Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk.

In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing.

I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything.

I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in.

Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.

Flecks of violet, patch-quilt  loofah skin of  sponge-green iris, gold dusted
Emerald  eyes... wet stones in flesh tone, parachute baskets; paratroop lids
Descend... thin paradigms slip ; adrift upon a Seam of Tears. A saline Sea - with
Glass floor; lensing starlight over mint pink trampolines
covered in tiny copper filings,

And two Black Pools that Expand.
Two Sunbathing Night Blossoms -

Dead center. Unmanned...

Her cheekbones encroach upon Cataracts of Vacancy.
Lipid lathes of Lethe ; lips departed... red zeppelins, moist and mute . pontoons
Plump and mindless. Bee stung -
Open.

Soft mimes, glide
Over bleach and stain; over -
bone white; glide
Over Nicotine sigils, hiding -
in off-white
Enamel...

like anonymous petroglyphs for Dentists.
or Rosetta Stones for a lethargic Tongue.



II


Theta-wave turbines, throw rods and spark nods ... as others speak.
She resembles a dream-catcher’s mitt.
Words hiss now, and solid mist, twist the tell o' gram.
Into Fable's Armada !

Fog.... fog rolls in...   She rolls in, Beneath  a New Between. of Chasms
Hazardous grammar spasms, stammering -
Deaf tones of Diction -
All This ....In the Good Ear.
An Ear Of Cornucopias Delete.... The Dry Cob
Of  Annulled
Speech. [ but Morphine ]

Maybe a half-dozen kernels of distinct cream ; velveteen vague...
Or vivid - pleats in pure radiation.
?
Perhaps,  varicose inanities are expiation enough to drown a Kraken ?  Maybe God Happens ?

Let Ampule be the Judge.  Let Pack Mules be Priests.

As Others speak, Our Lily,  decrypts languidly left of linear... dislodged -
from Lexicons ....with long Odds, Against...
She Relents, Relentlessly-  And Utterly

Utterly Regardless...

She aborts pregnant ( .... )
pauses.

All this Fog rolls in... Agnostic.
She Robs
The Cuckoo... She De-bones the Soup
with Disjoint Comments.
And Scuttles
The Broth.

She's all Starlings and Polaroids.... Savage Pinwheels  and Aurora Vandals.

She's  All Plasma...
And Rapture -
with No Handles ...

She's Both Ends ... Burning
NOooo Candle .

A Wee Atlas; Shouldering A Loss
Ever Since Her World  
Was  Dismantled ..  A  Burden ( ... )
Lily
Phantom
Shrugs  

And Random Drugs..Atlantis.

soft words and their way of making people sing
lull me like a sweet tune in this chimney, in this place
in my head, slurring over and over until lines would draw up triangles of sleepy infant "jeux",
  circles of faded fantasies would come to life and pray,
  plus rectangles and cornucopias filled with fun and livelier days.
clouds of droopy golden light drip over our heads as we both lay
in soft blankets made out of my personal handmade Heaven's embrace
lush silk pillows under our overweight, over-bearing, strongly fastened necks
  'cause they hold Atlas' weight and the answers for today.
the cycle ends for another shortened day...
the air seems rich with the smell of freshly-made pancakes.
little troll walking down the stairs with a new spring in her step.
lean into the chocolatey sweetness of a mother's oven-like haze,
close your eyes and wonder
if you'll ever feel the same.

R.J Calzonetti


Screaming cross the skyscraper’s windbreaker tapering

Aether vapour- trailblazing ****-sapien wafers

Of machinations psychotropic doppelgängers

Aristotle throttling menagerie’s philosophically hypnotic obelisks

Mind-boggling astronomical chronological esophagus

Antioxidants phosphorus catastrophic mitochondria

Beyond anaconda onomatopoeia

Of hallucinogenic Armageddon biblical umbilical cords

Swarming northern lights of aurora borealis

The chalice a battleground of Evangelion belladonna

Metalica candelabra swallowing the monochrome Hanukkah

Of a cold winter’s eldritch disintegration photosynthesis

Of innocent infinity stretching wretched beckoning requiem

The words that fall upon my page, are really just a shallow grave

Of the dawn of nighttime in my eyes, calm upon the twilight sun

Wrong is done draped on the blood moon wraiths

Skyscraped fields dusk a hollow thud below the dunes

That thumps the consumption of our fate, fumes to glow in darkness loom

Left blind in light of day you cannot see, the little pieces silver sheen

For blinding light may fade to grey, and I will never have my way

Nightfalls on another daybreak, dawning darkness, sundown on another day

Twilight plays with sparkling haze, the sky a wildfire made ablaze in patchwork scarecrows

Who etch rainbows black as a heart of coal, sold flatlining railroads

Gold wraithlike halos of stained-glass cathedrals unreal in the fever-dream of human beings

Bleeding Elysium from the seabed of dead worlds, gourds of incorporeal cornucopias

Born orchestra morsels of sorrowful oracles predicting crucifixion of ellipsis’ antithesis


(MC) Aurora


Absonant  as my pen writes the twilight, the red swallowed on horizon and bright

As through a sea of blood under my feet and shrinking mast of my mighty ship

A shadow I make on that red snow and peep into my heart’s hollow

It’s deep as much as my pen spake of grief.

I blinded in that last light and hurled like a beast dreading the songs of holy lies

That have just pained in bright and made me grieve.

They dragged me on my wings and deplumate  me as so fallen humans

They wrenched my limbs and rive my heart out and flinger me in air and I laid forever

On the stones that dank my blood.

I wait for the troth  of  demise but betrayed as it didn’t come to detract,

I laid when the horizon grinned red on my face and poured the last ale

And brutally drank the last sip of me.



R.J Calzonetti


People are sleeping under the blankets of a tranquil streetlamp

A sunflower in the damp bed of concrete

Soon they’ll be pushing up daisies

Underneath the foundation of what I stand for

Nip the bud of the flower pedalling the root of all evil like fallen leaves

Breeding paraplegic freedom from the pollen melancholic

Anarchistic polycrystalline shapeshifters drifting vilified

Buried alive like asphalt constellations crowning metallic gallows alcoholic in my solitude

See the clouds bury the ground in half a heaven’s heartbeat

Limbo’s limitless abyss the photosynthesis of the sepulchral diablo

Revenants of redemption dancing with death

Evanescent in its bioluminescent crescent moon spooning illuminated illustrations

Of Himalayan mayhem cremated avarice of ethereal onomatopoeia unravelling catacombs in God’s palindromes

Homeopathic saplings decapitated in the dismembered September wastelands defibrillator

Invigorating the nightshade white wraiths plane-walkers of Apocrypha documenting entropy

Pent up sentience avenging the endless demigods of discombobulated proclamations nocturne graceless, octaves eldritch, evangelic

Elegant elevators to flights of staircases where the air is fragrant with the fragments of stagnant stained glass asterisks

Written gospels to masquerade hostage to the faith the man misplaced the sacred hate, the passageways of apathy apostrophe

Apartheid of serpentine survivors carving smiles on the sidewalks

Farming diamonds and their detox

Arming giants like a phoenix

Carnal nihilists with their secrets

Stardust quiet as the bleachers

Start defiant still a reject

Art discipled to our freedom

Shattered hearts pick up the pieces

Jigsaw puzzles, smothered treasons

Sow the seeds and **** the reaper

Even legions rhyme and reason

Tattered flags without a penance

Good men do not go to heaven

Buy your burden at 7-11

Your exit is the only the next entrance

Resurrection prepubescent

Asymmetric biomechanics

Anguish to be reprimanded

Megalomaniac in our sabbath

Living life is just a sentence

Psalms of seance death’s senescence

Baptize vengeance lest it ventures into heaven

Ventriloquist omniscience of rhythmic equilibrium

Earthly hurricanes reemerging insurgent as the sugarcane purgatory

Primordials metamorphosis contorting rigour Mortis oracles horoscope cloaked in cloaca hallucinations

Induced irradiated amalgamated retaliatory incorporeal chlorophyll

Born from the sorcerers' spell, the cathedral of doubt

The only darkness is within oneself, light shed within a holy shell

Isolation is a lonely hell, scythes of moonlight blight of bells

Nightingales fail to halo word of mouth

Enveloped in the clouds cast shadows hex

But resurrection cannot hide from the eyes of death

Fresh as babies breath

Rank as the body festers effigies

Bless the Nephilim the questions beck

And call for some god to collect the rest

Is there any answer?

Even growth can be a cancer

Lifeless corpses once were dancers

Devils waltz on top of canopies

Heaven’s hands have touched serenity

****** brands that crushed His enemies

Stained glass sanguine dismantled entropy

Calamity ran dry insanity dabbling in humanity

Unravelling the candy wrapper saplings of happiness

Pitch black irradiant dull edges sharpening archangels, darkness reincarnating

Blinding bioluminescent glistening abyssal rakshasa sarcophagus parting monarchies

Metamorphosis coruscating fornication immortalization Tartarean

Reverberating ****-sapien scintillating hurricanes palpitation circulating ricocheting oblivion

Shining crepuscular homunculus dully illustrious

Sunless avatars, mannequins of Abaddon stygian as fallen leaves on the breeze of Avalon Evangelion

Incarceration breeding Elysium’s jailors in the cathedral of double helixes

Bethlehem's’ new genesis of Lucifer’s crucifixion

Brighter than a fallen star

Mourning in the dark

Doppelganger apostles night stalkers of phosphorous

Pockmarked arcanum bloodstained in gravestone Salem

Where the braves’ halos dined on maelstroms alone

Heirs succeeding failures of the empty throne

Filled with nothings’ own

Brimming bound by Babylonian poems

Deus ex Machina's apocalypse coughing prophets of Samsara blossoming diabolic

Life is but a Holocaust

Death the moment God forgot

Breath the only psalm we sought

Kept within a hollow box

Shedding devils, angelic, lost

Finding metamorphosis


(MC) Aurora


A world often synonymous with beauty on the horizon,

Meet my eyes you mourned demon load the strength on thee.

Crestfallen light on your wrist burns down your girth

And you can plead, just plead your twilight sun.

Watch the dead sea swallow you in the salts of agony

And drown in the anguish, hundreds of angelic bloodsheds,

Press hold of the thumbprints on your throat, you can't roar.

Sore lugubrious melancholy aired atmosphere,

And downhearted souls dispirited dragons dragged along.

The sob grim hiding in a blue funk rusty smog choking wind,

The nyctophilliac animals howl long the cold-blooded love song

In your lungs and burn.

It's the twilight sun,

Just that twilight sun.

Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk.

In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing.

I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything.

I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in.

Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.

I walked around you
seven times
under that canopy
and you smashed that glass
our hearts flew
         and all around us
Cheers
Then moving down the line
with these mixed up mashed up
years
Three growing precious seedlings
in our shared garden
         fertile soil, tender new leaves
blessings of fruit and flowers
                     cornucopias of sheaves
As we battled side by side
when hard times
           demanded nourishing:
Little bud born before her time
                 now a blossom flourishing
Little man struggling with his anger
                        calmer in his essence
Angel child's illness
and recovery:
a blessed efflorescence
Yes this woman is thankful
appreciative beyond words
and simultaneously so weary
                         of always struggling to be heard
yes, deep inside
long years remaining
              invisible
less and less warmth
of emotional and physical
and now, somehow
        your motivation has been tossed
  the way to each others' spirits
in raging heartwaves- lost
If this sacred bond
was written in fire
Baby, you have left me to burn
The only way to save myself
is to search for all I yearn
I made myself into what I thought
you wanted
Pushed my soul into a tiny box
now it simply won't stay in
and I bust open all the locks

I put out the fires
       of the stars in my eyes
to try and fit your flow
in the process
lost myself in the abyss
ignoring my inner glow
    
Well
my darling it is time
to be released from darkness
if you will not
take my hand
if you will not
run with me
if you will not
accept my hands of help
if you will not
be willing
at all
I will walk seven times  around the fire
I will smash the glass of my heart
I will pick up those pieces
and hold them up to the stars
I will be rebuilt,
taking back the constellations

I will throw them back
into the vastness
of creation
I will honor our process
before I gently, firmly,
take apart
the sweet universe
we have constructed
finishing the start
we will protect our flowers
And you will wonder
as you turn
into earthen fossil stone

Why on earth,
why in heaven's name
are you suddenly
alone

It ended before it began
Time is of the essence
I knew this wasn’t true
“I’ll always be there for you.”
Words from a man, a creature with cornucopias
The chaser of red flags 🚩

I’m twenty now, still, I am chasing to be
grown! if my concertina memory serves me right
I was happier younger, when I was acting
depressed and had no bills.
I got therapy and love, now.

Unfortunately, I must go,
The clock is ticking.
The end of my childhood has arrived.

The loony warbles of a sentient time are the granular epiphany of beckoned realization curtailed by the bamboozled foofaraw of inclement centuries weighing upon freebooter avarice and becoming litigants of their own specialty because in costermongers we find the worst gyrovagues issued by humanity. We spin at warp speed for a dilettante triumph because it issues with it a declaration of inclinations mixed with a desuetude of infirmity that spans the gamut of the global incontinence of dredged infamy becoming a retinoise to a selective fame rather than a bulldozed femicide sparkling in the mist of a wicked ***** rather than a bedecked hypertrophy that sustains us through tachydidaxy as we try and conquer the malingered tropes of kilns of baked bronze.


The balkanized internecine divides that separate the barbarism of the epigones of the past from the belletrist of an upcoming foreseeable future becomes a rejoinder to those who count only as sejungible the boredom of fantasy deprived of fantasia because of the serenade of wistful lugubrious decadence clamoring with clangor to become a self-efficacy of situations rather than a bonanza for separations in civilized affronts of masked time that is the avenger for the saccharine entropy cornered by the capers of a caste of maskirovka because it is a lifeless but livid atrocity to fall into the wrong hands of a delicacy bought by the blood of the innocent when obviously the exculpation of centuries erodes the monolith of draconian tyranny and drapes it with a bemused trope that forswinks duty in order to pasteurize a remontant flower of a wicked spartan negligence of reckless rackrent in the temporal frame that favors the non-linear expression  of ingenuity over the temulentia of advanced decrees to serpentine to flow neatly in the nexility of circumstance by the legerdemain of the circumstantial because the categorical prerogative of lurches in time is that a bypass becomes its own cement that berates the lackluster sheen that is formant to reality only in the conscientious hearth of abandonment. Now that I am flexing my linguistic largesse properly I can fathom the depths of any quagmire of residual endeavors that scrape with abrasive fictions the litany of liturgies competing for primacy because prophecy is a mute dudgeon of the iniquities of our past becoming erased by the sinecures of defalcation from the universal alveolate censure of a decimated mercurial bonanza that appeases simple hearts but evades the evasive prerogatives of willborne triumphs which elope predictably into the cadaster of influence that borrows from nescience the ridicule of the legionnaires that are a bricolage for civilization timid in the reticent squalls of naivety but pregnant with inestimable riches for the keen observation of a reckless carom of a waxing time belonging to the orbital physics of psychic emoluments to a conquest of centuries by the privilege of the  violent torpindage that keeps the immutable certainty of our privy past to become the ringleaders of sedition in destiny that ironically invent serendipity to quell that itch for serotinous barnstorms which are benighted and muddled with borrowed effrontery.


The grandstand of the artifice of the barnstorm is the truth seen only through privileged eyes becoming a simultaneous threat and boon to the safety of the charades of the unknown wilting with etiolation at the first sight of gerrymandered incontinence while proves the futility of all endeavors to outfox the future by relying on the past formulas that are a categorical endangerment of rifled time.




There is a delicacy in convergence because the sinuous architecture of solemn docimasy leads ironically to a cleavage of divergence that predicates the uniformity of time to beleaguer the abortive premises of workaday generations into sharp focus of harmony that swivels with desultory prowess above the carcass of the plaid pedestrian attitudes that simper and jostle through the recessive alleles of time to provoke the ascertained future into strictures of enlightenment because to berate and diverge from the optimal is a sore spotty indigence because the craft of the future become the harbingers of escaped dearth because of cornucopias of amassed conscientious deliberation leading to predictable termini.


The wilted dance of a terpsichorean convolution is that the maximum acme and the minimum nadir both orbit eccentrically around bemused confusion of riddled light becoming the entropy of an unknowable certainty in universal ghastly fright because the prediction arms the predicate symphony into an orchestra of harmony beyond heterodyne blemishes because in every witness there is a conflated belligerence that becomes its own irenic accord when it is siphoned through the limited perception of sapience verging on naive negligence because perception bereaves the sublime and subliminal into an etch-a-sketch mandate of sedition against cordial sympathies. We must then therefore fasten our attentions beyond but between simultagnosia exasperated by spartan entrails and residue of our carnivorous feast of plagued gambols in the lollygag of a useless proctor of diminutive civilizations and find the centripetal pivot that enables us to warp the fabricated bluster of the blench and blarney of masquerades of enthralled piggybacks through  the vicarious thrills of dementia becoming a termagant against the rich troves of destiny.
Time Travel is essentially a rejoinder to the question of why? But never the answer for when because it showcases through the furrows of a groovy rectiserial balderdash unknown to even the vast majority of the litany of man that we can proceed through the interdimensional void but never alter its trajectory because the predevoted is always the capstone words that become parallax trajectories of memory diluted into the wooded halls of an imagined filigree of primordial geometry affixed to conflation just enough so that the delusional palisades of demented destiny always cavort with a misinterpreted boondoggle that ratchets and titrates the proper dose of misinformation so that the world contorts from ignorance into certainty and without the categorical properties of deception we would be lost in a world without raconteur suspense because every heyday has its own plagued infamies that span the canvass of human atrocity becoming  benevolent artifice of calculated negligence rather than bemused harm seen miles away to the extent that the extramundane world is just a serial issue of fiction absconding away from pretense in plight only to arrive at injury because of the throttles of spartan revolt. We need to fumble and botch our crimson endeavors into a recursive cycle because the blemish of foreseeable futures would eventually evaporate into abortive loops of prediction precluding eventuality and the eventual superseding the harmful relics of Potemkin Villages erected to serve the almighty dollar because of the sclerotic dementia of ulterior purpose.

What God has put asunder, I have joined together.
He chuckles at this somewhat self-consciously,
His clientele comprised primarily of gentlemen of a certain age,
Most of whom have stepped off to the altar
Twice or thrice, some even more,
Whose wives will be, at least pro tem,
The mistresses of the Moorish bastardizations
Being commissioned by their husbands,
Vaguely Iberian grotesqueries
Christened Sin Cuidado and Villa Tranquilla
Festooned with cornucopias of cornices and cupolas,
Featuring vaulted cathedral ceilings and open-prairie floor plans,
Impossible to cool in the ninety-degree dawn of August
Or heat during the all too frequent cold snaps,
(Such being noted to him by a visitor
From a staid Boston architectural firm,
To which he replied, Save that for the classrooms, pal.
I give the people what they want, dad,
And these folks are first, last, and forever
All about the façade.)

It is not, however, his effort to turn Florida’s East Coast
Into a giant movie set for the stories of Don Juan or El Cid
Which inspires him to utter his inversion of the marital vow.
He has moved beyond being a mere designer;
He is a man of substance, a builder in the larger, cosmic sense,
And so he is here, in this sticky, sweltering venue
Which disappointed Spaniards named after a rat’s oral cavity,
To make a new Venice, complete with electric gondolas,
Cloisters which would put any in the Old World to shame,
Gesturing, bellowing, and cajoling,
A Prospero of sawhorses and steam shovels,
As displaced Seminoles and colored laborers
Sweat and swear and stumble
As they dredge swamps and hack down stumpy mangroves
In the service of his vision, the aggrandizement of his bottom line,
Arm-twisting the caprices of drought and hurricane
To serve the pricier whims
Of a gaggle of DuPonts and Wanamakers.
It’s not that I don’t believe in a higher power, he will demur,
I’m simply not averse to some slight enhancement of His plans.

i remember writing that we fell into each other in july

do you recall when i read to you that i hoped we would fall in love in october?

it's november now, the world a dazzling gallery of crimson, gold, & rust...

i sent an invite to your new address for a rooftop rendezvous

glasses of peach wine & dozens of little red cards

a requested reminiscing...an appointed questionnaire in regard to our past life spent like impulsive racehorse bets

the leaves fall from damp branches to the dark earth like new loves blooming, but everyone knows nothing new blooms during the autumn

"meet me on the rooftop when the jack-o-lanterns turn to cornucopias but before the first frost nips at your fingertips"

and we can catch up & remember the memories, we can laugh and watch the condensation from our breath rise up to the gray autumn sky in clouds like chimney smoke from the rooftops

"meet me on the rooftop when the thought of us no longer makes me cry but before i forget what it felt like to care too much"

and we can scream our favorite songs & recall the times i tripped over every crack in the ground, we can talk for hours about anything, everything & how pineapple belongs on pizza, as we watch the families eat dinner around their tables & create elaborate fiction about their cookie-cutter lives...

"meet me on the rooftop when the autumn leaves are wind-driven but before they are a distant memory as they rest beneath the soft white winter blanket . . .before i forget what you look like...before i forget your middle name...before i forget the sound of your voice" . . .

Shanghai heartbeats human with tumbling turning tiny vessels
it's unbridled chaotic transient transforms envisioned
it's growth and growth irreverent and growth
it's powerful it's frightening it's discordant, it's magnificent

London thrums an overabundance plant bloom on stone crag
ancient, munificent, and sublimely regal it demands
attention, respect, awe and provides plenty justifications
there is an atmosphere I find here where my words fail

Tokyo I find harmonic in its essence,
thrumming and bustling in true city fashion,
yet pocked thoroughly with havens of solace
the quaints and the quicks sprawled out in unity

New York is The City as all other cities are
and it is a cornucopia of cornucopias
as the empirical standard stands tall
densely upwards densely broad ways

Seattle dours in my beloved gloom
spackling stupendous summers in between
gray months incredible
the elements arrive in a conglomerate here

My friend wears his coat like a skin
peeled from a molting elk.
Patches cover holes in the elbows
made by leaning against brick walls to catch his breath
or falling on broken glass.

His pockets had once been cornucopias milk-toothed children
drowned in.
Candies poured out in cascades of foil, wax paper
and plastic wrap.

Hands, lightly powdered with icing sugar
perfumed the air around him with
the scent of caramel.

Suffused with thews refused even Midas,
everything he touched turned to chocolate, honey and smiles…
but now,
vacant of liquorice, lint,
money, mints,
his pocket linings contain less air
than shredded banderoles
flapping on abandoned cannon scarred battlefields.

Those once confectionary hands
swapped candy canes for walking sticks.

He trudges along the sidewalk
through quicksand thick crowds
on legs more numb than a spree killer,
at the pace of a wounded man
fighting a snowstorm conjured just for him.

This illness,
called ‘old friend’ in mixed company
(he smokes his weight in cannabis)
hangs on him like a drunken boatswain
carried aboard after shore leave
by the only mate holding his liquor.

This ‘old friend’
demyelinates
desecrates nerve tissue
reduces neural pathways to shriveled river beds
leaving dead end streets strewn
with discarded bundles of axons.

My friend wears his skin the same way a coat hanger wears a bathrobe.
It dangles on threadbare shoulders like defeat,
a race worn down
by centuries under the lash.

Through it all he smiles,
a good sport
fighting through sludge
day after day after day,
dragging one good foot
ahead of the other
before it shrinks away.

The cornucopias of correctness,
Jake Angeli was promoting the
costume of native Americans,
standing up for the democratic
rights of the constitution, plus,
reminding the world, that 1776
is a digital code to Capital Hill.

Can I expect greater focus and stand derailed?
Our train for thoughts, not landed, until reticent reveals-
We formed and turned, tooted and found,
a direct place seemingly law

  the regard of wisdom fathoms
  tell tale signs not butter tripes
Is not time that similar insolence?
The gathered people shall renege as justice foresaw.

Glee in the place of prayer who can place their thoughts so well
Lest we'd be walking avenues
of light
irrespective of the towne's name.

Proclamations the virtue to share more solitude of thoughts
Which of itself is as original train... it  went off the tracks

Couple of minutes cinders free floating, auburn, yet, suppressive.
A fluorescent orange forms not an error with deliverance but how did it get there to  begin with

Perhaps a breadth of light did bless the soul

For I know not the real use - free to return to the basis wherewithal  systemary thought processes deserve what follows as they say shall conclude when only of pain

Thats not merry, rejoice, all reality follows the litany that you could have a special fate
an answered prayer for that real worth ,
a chamber of secrets if you will have waited to be
eased, soothed & ascribe deliverance's ambiance

Oh'! Brothers and sisters winning by means
of the visions lasted of years

While once... and never any thoughts that embellished conscience samples- what little sinicisms in these holiday prayers...
there are more armistices than need to
welcome reform or speak of ideals  
ode  and memento mori  old friends and I
Tales tall  have that we rationaly are physically well

But to evince what creations life's victories meant to mean
there are arrivals of whips lead by cornucopias  foods
and flowing silver hair broaches results of supreme
consecutive alarms that soon announce

Heavenly illustrations yet the sensations
eternal holds, a glorious femme

Whence seasons divided, follies... and arrives the memory of lyrics

Ascended path, gifts auspicious, send our togetherness and
make this our Christmas blessed and thanks so gracious

If you cut a baguette in half,
then hollow out each horn and
crumb the bread, next, include
it into a mixture of boiled egg
white, diced red onion, tomato,
parsley, thyme, pepper and salt,
then pack back into the hollow
cones, there are you cornucopias.

               Mangez Bien.