They say that you are the lung of the world
An umbrella for the street light.
I know you can, and this I trust
Turn my bad habit into something of use
Unlike dear reflection, contemplation under
The stars.

At the concourse of many lives,
How much spite you must have caught,
I ‘hale a generation’s lot
Could I ask cleanliness that follows me
Into silence? Surely in the summer of its
Passionate body—
Surer towards its autumn.

First Kiss (Act II - Miami Vice) A Rock Opera

Rachel's plane set down at 2:45 at the Miami Dade Airport.
She was anxious to get off of the plane after a 6 hour flight,
and of course the concourse was jammed full of smiling faces,
weeping faces, noisy children, old people, fat people, tall people,
Cubans, Europeans, Asians, hustling and bustling about.
Rachel and Daniel had of course exchanged photos so they both
knew exactly who they were looking for. Rachel of course was a
bit overdressed having left the UK in 40 degree rainy weather,
only to arrive in balmy Miami where is was 82. After finally
being able to stand and gather up her carry on bags, she
anxiously started down the aisle to exit the aircraft, up the
exit ramp and out into the gate receiving area. After a few
panicky moments, she finally spotted Daniel, and when their
eyes finally met, she felt a new bounce in her step and an
excitement building in her body, as both their faces were covered
with huge smiles. They finally reached each other and embraced,
a long, long embrace. They finally stepped apart from each other
and just stared at each other in disbelief. “is this really happening”,
Daniel asked Rachel. “yes, finally” Rachel said half laughing, and then
they kissed. For the first time their lips met and they both meleted
into each others arms, forgetting for the moment that they were in
a public arena, though most of the people were busy with their own
lives and paid little attention to them except for a few smiling glances.
That first kiss was all and more of what each had expected. The fire
of love was burning inside each of them at that moment, just waiting
for an excuse to burst into flames.
  
They scurried down the wide concourse aisle and headed toward
the escalator down to the baggage pick up area. Walking hand in hand,
looking at each other with still those big grins on their faces. They
finally were able to secure Rachel's luggage and headed out the door
to the parking garage where Daniel's car was parked on the 3rd level.

As they started to cross the busy 4 lane road to get to the garage,
Daniel suddenly looked up and saw a vehicle traveling at a much too
high rate of speed for this congested area. He grabbed Rachel's arm
and pulled her back as the car went speeding by. A couple of shots rang
out from the passing vehicle and barely missed them bouncing off the wall
behind them. They both looked at each other totally startled.

The night was ringing, with violent sounds,
the echoes of turbulent dreams were flying,
being chased by villians, like foxes and hounds,
through the streets, hear the voices crying

seems he had been, a witness of crime,
he was offering his service to the city,
the cartel found out, he was taking the time,
his interventions would allow for no pity

duck your heads, run for the cover,
these beasts of violence, will sure take your life
hide with the Feds, save your lover,
be wary of traitors, they cut like a knife
      
the wailing of sirens, tear through the night,
warnings of immanent danger for you,
seek out the dark, stay out of the light,
you and your lover with your love so true

duck your heads, run for the cover,
these beasts of violence, will sure take your life
hide with the Feds, save your lover,
be wary of traitors, they cut like a knife

Still thinking of that First Kiss ….

Gomer LePoet

It's 11:20am in OHare
and I'm here with Sam Adams'
cardboard cut-out,
sipping his hard work,
chasing my breakfast,
picking up where Starbucks left off.
But really, I'm avoiding the tired,
unenthusiastic bodies nesting at my gate,
with their dilapidated muzzles,
with their deadpan expressions,
with these head-and-shoulders of
malcontent- of brewing disappointment-
floating morosely above their respective
boarding passes, passports,
and food court receipts
clutched in cranky knuckles.

And so here I am, sitting at
Facade, raising a second glass
with cardboard Adams,
and I kinda have to ****
and I really have to ***,
but there's no way in hell
I'm joining the rest of my flight.

Even the bravest that are slain
  Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
  Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
  Wide fields of asphodel fore’er,
To find that the utmost reward
  Of daring should be still to dare.

The light of heaven falls whole and white
  And is not shattered into dyes,
The light forever is morning light;
  The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angle hosts with freshness go,
  And seek with laughter what to brave;—
And binding all is the hushed snow
  Of the far-distant breaking wave.

And from a cliff-top is proclaimed
  The gathering of the souls for birth,
The trial by existence named,
  The obscuration upon earth.
And the slant spirits trooping by
  In streams and cross- and counter-streams
Can but give ear to that sweet cry
  For its suggestion of what dreams!

And the more loitering are turned
  To view once more the sacrifice
Of those who for some good discerned
  Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse rolls
  Toward the throne to witness there
The speeding of devoted souls
  Which God makes his especial care.

And none are taken but who will,
  Having first heard the life read out
That opens earthward, good and ill,
  Beyond the shadow of a doubt;
And very beautifully God limns,
  And tenderly, life’s little dream,
But naught extenuates or dims,
  Setting the thing that is supreme.

Nor is there wanting in the press
  Some spirit to stand simply forth,
Heroic in it nakedness,
  Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth’s unhonored things
  Sounds nobler there than ’neath the sun;
And the mind whirls and the heart sings,
  And a shout greets the daring one.

But always God speaks at the end:
  ‘One thought in agony of strife
The bravest would have by for friend,
  The memory that he chose the life;
But the pure fate to which you go
  Admits no memory of choice,
Or the woe were not earthly woe
  To which you give the assenting voice.’

And so the choice must be again,
  But the last choice is still the same;
And the awe passes wonder then,
  And a hush falls for all acclaim.
And God has taken a flower of gold
  And broken it, and used therefrom
The mystic link to bind and hold
  Spirit to matter till death come.

’Tis of the essence of life here,
  Though we choose greatly, still to lack
The lasting memory at all clear,
  That life has for us on the wrack
Nothing but what we somehow chose;
  Thus are we wholly stipped of pride
In the pain that has but one close,
  Bearing it crushed and mystified.

On the wind of January
  Down flits the snow,
Travelling from the frozen North
  As cold as it can blow.
Poor robin redbreast,
  Look where he comes;
Let him in to feel your fire,
  And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February
  Snow-flakes float still,
Half inclined to turn to rain,
  Nipping, dripping, chill.
Then the thaws swell the streams,
  And swollen rivers swell the sea:--
If the winter ever ends
  How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March
  The catkins drop down,
Curly, caterpillar-like,
  Curious green and brown.
With concourse of nest-building birds
  And leaf-buds by the way,
We begin to think of flowers
  And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April
  Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
On the hedged-in orchard-green,
  From the southern wall.
Apple-trees and pear-trees
  Shed petals white or pink,
Plum-trees and peach-trees;
  While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze
  Beside pure scent of flowers,
While all things wax and nothing wanes
  In lengthening daylight hours.
Across the hyacinth beds
  The wind lags warm and sweet,
Across the hawthorn tops,
  Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June
  Thrives the red rose crop,
Every day fresh blossoms blow
  While the first leaves drop;
White rose and yellow rose
  And moss-rose choice to find,
And the cottage cabbage-rose
  Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July
  Drives the pelting hail,
From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
  Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.
Weedy waves are tossed ashore,
  Sea-things strange to sight
Gasp upon the barren shore
  And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind,
  Cornfields bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,
  On low hills outspread.
Early leaves drop loitering down
  Weightless on the breeze,
First-fruits of the year's decay
  From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September
  The heavy-headed fruits
Shake upon their bending boughs
  And drop from the shoots;
Some glow golden in the sun,
  Some show green and streaked
Some set forth a purple bloom,
  Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October
  At the equinox,
Stirred up in his hollow bed
  Broad ocean rocks;
Plunge the ships on his *****,
  Leaps and plunges the foam,--
It's O for mothers' sons at sea,
  That they were safe at home!

In slack wind of November
  The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again
  When the fog lifts.
Loosened from their sapless twigs
  Leaves drop with every gust;
Drifting, rustling, out of sight
  In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,
  The year's sands nearly run,
Speeds on the shortest day,
  Curtails the sun;
With its bleak raw wind
  Lays the last leaves low,
Brings back the nightly frosts,
  Brings back the snow.

Too late for love, too late for joy,
  Too late, too late!
You loiter'd on the road too long,
  You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
  Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
  Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
  You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago,
  One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
  Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
  Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leap'd,
  The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
  To melt the snow.

Is she fair now as she lies?
  Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
  With gold-dust on her hair.
Now there are poppies in her locks,
  White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
  And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
  Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile
  Or with a frown;
Her bed seem'd never soft to her,
  Though toss'd of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
  Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
  Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks
  That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste:
  Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
  As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
  And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
  No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
  That she might run to greet.

You should have wept her yesterday,
  Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
  That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
  But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
  Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
  Cut down and spread.

Story Book Land
The awful truth in this world at one point evil put upThis post open season on women and children nowCasey’s trail has provided a predators hand book onHow to avoid jail and punishmentStory Book Land
I would like to speak to the other side of the story in a hovel somewhere in southern Appalachia a young
Mother has left this falling down shack because of fever and delirium she left behind a toddler in this
Cold helpless situation but tonight when she drifts into trembling frigid sleep she feels herself being lifted
By powerful arms the body is huge but immediately she feels a great wave of warmth peace and love
Then she hears the laughter of children many of them as this divine personage sets her feet down she
Alights on this golden concourse then she sees what all the excitement is about this great figure glowing
In white linen is leading the children he walks or glides to her side just as she starts to take his hand she
Sees the nail print she knows who he is her mother sang of him and told her wonderful stories of how
One day they would go to be with him he held her hand firmly with a tenderness that was almost
Overwhelming they had gone a distance he released her hand and said now children go and play among
The wonders created for you and after awhile I will call you follow my vioce it will lead you to a hillside there spread out on the
Rich grasses my little lambs and I will tell you extraordinary wonderful stories so the children turned to
Look what was before them flowers so lush they bathed you in their fragrance their beauty filled you
With awe this was the only the beginning of splendor that knew no end they dashed through the flowers
It was hard to tell who laughed the hardest the flowers or the children then they came to the trees one
Of the older children asked Mr. Pine is it true that on ridges you can make the most beautiful tunes yes
Little one but here it is a little different what songs do you like wheels on the bus this little light of mine
She picked something all together different but he just rolled with it he did it with the finesse of a circus
Clown they all laughed he did many others to their delight then he said children you might like my
Neighbor Mr. Oak he has some delights you might delight in so they rushed to see what they would find
He seemed gruff and stern at first but then when he bowed down sweetly they noticed something funny
About the Spanish moss it was not that at all but a rainbow of flavors all cotton candy every one grabed all
They could get then just a short distance down the rode a sign said critter holler was it by Roberta’s
House ? well off they dashed they loved it immediately because all the animals were just babies young like
Them the mothers and fathers grazed up on the higher lush pastures I will go where he leads I will
Pasture where he feeds me, some of the children were old enough to remember that song a little child
From Florida was just timidly staring and from behind a fawn put his wet cold nose in her hand as it
hung down she squealed with delight a darker child born on the African savanna was drawn like a
magnet to a baby Zebra he played with its mane it playfully shook its head back and forth his smile even
made heaven brighter if that’s possible In life the boy was Maasai a great people his problem he dreamed of being a Maassai warrior
At to tender of an age the lion only knows one law that is **** to live the boys claw marks and bite marks
Vanished from his body as he left the fallen state of earth and traveled to the sacred holiness that is the
Total reality of heaven but as he looked on the baby Zebra he was all Maassai the wonders of his
Birthplace filled him to bursting the little Zebra was his touchstone all of heaven and a piece of earth
Coursed through his veins he will be forever defined on a grander scale so will Caylee for a brief time saw
Grass and palms now glory will endow her with privilege a crown immortal indestructible she wears it
Well it honors Gorge and Cindy her mother will be cleansed by terrible and secret fires best left to the
Purifier who never lets evil go unanswered.
someone saw a handsome man standing at a distance there
wasn’t a mouse with him but could it be Mr. Disney it was a great possibility all things are possible here
earths tears are gone forever and all you will ever know is the greatest peace and love the other side of
the story.

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander! many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls
That they might answer him.—And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause
Of silence such as baffled his best skill:
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the ***** of the steady lake.

      This boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs
Upon a ***** above the village-school;
And through that churchyard when my way has led
On summer-evenings, I believe that there
A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies!

Back behind Gianni's bar
The Bluesman sings his tunes
To all the local n'er do wells
And to the stars and to the moon

His voice is coarse as forty grit
His playing smooths it out
He plays upon an orange crate
Comfort is not what he's about

Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One sung just for me
One that paints pictures in my head
A song that I can see

Buskers, lined the concourse
The street where he was not
This was just a place for tourist fare
He was where the world forgot

His tunes were sung for no one but
Himself and to the air
Out front, that was another world
Bluesman, did not live out there

A crowd has gathered slowly
More of a group, than a real crowd
They heard about the bluesman
And out front was too **** loud

In back, you heard the feelings
Felt the music, heard the strings
You experienced the atmosphere
That a good old bluesman brings

Out of the crowd of fandom
Working his way through the mass
Was a young, tousled haired boy
Everybody let him pass

He rocked in one position
He felt the music ebb and flow
He looked where the notes were airborne
He saw the music go

The bluesman sat and watched him
playing stories, telling tales
Of drunks in old Las Vegas
And of sailors fighting gales

the young boy stood and rocked some
always looking at the air
He wasn't looking at the bluesman
He didn't know that he was there

He walked up to the old man
staring out into the space
that streamed the bluesmans music
right into the young boys face

the bluesman watched intently
As the young lad touched his hand
And he held the bluesmans old guitar
He became a member of the band

The boy moved even closer
If that were possible at all
He was feeling the sweet music
He was having quite a ball

The crowd watched as the bluesman
and the boy became as one
The boy resting his head now
On the guitar, having fun

He couldn't see the bluesman
But the music, it was there
The boy was blind, autistic
He saw the notes that filled the air

The bluesman kept on playing
For that was what the bluesman did
He was playing for the starry sky
And for this wondrous little kid

His mother came and held him
She took the bluesman by the hand
She said thank you for the music
For letting him be in your band

In a voice as smooth as Bourbon
The bluesman told her that her son
Could come and feel the music
The music makes us one

Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One that's only just for me
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
That only I can see....

Soggy, forgotten rotten eggs. Sink side. Gobbledy gnus cruising, fast acting cheetah be cheetah for the eggs are scare and the Time is new. The few are no longer fastened tightly to these hatchlings, the weather is near and all the tides are complicated. I could stand around in my underwear, but there isn't a single night song or nightengale that would hear me. There's a thud on my head and a knock on the door, I can't sing my best, or try to impress thee. All of these letters un rest to the sound of your voice, even in calfskin a vegetarian can begin to have trouble breathing.

To the cables that untie thlemselves to a broom in a paradise, Pacific, galore. Forgot to. Invested. Contained poorl and drunks stowed in the holograms of hand-me-down prisms, here comes the infectuous lonely ol' lamb. This is the ewe song that sings you to sleep, keeps the sweat in your underwear. Where there is hunger there are poor but my gold chants forward to this Armageddon's sway.

If it means it in Greek than it does in cyrillic, if it's toxin you have rotted your bell. Inside my pink, neon briefs is a tale of insanity, where I had tried to squeeze out every ounce of relief that commenced while I was asleep.

There was only ever one of us that ran with the turmoil that romance does. Terminal two, Arizona-flu, carried through the ORD concourse I heard a saxophone tune. Final approach, a yawn. I'm home drinking ***** at 9:00am with my PJs on.

"Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate.
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.

"Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.

"Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?

"We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
That used to be so brown.

"We never heard her speak in haste;
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.

"You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread."

I suddenly don't know who my friends are anymore
But I know who has never been,isn't and never will
You're not my friend if you think our whimpers propaganda
You're not my friend if you're not in support of a proper Uganda
You're not my friend if you opposed our
struggle till its seemingly dead end
You're not my friend if you think we shouldn't grieve
You're not my friend if in yellow rule you still believe
you're not my friend if you're still blinded
even after so many are hurt and lives ended
you're not my friend if you sung a song in praise
of he who won't our teacher's salary raise
you're not my friend if I reminded you of the Hospital
and you said them sick suffer for the love of free things with no remorse at all
you're not my friend if you've stuck to his support
simply because he fills your wallet while the rest are emptied,
you're not my friend if in this sad time you feel relief
you're not my friend if you forgot about the *** holes
the uncertainty that characterises the air all over the country,
you're not my friend if in your heart melancholy isn't,the despair
you're not my friend if you don't mind the pauper on the street
the emptiness of our capital competing with that in our hearts
you're not my friend if you don't think it badly hurts
you're not my friend if as long as your Porsche you drive
you don't mind about the state of a country
whether your neighbour's child is dead or alive
you're are not my friend if everything you wish for you have
and you don't give a **** if others starve
you're not my friend if you're contented with the shaky epicentre
forgetting that when the centre is shaky things fall apart
you're not my friend even if the politics ended
for my friend you weren't right from the start
you're not my friend if you've played part in steering us to a wrong course
against the pleas and cries of the despairing concourse
you're not my friend if you're the reason country man lies in a casket
in exchange for a piece of the national cake in your basket
you're not my friend if you believe in steady progress
even if you're my brother,whilst rest of the country lies in regrets
you're not my friend if you are against the people's choice
for the people's choice is the people's voice
You're not my friend if your government military deploys
dubbing the shout of our plight unnecessary noise
You're not my friend if you're smiling while we cry
in darkness as sunshine lights your home for you own our sky
you're not my friend if you forgot about those studying under a tree
you're not my friend if you still think we're free
You're my enemy if you're an enemy to my friend
You've wounded this nation by standing by the olden trend
you're an enemy to the state and so you're my enemy
you're not my friend, for God and my country
you're not my friend and that I will never forget traitor
no,I will remember through every January to December
I will remember even after you forget,centuries later

Inner not outer, without gnash of teeth
  Or weeping, save quiet sobs of some who pray
  And feel the Everlasting Arms beneath,--
Blackness of darkness this, but not for aye;
  Darkness that even in gathering fleeteth fast,
  Blackness of blackest darkness close to day.
Lord Jesus, through Thy darkened pillar cast,
  Thy gracious eyes all-seeing cast on me
  Until this tyranny be overpast.
Me, Lord, remember who remember Thee,
  And cleave to Thee, and see Thee without sight,
  And choose Thee still in dire extremity,
And in this darkness worship Thee my Light,
  And Thee my Life adore in shadow of death,
  Thee loved by day, and still beloved by night.
It is the Voice of my Beloved that saith:
  "I am the Way, the Truth, the Life, I go
  Whither that soul knows well that followeth"--

O Lord, I follow, little as I know;
  At this eleventh hour I rise and take
  My life into my hand, and follow so,
With tears and heart-misgivings and heart-ache;
  Thy feeblest follower, yet Thy follower
  Indomitable for Thine only sake.
To-night I gird my will afresh, and stir
  My strength, and brace my heart to do and dare,
  Marvelling: Will to-morrow wake the whirr
Of the great rending wheel, or from his lair
  Startle the jubilant lion in his rage,
  Or clench the headsman's hand within my hair,
Or kindle fire to speed my pilgrimage,
  Chariot of fire and horses of sheer fire
  Whirling me home to heaven by one fierce stage?
Thy Will I will, I Thy desire desire;
  Let not the waters close above my head,
  Uphold me that I sink not in this mire:
For flesh and blood are frail and sore afraid;
  And young I am, unsatisfied and young,
  With memories, hopes, with cravings all unfed,
My song half sung, its sweetest notes unsung,
  All plans cut short, all possibilities,
  Because my cord of life is soon unstrung.
Was I a careless woman set at ease
  That this so bitter cup is brimmed for me?

  Had mine own vintage settled on the lees?
A word, a puff of smoke, would set me free;
  A word, a puff of smoke, over and gone:...
  Howbeit, whom have I, Lord, in heaven but Thee?
Yea, only Thee my choice is fixed upon
  In heaven or earth, eternity or time:--
  Lord, hold me fast, Lord, leave me not alone,
Thy silly heartless dove that sees the lime
  Yet almost flutters to the tempting bough:
  Cover me, hide me, pluck me from this crime.
A word, a puff of smoke, would save me now:...
  But who, my God, would save me in the day
  Of Thy fierce anger? only Saviour Thou.
Preoccupy my heart, and turn away
  And cover up mine eyes from frantic fear,
  And stop mine ears lest I be driven astray:
For one stands ever dinning in mine ear
  How my gray Father withers in the blight
  Of love for me, who cruel am and dear;
And how my Mother through this lingering night
  Until the day, sits tearless in her woe,
  Loathing for love of me the happy light
Which brings to pass a concourse and a show
  To glut the hungry faces merciless,
The thousand faces swaying to and fro,
  Feasting on me unveiled in helplessness

  Alone,--yet not alone: Lord, stand by me
  As once by lonely Paul in his distress.
As blossoms to the sun I turn to Thee;
  Thy dove turns to her window, think no scorn;
  As one dove to an ark on shoreless sea,
To Thee I turn mine eyes, my heart forlorn;
  Put forth Thy scarred right Hand, kind Lord, take hold
  Of me Thine all-forsaken dove who mourn:
For Thou hast loved me since the days of old,
  And I love Thee Whom loving I will love
  Through life's short fever-fits of heat and cold;
Thy Name will I extol and sing thereof,
  Will flee for refuge to Thy Blessed Name.
  Lord, look upon me from thy bliss above:
Look down on me, who shrink from all the shame
  And pangs and desolation of my death,
  Wrenched piecemeal or devoured or set on flame,
While all the world around me holds its breath
  With eyes glued on me for a gazing-stock,
  Pitiless eyes, while no man pitieth.
The floods are risen, I stagger in their shock,
  My heart reels and is faint, I fail, I faint:
  My God, set Thou me up upon the rock,
Thou Who didst long ago Thyself acquaint
  With death, our death; Thou Who didst long ago

  Pour forth Thy soul for sinner and for saint.
Bear me in mind, whom no one else will know;
  Thou Whom Thy friends forsook, take Thou my part,
  Of all forsaken in mine overthrow;
Carry me in Thy *****, in Thy heart,
  Carry me out of darkness into light,
  To-morrow make me see Thee as Thou art.
Lover and friend Thou hidest from my sight:--
  Alas, alas, mine earthly love, alas,
  For whom I thought to don the garments white
And white wreath of a bride, this rugged pass
  Hath utterly divorced me from thy care;
  Yea, I am to thee as a shattered glass
Worthless, with no more beauty lodging there,
  Abhorred, lest I involve thee in my doom:
  For sweet are sunshine and this upper air,
And life and youth are sweet, and give us room
  For all most sweetest sweetnesses we taste:
  Dear, what hast thou in common with a tomb?
I bow my head in silence, I make haste
  Alone, I make haste out into the dark,
  My life and youth and hope all run to waste.
Is this my body cold and stiff and stark,
  Ashes made ashes, earth becoming earth,
  Is this a prize for man to make his mark?

Am I, that very I who laughed in mirth
  A while ago, a little, little while,
  Yet all the while a-dying since my birth?
Now am I tired, too tired to strive or smile;
  I sit alone, my mouth is in the dust:
  Look Thou upon me, Lord, for I am vile.
In Thee is all my hope, is all my trust,
  On Thee I centre all my self that dies,
  And self that dies not with its mortal crust,
But sleeps and wakes, and in the end will rise
  With hymns and hallelujahs on its lips,
  Thee loving with the love that satisfies.
As once in Thine unutterable eclipse
  The sun and moon grew dark for sympathy,
  And earth cowered quaking underneath the drips
Of Thy slow Blood priceless exceedingly,
  So now a little spare me, and show forth
  Some pity, O my God, some pity of me.
If trouble comes not from the south or north,
  But meted to us by Thy tender hand,
  Let me not in Thine eyes be nothing worth:
Behold me where in agony I stand,
  Behold me no man caring for my soul,
  And take me to Thee in the far-off land,
Shorten the race and lift me to the goal.

"Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate.
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.

"Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.

"Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?

"We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
That used to be so brown.

"We never heard her speak in haste;
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.

"You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread."

Stare at the universe for a little while, you’ll see
Something resembling you and me: a quite sobbing vacuity
Draining all pellucid stars of luster and bravery.
I won’t be home for the rest of my life, hard as it is to take in,
Something went missing in what never was
That all the timbers strip away at the passing years
In anger and patience that slapped me in the face
When I said I’d never be happy again. My pockets are full
Of icy penance for crimes distance and apathy revealed.
Shimmer do the walks ways in the missing parts of the night sky
Shaped, somehow, by you and every blazing heart
Is a comet to earth: ******* vibrantly a poorly strung bandage.
And every light to cross the concourse of hopeless prophesy
And my constructs of relative suffering, an oil-light suicide.
History is always-already the behest of malignancy, but it’s sweet
The protection as I’ve weaponized every interaction to be,
We could have been cause-and-effect and danced like
Idols, gods, and fools in the sky of our experience, but
The God of Small Things, I, bear down on dis-eases rejection.
Like surgery, the tiny cells bereft of the cause of blood, the cause
Of complaint, can do nothing but new hearts reject.

Just another crazy dream,
a third division sub routine
one more throw back,go to nil,and filled with images of course

Riding the China white concourse on the riderless pale horse which cost me plenty,twenty,maybe more,
don't remember keeping score
or how long the ride went on
or even if I was the one
sat there.

Dreams don't share this information just fill me with such consternation that I wake up in a sweat,
don't yet know what dreams do show me if they show me anything at all
and if I fall,
I fall alone through paper bags and tag alongs and uncaring of the rights and wrongs,if I hit rock bottom hard,it's my hard luck,
I took the first step on the stair
but still don't know if I'm sat there.

Flashbacks, needle tracks and red hot trains in coal black sacks and stacks of stacks that won't lay still and will I ever settle for the bottle or the pill?
and if I do,I lose the will I thought was mine,
traded off for one more time and one more line along the China white where walls of self delusion stand and fight illusions of my potency,
Important though it may be, there seems no synchronicity in actions I have taken,each action on its own as if it was a skimming stone that sank somewhere,
I wonder if I am sat there.

I had to wake of course
even horses need to rest and I think the dream was sent to test my fortitude or steadfastness,
in the face of nothing where another mess awaits and nothing states the obvious more than the blank look,like the first step that I took and the empty stair which is obvious to me leads me nowhere,
was I sat there
was that the third division sub routine
was this life nothing
but a crazy hedonistic dream?
but if it wasn't me
then I have a twin
either way
we never win.

crackle
goes the fire
possessed
by my ****** heart  

Flying sticky waves
Of achy-stabby sweetness
Going towards the boys
Towards the girls, to everyone

A never-ending flash
Induces a hyperactive coma
We all sleep together
With our organs jumping around inside

A complicated mix of particles
Together form waves
Just like light that comes from grandma's lamp
Soft like a kitten  

This panting babbling concourse of love  
We understand it like frogs driving cars
Races through our minds like molasses
It fills us with *****, sweet *****

Can a pure soul, haunted by desires, plot gross revolt for straight satisfaction?
Can giving in to the disobedient beasts of want, be an act of “reclaiming power?”

A thunderstorm rolled across early sunrise like a choppy, inverted surf, drowning my usual distractions. In still moments, my heart hurts - as if it were bruised. Peter has a hold on me, he pulls on my life. I need to talk to Charles.

Lisa comes into the sunroom where most of us are lounging. “Looks like the weather’s clearing.” she said, and all eyes turned to the sky. “And there’s a kid, cleaning leaves out of the pool, his arms look like socks full of coconuts.”
“What?” Anna said.
“Where?” Leong asks. Six girls step up close to the windows like mannequins in a shop display.
“Oh, my.” Sophy says, drawing it out like an accusation, “the pooool boy!”
“He’s fifteen,” I say, making an ID through the excited crowd, instantly dousing the fire.

“This place is like a hotel, it’s larger than life.” Anna said. “The other night, when we shared those shooters, the hall leading to my room seemed like an airport concourse.”
“I’d LOVE to have lived here.” Sunny said, dramatically as she slowly reached for a strawberry off her fruit plate. Then turning to me she inquires, “How’d you pull it off?”
“It’s one of the things we don’t talk about,” I answered, conspiratorially, “I’m sure *** was involved,” I add, wiggling my eyebrows.
“Mmm,” she practically hummed, biting into the juicy strawberry goodness, “it always is.”
“Do you miss it?” Anna asks.
“I’m trying to move on with my life.” I admit.

I spot Charles out by the pool, crouching down. He’s testing the water quality and I decide that now's the time. I’m going to tell him I’ve decided to override him and invite Peter here for August - peridot.

I made my way out and around to where he’s working, getting more nervous with every step.
“Do you think we’ve been peeing in the pool?” I said, hoping to bring on a jokey mood, but it doesn’t really hit.

“No,” he says, forever the serious one, “You know that chlorine smell pools get?” I nod, sorry I made the stupid joke. “Well, that smell isn’t chlorine - can you smell the pool?” I inhale and nod yes. “That chemical smell would be the chlorine reacting to *** - and there isn’t any.”

I sit on the edge of a lounge chair, near where he’s working - to lay it all out and tell him what I’ve decided - but as I watch him my confidence fades and my lips won’t move. How can I argue with my parents, have knock-down screaming matches and not be able to say word-one with Charles? I’m so frustrated my eyes fill with tears.

He knows me too well though, we’ve been together forever - since a girl at my school was murdered when I was nine. We’ve shared sagas. He knows and has faithfully kept all of my secrets.

I’d bet he’s been watching my wheels turn for days. “You always think you see a path forward that others don’t,” he says softly, “but you have a lot of runway left, Kid-O.”

I leave the pool and storm inside - not really angry, more embarrassed to be so vulnerable.
I get on the treadmill, and I run.

Agitation, despair and its winged variations, you name it
all repressed but still rise to test me

What is my recourse?
I tread lightly on this Escheresque concourse
It’s repeated often, I know
but the pen and keys are my most cathartic release
they’re magma to emerging flames
they’re sedatives for demons and angels alike
that reside on corners of this clavicle

How many steps could you take through my lens, my concave mirror?
Have you felt what I felt?
The brimming, cerebral cauldron bursting, putting volcanic geysers to shame
the questions outnumbering seconds spent since Earth’s nativity
the emotions ripping a rift through which rationality deep dives
it becomes Phelps in unknown depths
your body becomes both a Vatican and a Colosseum,
place of worship and place of war
and you walk the tightropes your vocal chords have morphed into
careful to seem like another replica, don’t wanna upset the blades they all balance on
don’t wanna scare the rest hollow, no,
best to follow and best to follow the regimen:

coffee beans and spice of delusion in the hazelnut syrup,
sip slow
follow the same cycle because change is a cocoon and cocoons ache like the past
keep on pretending to love the workplace
love the norms held over you
puppet strings bring warmth after all
in this solitary world cold as winter missile silos
and just as destructive

So I ask again, have you felt what I felt?

Do the few days in utopia offset the majority on rodent wheels?
Have you risen so high, to satellite peaks, to the best you’ve ever been
only to have the worst waiting on the coin’s parallel?

We flip like saltwater fins and backstroke till a back is left broke
I’m learning to discard hope but breathe in the alternative
I believe in better days, I will carve them from local stone
and build a home upon their surfaces
I now know paradise is a set of blueprints
happiness is no state of mind, it’s a direction to me
you may not notice when you arrive
but you keep going

and that’s the beauty of it
you let it be the wind
It’ll find you on your journey

Tell me again,
have you felt what I felt?

Not being one, who was born with a green thumb, or one of any other colour
I’ve never had a yearning to plant, nor care for, any type of flora or fauna
But as good fortune would have it; I was blessed, with the mind of a scholar
Or at least that was my theorization; while under the influence of marijuana

This was a period of time, during which knowledge flowed; like a gushing river
Sadly each lesson learned, was in the end, not comprehended and thus lost
But I had this situational calling to earn a living, and so, had these seeds to deliver
To some Basmotical garden; which unfortunately, in my haste, I later tossed

Of course, this occurred during a time of immense erudition; under the influence
This did cause me to manifest myself, as some exceptionally tortured soul
Not realizing how my outer apparent confidence, hid my inner impudence
I, into this garden of good and evil; did so thoughtlessly, let myself stroll

As I entered, under this arching Gothic gate, I immediately sensed a certain presence
And as I walked, was instantly drawn to one side’s fescue; bordering on my path
I was unfazed by the pedestrian variety of growth; but savoured each sweet essence
And as each new scent infused my sensory cells; my nostrils flared in their aftermath

But then on the other side, odors that stung and burned; a forewarning of some kind
So I grasped at my proboscis and squeezed it; to prevent any further *******
Making me gasp for air through my mouth, infusing my throat; though so disinclined  
Then causing me to heave and cough, from the putrid smell; during its gestation

On this side, such flowers of exception did excel; and yet that dreadful smell
On that, so casual a bloom; brought no visual enjoyment, only exquisite perfume
On one, like burning flesh, a rancid smell; it made me gag and want, not there to dwell
On the other, scents that made the nostrils spume, with the pleasance of their plume

Then all at once a revelation; to my left, there exists all nature of exotic foliage
But from its growth, leaped out all manner of fowl stench and guttural malodour
Yet to my right, the umbels lay, with a menagerie of misguided, erroneous spoilage
Though the effervescence of its bouquet; permeated, perceptibly from its disorder

I felt an enticing ubiquity, but not the nature of this presence, to my left and right
So, meandered further down the trail; until at last, I felt this attraction from each force
Both from the left and right, each enticing me to leave the trail, and enter its delight
This did at last, dupe my brain to say, choose; in which direction, to which concourse

Such a variance, made me ponder the relevance of what I had just discovered
Did I sense but apparitions; or was this truly spirits, which must exist among us  
This good or evil that lay hidden on each side, thusly camouflaged or covered
And a novice such as I, knew nothing of their nature; or was it just the cannabis

But, before I could decide, a puissance did ****** my throat and cloistered all my air
Not able to breathe, I impulsively dropped the bag of seeds, which I still carried
And as the bag burst and the seeds spewed forth, I thought, I am without a prayer
****** to my hands and knees upon the path, craving air; my demise, somehow tarried

As I watched those seeds slowly bounce; there arose a stream of sweet pure nectar
Which sped its way to my nostrils; and so relieved that tight noose around my throat
As my asphyxiation lost control; my passing, no longer became an imminent specter
My breathe returned, unencumbered by a ****; this new purity, to now my life denote

Not, to the ease by which I can my life direct, with mere stimulants; to be content
But to look ahead and discern, what it is I see; on which side the good or evil exists
And to forever, let my conscious being preside; over any future occasional discontent
So that now, my concentration would be, on the essentials; of which my life consists

But yet those seeds, so strewn about the footpath; was it for me then, to them gather
Either take their discharge as a sign; if left alone, the wastage may, by itself be fruitful
Or should I harvest each as best I could, to repackage them; and would that matter  
Inasmuch, they were so scattered, I let them lay; to not salvage them, I erred as frugal

So, I left this garden of good and evil; not perplexed by its existence, but assured
That not with the use of some opiates, would my future progress be thusly led astray
But through the realization, that stability and restraint, come from what I have endured
And good or evil, comes from attributes of my character; that I’ve earned along the way

And so, a moral you may ask.....maybe two
Then I say yes; well of course you do

From such a visceral experience, to bring about this massive conscious newel
A meaning was ascertained; firstly, from my consignment, thence, from my deliverance
Don’t scatter your seeds aimlessly, or leave them lay fallow, on a bed sheet or a towel
And trying to discern, delights of good or evil, while high on drugs; is just pure nonsense  
BOEMS BY JA 399

I have known the taste of salt water,
and the smell of decaying forests,
and the cracks in hundreds of sidewalks,
I have loved the gas petal,
and the airport concourse,
and the ever-changing time zones.
In all of these places,
I've found a home in not having one,
ready to admit,
you'll never catch up.

a.s.

i

Mount Malindang calleth me, it showeth me mine queen is there
She resteth up upon the greenery, picturesque perfect, I stare;
Inside the emulsion picture, her smile paint's the walls with red
Red for the love she engulf's me in, as roses align her sloped bed.

ii

Sketched on is her hairdo, beehive swathed, fairy tale written
Her wing's hath Baguette's, as tis the Baguette's art from heaven;
Comely she supplyeth, a king's every need's, as tis amour' we feed
Companied she warm's me, swarms me, ourn amare to all leak's.

iii

Concourse of the multitude, gathering beneathe ourn sloped hut
Ourn roof may be a little leaky, though ourn affection wilt fill up;
As tis we our a abode to ourselves, no straw mansion needed
A Convocation of cheribum watcher's, protect us in rainy season.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©,あある じぇえん

This actually happened in Center City Philadelphia
in a actual setting along the underground Broad Street
giant concourse. We always had a few homeless people
surviving underground but an explosion of homelessness
occupied during the Bush Regime. It got so bad that police dogs were used to chase these unfortunates away...


There's a little bit of Bushville under Broad Street
between Spruce and City Hall
There's a little bit of calamity between idle minds
and idle hours, between quick-*****-ground-naps,
police harsh tongue slaps and paper wraps
strewn helter skelter all about,
between dismal gatherings
of few laughter and just for basic survival

There's a little bit of Bushville
in saddened eyes and some veterans' ***** faces;
long unkempt beards
and bodies that lay limp in rags under cardboard in fetal
positions

There's a little bit of Bushville in hearts of broken promises
There's a little bit
of Bushville in ***** stench
and ***** walls and ***** ground made black

There's a little bit of Bushville in all our conscious-hearts,
too much, too much to do

Crowded by the cacophonous concourse,
My inhalation abducted by intruders.
But I am abandoned, deserted, forsaken,
Encompassed but forlorn.
And my piece of mind
Has always been at war.

The sky becomes ground,
The bird takes off.
Leaving town.

Everythings so small,
20,000 feet away.
As we fly over to Minnesota,
The home of states.

Now as we run,
Through concourse F to C.
Our legs are burning.
30 min to leave..

What a trip...

Air right front side to side cuth hand relaxed
Texture cold ghoul, see per person heart pierce
Magna seer, trials true down & Peer say angst
Hidden waves fly soon nerve endings concourse
Luck bare tailing virile Abe, ebb & remorse
Pearl once afar dragged near spirits across
Angel crime states left exempt never cross

Even the diviner was bemused by these channels, lost in my palm
Amidst the faults and erosions the like as November
Where, banal, it caught these skipping stones, day-to-day, arranged
For the radical saccades to pass, engross, my attention through the magic,
I now stare at Delphi, what binds the assumed catches
Bound, itself, to shy
To shy away from their centers.

But, now and then, my eyes will sojourn from my wanton ways
Through terraces of an empty map,
Where, by degrees, are shown their invisibilities in place of illustrations
Accoutered as décor, but fact, hastening a spider’s game:
Fixed in a drawer, renewed, splayed, drawn at constant.

These pickings, righteous, at a nail and toying on a salty lip,
Quiver, from the rector, day and night, pronouncing
Idle me, idolatry, standing at spreading concourse,
Till, evermore, my stumbling thoughts lose themselves
In my hand.

The hand.
The palm.
Lost channels flood themselves silt-rich waters boatful and boastful
Take on the name of fjord and trinity,
At which I stand, beside myself, and him, beside himself
More engrossed by far-flung ecstasies,
Quite-clear those instabilities, reaching for liquor—mid-shelf.

I could, perhaps, blind myself to the valleys—simple marked sleight of hand
But, travail those four peaks and their straining caps of snow
Unknown, it is but the larger picture, sewn to sinew runs of hair.

Too much, I plead for direction or sign, getting lost in mirrors or rhyme
These new utterances in the back of my throat, where, precisely,
Is the seat of pride,
Each a reckless trail back to the temples of uncharted weathered skin
—The vaguenesses that she enthralled, as to what I am read
Thinking nothing at all and, he, the friend of ever
Under the same stars to the north, south, in every direction.
So helpless, cold shaking and pensions of the moon, anon,
I read as the distance, empty candescences that thirst to know
Exactly what they should have known, where clairvoyance falls short
Steps, like quite brushstrokes: one at a time, wide, unending.

There's a man in a purple shirt
eating ice cream
at eight in the morning,
a lady in a wheel chair
putting on lipstick
& an elderly couple
sitting
across from me
figuring out their smart phone.

Jim Croce croons
about time in a bottle
as the tapping of shoes
crisscrosses the concourse.

A baby screams
and three workers
converse in Espanol.
The ticket-taker types frantically
on her keyboard
as Mr. Nice guy
is longer,
he's ****** about
his missing reservation.

And me,
silent as can be,
sits here alone
banging away on my own cell,
connected to another world,
oblivious to those around me.