued self-consciousness

-that I’m far above the spot-scratching undergraduate

notion of admiring my personal stamp, of falling in love

with myself by using “bigger” words to fetishize
my most basic claim on having existed, of being HERE-

are given rise. 


These fade, by examples immemorial, to give way to other voices

striving for attention, to grasp their mark upon the page.

Late evening



On a wall,

Initials carved with a filthy bar

of rationed soap

In Dungeon Europe’s eastern range.

Where prison bars once hounded in

where beating’s sounded off 
morning’s crisp hue

The inevitable made its finer points here

Trampling over names and voices

lost to history.


Now a museum

the lunch-time rush 
of internationals

(who mostly work for corporations with offices in every place they travel)

Photograph themselves with expensive cameras

After shuddering, some even hazarding a tear

in considering what fates have befell

occupants on the wrong side of a different bureaucracy

 ....but all that matters, after they leave, is the the proof 

they were there. And how it was just how they imagined.


Morning, in my bedroom

and I’ve written something again...



I can stack it away

if I feel that I failed to capture

what I wanted to be seen

(if not in my own handwriting,

then on some gilded white screen

letters upright and well-rounded.)



How much can it matter to me?

Seeing my own name

allotted above or at the end

of some juvenile thoughtpiece
the kind editors everywhere
are doing their best to get rid of.


I suppose I write because it pushes me out of the expected

it releases me, on these mornings, these graceful, time-blessed

mornings, out of the cell.

To roam among the other skeptics, who thought aloud to wistfully

spend time away from the routine

To hold aloft a lighter-flame for those trapped inside.

I deemed thy garments, O my Hope, were grey,
So far I viewed thee. Now the space between
Is passed at length; and garmented in green
Even as in days of yore thou stand’st to-day.
Ah God! and but for lingering dull dismay,
On all that road our footsteps erst had been
Even thus commingled, and our shadows seen
Blent on the hedgerows and the water-way.

O Hope of mine whose eyes are living love,
No eyes but hers,—O Love and Hope the same!—
Lean close to me, for now the sinking sun
That warmed our feet scarce gilds our hair above.
O hers thy voice and very hers thy name!
Alas, cling round me, for the day is done!

You were mine
You owned me but I thought I bought you
To the right, straight on ‘til morning, priceless
Tundra frontier vast expanse of possibility final
Let’s settle down
Our place very fine
Satan’s little acre
Where work got done you oversaw
To the left, we kissed deep, drunk each other
Families commingled extended
Biblically umbilical making babies
Behind the audacious bleachers
Our promise broken unfulfilled
Until our hot integrity solders this metallurgy
Together again like joint work power coupled
With terpsichorean abandon unleashed
I’ll stop the world
Board the white van
Emerge my own man
And you are his

This morning’s dawn
had a hint; a tease,
like barely touching lips
of autumn to the air.
It tickled the skin
like a cool breeze
on warm inner thighs;
or the goose bumps
on *******,
at first caress.
The grass was damp
like the commingled glistening dew
of lover’s passion spent.
I love the fall
from grace from summer
to the meditation
at season’s end.
I wait the blushing trees
like my lover’s first unveiling
before the bold nakedness
of November’s knowing wind.
I thought of you this morning
as I walked
into the day.

An ant repeatedly told
she loved him so much,
he wasn't astonished a bit,
knew life was incredible
it's a pin point of *****
to dull the existential pain,
how would he forget this ant
if not an ancestor,she may become
a descendant, a bond for ages.

"The grain of sugar
you allowed me to take
made me look sweet as I
shared it with my buddies,
though you aren't aware of it"

A cloud told that
she once made him stand
under the umbrella of
her cool shade, and that
experience did transform her.
"So tired you were
your eyes were dreaming;
while being dismembered
by an adamant wind,
inch by inch, I struggled
to hold myself together
till you could find a
new shade, before I am dissolved
by external compulsion.
Those moments I lived for
the love of you, so pure
expecting nothing but
fulfilling my karmic, dictate,
gave me the insight,
to remain a cloud in spirit, ever
though not in my form any more.

Your songs of loneliness
made me overwhelm,
I am essentially water
that flows towards the ocean,
containing meanings dense
the song you have sung
in intense pain, was
an experience; walking through
glowing  embers of coal,
for all who commingled
with my flow to ocean."

The tree had a rare radiance
it told him pleased,"Like me
you too have the crown,
a cloud of dancing thought waves,
that has silver lines,all the time
you sit and contemplate,
Every one has a Buddha
reclining inside,if you care
to think the way out of all miseries
he would be awake and smiling,
the compassion incarnate.
I appreciated what you did
that marked, I thought
the beginning of the light
that drives the ignorance of
darkness out from mind.
I did it by showering flowers
were you aware?"

"Karuna" she whispered as if to
emphasize it's preciousness
"Compassion" is what the most,
the world now lacks"
It could make the world a garden of love,
That's what reflected on me
when you sat underneath me
and gazed in to the far galactic
turbulence that is a saga continues,
how many moments of gold,
we were gifted one by one!
"Karuna" is the jewel, the Buddha
the enlightened one's words
did sow in us, with the touch
of a transforming thunder."

She does not ask for much;
a piece of paper,
a few markers,
time, and a mind at peace.
Her patience is maddening.
Dot by dot,
fantasies form,
sprung from her forehead
fully grown and armed
with the colors she imagines.
Her gray eyes clouded
with concentration,
for every jab of her hand
must strike true,
a felt-tip Seurat.
Her life a study in pointillism, too;
each day filling in
an outline, dark and light
commingled, colored by
those who come and go,
the users and losers,
the bruisers and the healers.
Self-portraits abound;
the smiling face and glowing eyes
she will show the world
painted over the pain
she has known
from loss of blood
and faithless friends.

A word to the wise:
Though her unicorns and pegasi
are strikingly beautiful,

her demons can be quite real.

"As if you were on fire from within

The moon lives in the lining of your skin"

Because your eyes, so beautiful, containing every color an ocean can be, show the light of your soul... and it is kind.

Because your lips, sculpted by angels, turn up at the corners when you smile, and your happiness makes me a child again.

Because your hair, strands of gold commingled with shadow, betrays the brightness of your spirit,
and the darkness, not unlike my own.

Because your name; said in the darkness of my room, to myself, alone, means I am not alone.

This is why.

Elegy for a Four-Cup Coffee Maker

Poor Mister Coffee – may God grant you rest
After long years of humble service to man
You never abandoned your duty station
Next to the cookies and the kitchen sink

You were the first to bless each day at dawn
Your little red sanctuary lamp aglow
As with electricity you commingled
Water and coffee into a sacrament

Fruit of the bean and work of human hands -
But now you are silent, to drip no more

The Earth is stained
with so much blood,
millions cut asunder
on the thunderous plains,
who endured
mountains of pain,
now lie buried,
under
the fields of endless flowers.

So God bless the friendlies & the foes,
the crusaders & the defenders alike,
who will be always together,
commingled &
forever at peace,
buried deep
under
the fields of endless flowers.

And for those still living in
such trying hours,
I will pick for you a single flower
& praise the rest
of them swaying in
the fields of endless flowers.

Be safe & Godspeed
my brethren.

Somewhere in the apology
I lost my direction
a nervous outpouring
commingled with red heat
In the most obvious of places
and well
my train derailed
in a flurry of regret

I don't know where we came from
I don't know how I got here
But we might not be here too much longer
I'm sitting here on the back porch of my mind

Swamp gas bubbled up
Or anaerobic somethings commingled in the sea
A single cell expanded
We keep expanding till we're free

I have a megalomaniacal mind
It's a miracle how I think
Just as I chew more cannabis edibles
Then puke them up in the sink

Take another swig of liquor
Read the Bible and curse God
How'd the Lord of all Creation
Go and get this heathen wrong?

Really though I want like everyone
And this life is just a test
Who's the teacher and group leader
Who wanted all of this?

I don't know where I came from
This is my agnostic poem
I don't know how we got here
But I feel right at home

She drapes her beauty
over a gossamer sleeve

breathes music box melody

through the spindles of dreams

elopes with the stars

and whispers
lavish possibilities

through a cauldron of clouds

she, the whimsy,
midnight Blues fantasy

seeped in gin
drizzled over
my sins

she is madness
and meaning

commingled in
pearlescent
glow

“Learn from the mistakes of others.  You can’t live long enough to make them all yourself.”

-  Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962), longest serving FLOTUS



Start with one comely young man of great promise:
He rescues lamb from jaws of bear.
Rescues sheep from clutches of lion.  
Slays giant Philistine with stone and sling.  
Forms deep friendship with prince, son of king.  
Becomes king himself.
Marries daughter of prior king – a princess.

Add a heaping teaspoonful of lust of eye - perhaps both eyes.
Stir in ****** – more than a pinch (is ****** ever less than a pinch?)

Let simmer; boiling over may be unpreventable, even if *** is uncovered and fire is low.
Clean up overflow.
Rinse cleanup cloth, but keep handy; more cleanup may be needed later.
Replenish fire as needed.
Keep plenty of wood; this fire will burn awhile.

Let plot thicken.
No need for additive; it will thicken of own accord.
Add a dash of sleepless nights.



Do not taste; mixture is bitter.
If proof needed, insert fingertip (not more) into stew.
Run cool water over fingertip.
Avoid four-letter words.
Rinse mouth.
Resolve to believe recipe in future.

*

Protagonist is castigated by prophet.
Marries widow of innocent man killed in battle.
With multiple wives, has multiple children; never a good idea.

       *

Son of one wife grows up to, like his father (like father, like son?), succumb to temptation – for his half sister.
Despite her plea, he forces himself on her.
She grieves.

*

Remove lid; handle potholders with care.
Mix in half a cup of tears.
Probably no need for salt; tears may be salty enough.
Stir ever so gently.

*

Her brother learns of her grief, is determined to wreak vengeance upon perpetrator, his half brother.
Which he does at a subsequent banquet.
Blood flows, some into ***.

                               *

No need for yeast.  
This mixture has enough ingredients to rise on its own.
Also, no need for spice.

      

A comely man in his own right, avenger decides to usurp throne.
Once (and future) king flees.
In subsequent combat, usurper flees by mule.
His mane catches in low-hanging branches of an oak (every yang has its yin), and he is killed.
More blood is shed.

*

Blood is salty, and has a flavor all its own.
More will trickle into ***; it cannot be helped.

*

Add cup of gall.
Little to no stirring needed; gall will disperse on its own, and tends to dominate whatever it is commingled with.

*

The king has epiphany, writes psalms – 150 of them.
Despite all above, the Almighty calls king ‘a man after His own heart.’
‘Where sin doth abound, grace doth much more abound.’ – Rom. 5:20.

*

Cooking is done.
Extinguish the fire.
Let *** sit.

*

Contemplate follies of man.
‘What fools these mortals be’ -  Shakespeare, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“We have met the enemy, and he is us.” – Walt Kelly, ‘Pogo’ comic strip.

*

Final stew is less bitter, but also less sweet, than it might have been.
Once put in the *** of life, ingredients cannot be removed.
They can only be tempered by more ingredients.

Choose wisely.

Look at the sphere –
which astronomers say is no sphere at all.
Not halfway between ourselves and the edge of space.
Blue with the ancient gasses that cling to its massive ribs.
Blue with the dissent of that atmosphere to sunlight.
Flat, a little, at the poles, teetering
white into the void.

Strewn with latitudes and the wakes of ships.
It is green, except where it is not.
It is dusted with the tread of angels
commingled with the hoofprints of stags.
It is only as wide as you can hold in your eye.

A succession of names is written on the pedestal.
Each, for a moment, watched night crawl across a peninsula;
saw countries form, shine and pass out of being,
smiles at a distant stranger.

Spin it lightly, with just your fingertips, and listen to the air moving over it.
Nobody is here, and the final name is yours.
First you will come to know your voice.
Then you can begin to name the animals.

Buried on this Island in a tiny unmarked plot,
You would have been my son or daughter
but she decided to abort.
It would be nice to have been consulted,
But that’s a right men haven’t got.

You might have been a beauty
as your sister is today.
Or You might have been a scholar
if not commingled with this clay.
There is no stone where I can grieve;
No plot to kneel and pray.

Just this burial ground of paupers
I am visiting today.
It is my fault as much as hers
I do not seek to blame.
If only I could have  held you once
or given you a name.

The winter chill cuts to my core.
I feel a sense of sin.
I’m reminded the saddest words of all
Are these:“what might have been”

What an amazing thing it is
the center of the highways and byways of humanness

A rhythmic beating that stirs the soul
the ultimate example of the word dichotomy

It can survive attacks with incredible resilience
yet be shattered by mere words

Lobbed in your direction to inflict pain and suffering
these powerful weapons wielded like a sword

Leaving it in shreds like shards of glass
strewn carelessly about each crystal abandoned unto itself

The results can be deep incisions leading to permanent scars
picking up the pieces far easier said than done

Some say it is akin to a stab wound with a twisted blade
that literally and figuratively can invoke fatal damage

Often; time, space and love encourage healing
While a touch, hug or kiss can re-ignite its flame

Occasionally it requires the talents of a skilled surgeon
To bring it back to life using ordinary means sans heroics

Hope, trust and faith the elixir aligned with patience
A potent cure commingled with a mix of prescriptions

The combination of memories and senses
Delivering messages for it to act upon

Call it heart break or heart ache or any other name
The result can end up being the same.

In the end it is not a matter of whether science
can complete a successful transplant
But whether a broken heart can be mended at all

Andreas Simic©

In days to come,  I know I will regret
not sitting by her bed,  just to regale
a hurried rhyme, or let go a soft tale,
all while in thought,  I knew her days were set.

Oh my dear, where fly you now,  I wonder.
Is life a better place where you now shine?
I hear your voice commingled within mine.
It comes in droves, hitting me like thunder.

Do you smile on the life which I have built?
Do you cast your eyes aside due to shame?
I heard all life was just a vicious game.
For which the ending prize was often guilt.

Oh what of I? What am I to become?
I let her down. Abandoning my mum.

I.
Optimal allocation for partially replicated database systems on tree-based networks (1992)

My father the mathematician
his carapace beard slow-stained

with moon brook as he worked
at his pine wing desk, an old door

perching on cheapo steel cabinets
with a squat beige computer

whose fan hummed hymns,
strumming the dark.

II.
A lower bound on the probability of conflict under nonuniform access in database systems (1995)

Long drive in smooth maroon
the university belted by fog

Mandelbrots of rain blotching
the windshield face.

Dad sat and glowed with glass
commingled with chalk scent

I became part of Andre's posse
in an atrium bleached with cold air.

III.
Minimizing message complexity of partially replicated data on hypercubes (1996)

When Dad moved out of the farmhouse
we realized he couldn't see well anymore

a thick glaze of dust sticking to everything
coffee mugs of bourbon seeding every room,

******* glaucoma; pride and denial
kept him thorny, but my sister got it done.

When the ***** finally claimed him,
he vanished into the air like pipe smoke.

Memories of you are so vivid
It feels like an out of body experience
In which fantasy and reality are commingled