There is no smell in all the world,
None in the North or South,
None in the East or West,
None in the lowest places,
None on the highest peaks,
Like that smell filling the air,
Filling the house,
Filling my senses,
That smell of spaghetti frying,
Frying in the morning light,
The smell so different from when it was first cooked,
Moving the senses,
Moving the mind,
Anticipation in scent,
The sauce sizzling,
Changing,
Changing in the frying pan,
As the noodles turn crisper,
Crisper,
Crisp,
With that crispness like no other,
The noodles,
No longer white,
Made yellow,
Yellow from the sauce,
Fried onto them,
One with them,
Flavours seeping in,
And the sauce,
Orange now,
Red orange but clearly orange,
No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan,
And as the sauce and noodles change,
Reach that perfect point,
The smell just right,
The colour just right,
The texture just right,
The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo,
Then, and only then,
The spaghetti no longer stirring,
Evened out,
Temperature lowered,
And carefully,
Slowly,
To keep them on the top,
The eggs break,
White running among the noodles,
Filling the gaps,
Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan,
Yolks floating on top where they should be,
The perfect drop,
And the odours as the white changes,
Filling the air with new scents,
Mingling with the ones already present,
And then the salt, disappearing on the surface,
The black pepper,
Black flects,
Scattered evenly,
Perfectly,
The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti,
And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole,
That hot smell,
That bright red colour,
And the silver lid slips on,
Over the top,
Hiding,
Protecting,
Cooking the whole,
Until it is done,
And the lid set aside,
The whole onto a plate,
Perfect to the senses,
The smell,
The colours,
The texture,
Perfect,
And the first bight,
Heavenly,
Like nothing else on earth,
Almost sweet,
But still savoury,
Strange to those knowing bowled pasta,
Strange to those knowing simmered sauce,
Strange to those knowing fried eggs,
But the tastes,
Perfect,
Blended,
Strange but familiar,
Many memories,
Images,
Experiences,
All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti,
And the fork through the yoke,
As it runs down,
Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white,
Perfect,
Amazing,
Done.

~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015

“The love betweenness^ a mother and her son”
when it’s healthy strong and ancient,
like this, is for me, and it seems,
for you as well, almost a supernatural force in certain ways.
I know many other women who understand this.
It’s been probably the best surprise of my life.” Medusa

sometime, a poem commission needs a quiet time rumination,
a seventh inning time out to birth a perfect game,
a mental stretch mark,
did your know your commentation was a commandation,
write me up, punch my ticket and jump back into murky waters,
where a hu-man boy child only gifted me a tertiary imagination, comprehensive incomprehension

this look upon differing and different, parenting parts of me,
with the bright den mother’s sun gazing eyes of a new motherland,
promotion to an incessant guardianship,
an ordered mathematical centrality,^
a forever buck private’s uniform shoulder stripe pointing to mom

maternal rhymes with eternal

for children go off and go on about their lives,
occasionally glancing backwards,
but a mother’s eyes are an all encompassing, an all white canvass painting that the artist continue-ously slyly forward refreshes,
forever white repainted with each perpetual glancing thought added

this mother woke, sensing her make-male creation
is a gender separate separation,
a mystery needing learning, genes requiring a crisper adult education, a breast refilling is a sharing, eye to eye,  
****** to mouth, transferring a transformation,
between a new meaningful, an analogy of understanding that
swims in both directions, across a uniting natural division that unites,  better called an open boundary

daughters are different but the insanity~same,
a poem for another day

a supernatural surprise that occurs daily,
that you rightly appel it, as ancient  is correctly unsurprising
for the knowledge is in every cell recorded, time immemorial

apologies;
my insufficient words
can’t explain this
dotted line division,
only that, I too am a student driver mother,
my son, a teacher,  a natural scholar,
the understanding we shared is instantaneous and confusing,
as we go back and forth together,
travellers tween the dotted line spaces,
absorbing his milky ways,
informations that were not obviously ****** in me, or if they were,
awaited this suckling’s coronation and education, invitation


our differences are not a true division,
but a new manner of best embracing

which is why with good humor, our private joking, is that he
is my very own  nap-ster master,^^ we are an ordered centrality^

(Descendant of the Eight Small Furies)

Cold frigged and wet but not icy and not yet. Two laborers at docks
find camaraderie in talks, tho’ their neighbors bustle by as they unload shipping stocks,  

For the kinsfolk miss a nothing a light mist of breath when huffing.  
The women like to pout as the crassy men do shout, shine on awhile whistling, Inn-keepers at shops coo their bristling and Old Wicca ones seen hissing from low, low talk in whisperings,

Although the morning bright the seas are high and not retreating, weather cool and fleeting, the peoples sounds a blend of bleating, as wily sheep would gather to speak about a matter for it is not the people’s spoke of that draws faint sorts of blather.

On this day...rains are much to rather, feigning raspy talons cloaked in chatter and from stores to shores to boat, seas, lakes, lochs, bridges over moat, not as to say they gloat, or ramble to invoke which fear of and from it stoke the gossip on one surly bloke…

For on this day everyone is talking in this seaside town in Eire. A hero undone by gossip but none can be called a liar. For about whom and what of -a man of such great fire.

Celebrity renown, born and raised but not settled down. Within its boundaries a-proper but of such character to copper, to change tasty meat to fat and bone, awe in disposition down to tone, mind boggling this gent whose life god gave as a gift of own.

In a perplexity of fright, brought tragedy each night and none could get away, from the obvious decay, due brutal awful fray, to make a beast from a shining dove, what the hell was God thinking of?

The crisper ears do so hear though not quite enough to whet, the imaginings to happenings they speak about just yet.  So hastily move spies, as I tell you of the sighs, the indignity and pride, swallowed with a town’s growing angry tide,

Upon this night so they see a man, creep who once the pride of Dan, loved more above all here in Tan, his birthplace this old briny-land but lately fondness on the wan, oh here he comes to close in again, to wane and wax vaudevillian, end up by dark a plain villain, as his face turns a shade of vermilion, electric ghost of Kirlian, eclectic host of deviling and calculated mind disheveling,

Pumped of mead or whiskey arguments are risky. Against his manner and girth, intoxicated nature -or mental worth. Sheer size attests his power, muck and mirth to fallen valor, the change is said to wow us, proven brute against all prowess, as such preferred and fight and such to nightly fright,

Béarthr is this man of once, of promises found to be just fronts, hanging around a town's high perch…though seen at the bar as sulk and lurch, or testy to some called a sailor who know not the fear of old dear Balor?

Sullen rent asunder, quick to wit when buntered, try with fists this skunkard; you brought low as a punter, hail to hell with such a drunkard! To stand and watch in awe, as blood and cracks and calls with cries and screams at falls, at doors torn from building halls, no end or stop to pause, sheer terror fighting brawls with fists he lays the laws, a violent testament to theater,

The burly beast named Béarthr!

Eight levels down to hell with him, each evening a town made grim but not tonight and nevermore, a double barrel out missing door, a silence from frosty place our cavern and dead beast felled on floor of tavern!  

If you find yourself frisky one night and driving through our Tan. If you’ve got salt are brisk for fight and hold your weight in sand…
…then make your way to such a place, renowned for such a meter,

You’ll find a name above the door;

O’ Ochtar beag the Béarthr!

Seeing the world after having your eyes
Veiled
For the longest time is like being born again.
Colors are sharper.
Air is crisper.
Sensations, so much stronger than I had ever felt because I had been stifling them like a bad cough.
Now,
Letting them rip through me,
I saw the world for what it was,
And saw that I was worth saving.
And once I realized this...
Saw the colors in the air...
Heard each new
Noise
Scent
Taste
Touch,
I knew that before long they would be nothing again if I didn't have you.

At the top of a hill in a land far away,
stands a seedling alone; its leaves quietly sway.

It has nowhere to hide from the blistering sun;
there's no shield from the winds that frequently run.
Empty land – there isn't a bush nor a tree nearby.
It grows there all alone, but it is getting by...

On the nights full of rain and frightening lightning,
through a quiver of fear, it would stay there fighting:
"I want one day to grow to a big, mighty tree
with a trunk wide and strong that no wind could bend me!"
Its small roots would absorb murky water from storms
and by morning it smiles as a new leaf bud forms.

Leaf by leaf, day by day, this small seedling gets bigger.
Twig by twig, year by year; to grow large it is eager.

On occasion it would get a visit or two:
cheerful birds from the sky would come down to say Hi,
and a fluffy white rabbit would drop by, out of habit;
friendly ants, butterflies, and at night fireflies—
all would merrily chatter but too soon all would scatter.

With a smile, the seedling would request them to stay
but would always hear back: "I must be on my way!"
One day, curious, it asked: "On your way, where to?"
"To the woods down the hill, full of trees just like you!"
"Full of trees just like me..." no one heard it whisper
rustling leaves, as the air around it got crisper.

Leaf by leaf, day by day, it still grows but looks small.
Twig by twig, year by year; it's alone, after all.

Having grown tall enough, the seedling now sees it—
past the field down the hill—the one place all birds visit:
a majestic forest stretching wide—a green sea!
—with tall pines, mighty oaks, and other grown trees.

What a beautiful sight! It just can't turn away!
Wishes strongly the seedling, to be there one day.
It dreams of gentle sounds running through the lush crowns,
of the comforting shade that the woods surely make.
Stretching branches—now long!—
wishes it to belong...

Leaf by leaf, day by day, cries the seedling...
"Unfair!"
Twig by twig, year by year;
"Why do I grow out here?"

Very lonely, the seedling remains on the hill,
casting shadows dark, broad, keeping leaves very still.
Hoping that through the years, it will stop being sad,
and will once again notice that this place isn't bad.

It is there for a reason not easily seen:
for the birds and rabbits, it's a sheltering tree.
When they stop to say Hi, coming down from the sky,
they are looking for shelter from a summer day's swelter
or a comforting shoulder on the days that are colder.

Leaf by leaf, day by day, now an oak, it's grown tall.
Twig by twig, year by year; it's alright, after all.

On a very nice day, after cold driving rain,
in the grass, not too far, it saw something bizarre—
the sight so peculiar and oddly familiar—
a seedling so tiny it looked almost funny!

But the sun was hot—scorching, to the seedling's misfortune.
And the leaves were trembling, their form too much resembling
of the oak's lonely past. Stretching branches, lush, vast,
it protected the youngling that was, clearly, struggling.
In the comforting shade, it could stay unafraid.
                                              *
At the top of a hill in a land far away,
grow a seedling and oak; their leaves quietly sway.

Wrap your legs around me tonight,

he begs

Whisper to me through the web

His voice huskily beseeches

His eyes breathe pillowtalk whisper

fingertips feel a little bit crisper.

Which web, she murmers hungrily

The heat builds between them

as if there is even an in- between.

The cobwebs on my heart.

He groans and shifts and aches

for her sword of velvet to stab through

his doors of steel

Im a slave to you, you’re my heroine

i’ll shoot you up my arm

help me to feel free.

This I can do , her body replies

and its a kaleidoscope of de ja vu and fresh experience

An ocean view of Woman,

and masculine musk

A grave of endless ******

a playroom of opportunity Soon they can’t drown

they will drag against gravity and greet the sun but for now

it is all they can do to stay

afloat

One hundred and fifty two posts in 2 weeks
a small camera surrounded by a sea of pink
is to blame
and be praised

Crisper, clearer, views of how I see the world,
easier than ever to see through my lens
my POV
picture it

Foot prints in the snow, beer pong, Dustin Lynch
retro diners, favorite TV shows, and hiking trips
this is me
easy to see

Words can be hard to find, ideas to describe
Hard to share your life with no one around
here's Instagram
post away.

as memories of cerulean waters fade,
in autumn’s shade,
new visions unfold.

in this city of inconstancy
the air is crisper,
leaves browner
and love within a stone’s throw.

sipping golden drops of burgundy
simply smile,
cuz our bodies are now one
and our lips have locked,
as i worship you
with one hundred and eight pink lotuses.

one lotus for each secret wish of mine!

the morning moon
gives me
the devil’s wink, 😉
knowing this pristine truth.


© 2021

The scarecrow, solitary in the field
Tatty coat, all astray
Looks out over all his land
If he could talk, what would he say.

Summer,autumn, winter too
Wind and rain, clouds of grey
He never flinches from his post
If he could see, what would he say

Children play amoungst the crops
Neatly parcelled bales of hay
Days grow shorter, crisper, cooler
If he could hear, what would he say

Invisable tears and a broken heart
His lonely vigil every day
Timeless days and empty nights
If he could walk, would he walk away.

it begins crisper than november,
still, chilly, ice blue sky,
then warm, then cold, then crazy frigid,
wind cat-yowling,
and on the windows,
frost feathers that do not melt all day.

the solstice sun creeps warily
across the south horizon,
glancing brilliant off frost-sheathed trees,
so cold the very air is frozen--
sparkling ice crystals float rainbow colored
like dizziness before my eyes.

Christmas eve starts grey and windy--
rain at two and snow at three--
the huge flakes my mom called "horsebirds".
And just at sunset, a patch of blue,
a sky tunnel for those tiny reindeer.

Christmas morning, four together,
first time in years we all are here:
Best-Beloved, sad eyed lady,
   maker of donuts and hi-test coffee,
      sings a bit, weeps, smiles;
the Exile returns, hoodied, shy smiling,
   coffee in hands, and heart full of plans;
and Carborundum Starshine bursts in the door,
   in corduroy & goofy hat,
     Paul Bunyan beard & glitter cheeks;
and  i
   am here.
Talk and cookies, hugs and pictures,
   Merry merry, the peace-pipe passed,
      carols on the radio,
the scents of spruce and tangerines.

the "week between" a roller coaster,
t-shirts one day, parkas the next,
wind that moans like Marley's ghost,
and snow tornados  on the road.

new year's eve and big soft snowflakes,
sparkling lights and laughing shouts--
on the street, drunken kisses and auld lang syne--

but not for me, i listen only;
there's work tomorrow, quick to bed,
a brief flight,
   all-night jazz    
     and sleep.

time tomorrow to begin again.

(1-1-14)

I heard an antique music box
Play out of tune and rather sour
But, the smell that came from in the box
I could savour by the hour
It took me back to days gone by
Days where messages weren't mixed
Where you heard terms you no longer here
Like "he got eighty sixed"
You'd watch tv together
Or sit and sing around the fire
Things were simple, crisper then
Not all muddled in a mire
Things had double meanings
Now, this music box I speak of
played a tune, I'm not quite sure
I think I heard it in a movie
sung by Dorothy Lamour
Lovely Hula Hands...I think
It took me back to days before
You could see inside the music box
There was a little secret door
I worked to get it open
To see what secrets it did hold
What some child might have hidden
what to them glittered like gold
I worked the rusty hinge some
And it opened with a squeak
Inside I found a flower
so brittle and so weak
Someone hid this flower
for a reason, only theirs
And it remained here deep in hiding
Away from peoples stares
I wrapped it in some paper
Put it back inside to hide
I left it for someone to find it
Long years after I had died
I could imagine where it came from
I might be right or might be wrong
But, in the not too distant future
They'd try to figure out the song
I decided that I'd leave it
Out of tune and slightly bent
For a time when I would need to
go back in time, with that sweet scent

She is a willow tree, slight and swaying
Her voice comforting like the wind
Cool like the spring at dawn
But crisper,
Crystal that is not fogged up or weigh down
By the muggy droplets in the air.
Cool and blissful and serene.
She laughs and says nonsense
That you absolutely agree with

I wrote your name in the sand and drew a heart around it.  
In the warm sunlight  on the beach I was as high as a kite as I watched seagulls take flight.  
I could have written you a love song, started a band.
Nothing was impossible as long as I could hold your hand.
It was bliss, yes that bliss that warm your belly bliss.
That feeling happy glittery bliss, that consistently from the rock of my subconscious hissed.
Pleased,  at the sweet morsel of love it thought to have caught in its den.
Oh it was good, oh so good. But then so are lolly pops, lemon and dew drops.
Freshly harvested crops, and even the lowly mops when it is new of course.
Is beauty cursed to be ephemeral? Stuck with the surreal notion that it must end, and quickly so.  
Because what I had was beautiful, precious, I would have given anything to keep it.  
There is not a day when I don’t go back to relive it.  
A shadow of a wisp but somehow I manage to see it.
Outlined, around the scar that it’s absence left behind.
A signature of pain expertly signed, on an intent of separation from that feeling.  
Close your eyes real tight, now imagine what it’s like to lose your light.
Not really the kind of light that people fight for.
No that little bit of light within, shhh listen, it lives in held breaths and withheld whispers.  
It colors your life and makes it crisper, it seeps into the cracks and adds flavor.
Yeah that light, the light that inspires love songs, ballads of loss that people drone on and on about.
That loss is enough to drive a sane man mad, running and screaming.  
Shout to let it all out, that loss of color, in one’s life.  
Oh but I will get over it. Right after all that is what well-adjusted people do. Get over it.  
But something binds me. Hovering ever so slightly over this inglorious sea of misery.
Why because I can think of all the possibility. That energy of a rock ready to fall over the edge, seemingly wasted when it rolled back onto the ledge.
I quickly run over to the edge and look over that ledge at the long distance down. Far below the ground, what lies there.
I will never find out because the rock of our love couldn’t make it over the ledge of about.
Almost becomes a hated word, ostracized from my vocabulary.  
It’s the possibility that kills me over and over again.  
A knife dug deep in me when I think about what could have been.
Now I sit at that beach, and write your name once again in the sand.
Then slowly the tide brings cool water to my hand.  
And I watch as your name disappears and disbands.  
The seagull of my hope and love flies away unsure where it is to land.
And I slowly turn to walk away simply tiered of trying to stand to watch and wait to see where it will go to land.

i, night, hung about thy cheeks more splendored
beams crisper and wholly brisk with wind
than even winter could. i stroked about the
penultimate hour of your face the little and
stranger carelessly perfect lips of my face
and drinking so stilly the sky is abrupt
with normally clothed stars; **** and playfully
abundant. i lay my heart with thee and i am
increased. i lay hands with thee and i am
between the velour of your not-covered thighs
making, with you, an errant child like Demeter
and Poseidon (who hangs his restless skin upon
the nape of the coiled neon streets. hinted
at his edges just; the circlet of the bay, i wander
in thee night.)

A brilliant hue, a darkening blue.
The silver dots parade the sky.
The falling drops, the pattering sound,
They all drown out my cries.
The moon looks down at me, stares, and looks away silently.
“Will you pretend too?” I ask. My voice a mere whisper.
It doesn’t look my way again. The cool air turns crisper.
The raindrops are racing on the pane; it feels as if the sky is weeping.
The heart-wrenching thunderstorm is my only friend.
It’s such a dark, dark night. The lights are flickering; they’re about to die.
Fresh liquid oozes out, and colors’ the pale skin.
A vivid blend of red and white; what a unique shading.
“He came again today.” I tell the walls; with hope they’ll understand.
I hope they’ll enclose me, even if briefly, in their arms, and protect me from that man.
This time I feel the pressure of the blade, it’s a little harder than before.
I feel it glide gently over my skin, leaving a thicker trail, than before.
He looks down at me, stares, and looks away silently.
I see the brilliant hue, the darkening blue.
I see the silver dots parading the sky.
I see the falling drops, and hear the pattering sounds.
I feel myself shatter, after his many tries.
I hear the raindrops drowning out , drowning out my cries.

Crush a drop from a fractured petal,

****** the shimmering tint from delicate peaks,

Vivid gems surround acid green nettles,

From a moon gaze as days twirl into weeks.


Procure an innocent child's shadow,

Seize a diamond- dropped from above,

Glide from falls in a streamline flow,

Catch a kiss from a one true love.


Unite the shades of a rainbow,

Weave the sparks from a fire into stars,

Satisfy a desire to know,

Unlock the soul from rusted bars.


Ask an angel to tune a sweet melody,

Scatter blossom seeds in one pure breath,

Enter a palace of wonders, miles from anybody,

Never will one part until death.


Squeeze out tears to carve a river,

Stalk a tiger for an emerald eye,

Leave a flutterby on a leaf to quiver,

Clutch a newborn's first smile- forbid them to cry.


Poise a tongue for a taste of snow,

The scent of a cracked leather story,

Unique secrets that only one knows,

Ink splatters over pages of glory.


Caress the satin surface of a lake,

Treasure the keys to one's heart,

Seize the moments until dawn break,

Keep Saturn's rings from breaking apart.


Whistle a falsetto refrain,

Catch a feather, as soft as a whisper,

Liquid gold from the beach's grain,

Could this nightingale's lullaby be crisper?


Numerous deeds to complete,

Seek no pain nor strife,

Carpe diem, do not delete,

For these are the reasons of life...

Morn
While you were sleeping God made a new one a day starting with a beautiful morning. He took a little
Splash of sunshine added a dash of hope he carries the greatest basket filled with Gardenias roses irises
To many others to mention they all are moist from a select and special dew from his private collection he
Draws them out with care and at select locations he puts them to his face and then gently blows
Uncommon fragrances over the country side you could say unnoticed better to say unseen he does
Nature’s bidding he looks ever watchful keeping the rhythm in tune with the divine design.

Before you ever stir to meet the new day he sends the most beautiful rays they cast their spell on the
Dogwood tree the fields he fills with his sweet silent thoughts they surround the visitor their weighted
Voluminous thickness enriches the air the birds are first to feel this electrifying evidence of his havening
Had passed this way they try to match the songs they chirp to this delirious natural order to the most
Part they succeed their dreamy charms pass over the window sill up the sleeping form they with lightest
Touch softly announces magic waits in all the borders of your waking world.

This happens in the Shenandoah Valley in meadows soft rolling hills in wooded glades streams glisten as
This all consuming charged air travels unbidden but still ordered it is welcomed and it slips on as a
Bucket to full it jostles out like stirred and brimming laughter it baths the breadth and height of the
Country side willfully with power it creates even crisper lines than the sun originally exposed eyes see
Deeper hues more tasteful shapes like seeing a long lost friend after a long absence these emotions
Surge through the body heart and soul what is missing in this perfect picture the Sun blazes the trees seem to stretch and yawn the flowers
Now awake the night covers have been gathered and are being refreshed waiting till dusk announces its
Time for them to stand in as the sun slowly slips down in the western sky. A time for opportunity you are the brush that fills in the painting that you will hang on the walls of your life your friends will be pleased for the depth and emotions that will arrest their vision when they look at the still calm that your living portrait captures. The peaks of the house draw your sight up the walls to this mounted finished perfection as the morning is the head of the day all flows down as the backdrop of activity glows as you pass test that enlarge your soul and spirit ever is the object to others I am the best friend when I am a servant drawn to others by love’s care and duty.

Fifty years ago today

A half century. Yes--seems like a long time when we say it that way, sublimely forgetting time is a dimension we chop cheaply for convenience. In earth time, in galaxy time, the vast blue stretch since the cosmos’ first coding coughing of carbon, that five decades has been but a clipped comma in a thousand page tome, with a single stout capital letter being the history of a country, and a verbose sentence or two being the tale of our two legged species. For me, the 50 years since that day has been most of my book--nearly all that has been written since the dawn of light.

I was on the Kanto plains of Japan, so it was already Christmas--though I guess my world has always spun faster than most. During the night, my father had assembled my new black three speed 26 inch Raleigh English racer, a serious upgrade from my red 24 inch Schwinn, my first bike, long lost to spinning memory, and likely the property of some dump in the heartland.

The new bike stood beside the table in our large combination kitchen/dining room of our temporary officer quarters. I can’t recall if it was too cold to ride that day, but I probably ventured out, either in the real rays of the sun or in the land of imagination, the two being of equal measure in the realm of memory.

A month before, my father woke me with the news of Kennedy’s assassination. Like others who were old enough to remember, the events of that November day have much crisper edges than any other, including the Raleigh racer Christmas or any Christmas I can recollect.

Tomorrow is another Christmas. I won’t look at that day too much when I am walking in the park this afternoon, for tomorrow is not waiting for me at all. It will be there even if I am again dancing with stardust. More likely, I will be here, on the same rolling rock, eating the flesh of a fallen gobbler and making new memories I will recall only hazily in fifty hours. And if I were promised another fifty marching years, I might lament their passing before they arrived, knowing full well they too would be filled with forgetting.

if you ever meet
any little differences out there,
then run: find
a yellow lukewarm,
well-lit square
to take care
of you.

all those
who loved me
i've ran from

if you ever come across
unusual syntactical arrangements
in your head,
**** 'em off w good ol'
reverent dread.

all those
who love me
i run from

if you ever stumble upon
weird words strung together
while on the bus,
cut em off quick w
well-worn scripts.

all those
who will love me
i will run

if you ever cross paths
w themes juxtaposed irrationally
in the fridge,
eat the hummus on the door ---
not the severed finger in the crisper drawer,
signaling for you to come closer;
closer still..

all those
who have love
run run ruuuuuun

Not here. Not there. Not anywhere. Not anywhy. Not caring pennywise above my lotto-won unslant brow. I simply cannot who this town anymore.

Wut? It's not that i "jus can't;"
it's that.. well, it's that....

---- It all sidepath whirr spins too much, resulting in me being in it too kneedeeply, as my limbs brim over the finely-tuned ledge of what we think we can potentially know, where it grins up at the space stolid, like a thing imagined real - plus my poor machete has (in a torrid blink of the winkers) turned; or, more accurately, transmogrified into sudden feted befridged leftovers, which, aren't exactly untaciturn in their ways.

(understatement of the eon, iknowiknow)..

---- worse still, -forgotten- leftovers, hidden away in the crisper drawer under the rest of the things spoken for: half due to lazy; the other half, to the fact it won't slide nicely anymore :/

it, turning
and smirking.

Oh! the its
and things.

And those three anthropomorphic hands always pushing n prodding the fated its and things. It's all so.. meh.

So, of c, we decorate it w meta imps and wings above them. Methinks the neon signs of the new rind output axon doth protest too much.

Yet, the gray area is nigh.
Autocorrect, be ******.

Me: I, now, know your tricks. Your abstruse, purely theoretical storms which appeal with chartreuse arms elongated into lawnorder - I can see you've been drawn out. I can see around the bend. You don't scare me anymore with your elegant renderings. I am too much in the dying whitehot.

That voice inside: nothing

Me: ...

Chicken, *****.

Don't you see? It's all getting crunched down. God is in the box marked "fragile," sexting n taking dog selfies doing a Miley tongue wag in the ***** bathroom mirror w an awk ttfn postscript n kissy face discursive.

I won't flinch.

my pockets turned inside-out aboutfacedly, knowingly staring that stare right back up at me, reflexively, interrogating and adjudicating, highchaired n bewigged n gavel-swinging n self-righteous spittle-wingin n all - cuffs hugging the curly q sloughed off set-o-symbols once hung like rare priceless lace above that (over)hyped brand new skull muscle (geologically speaking, of c). but the ***** have all been given, and i, finally, with arms reaching forward and backward, am here.

the haste the haste
the grammar head at the wake
let rigormortis do it's worst,
because there is more behind its door

0100111101010000 bars
hug the star's start
stripping them away,

Denuded, they

corrall it
adn things

white-knuckled,
I grip these two
and win back
the abysmal.

I am OK with breaking down,
with being hurt. Vulnerable as ****.
These tears are me
and mine.

I don’t know,
it might just be the summer deceiving my senses, or all these new books I read, or all all these new words I learn, but I’m becoming someone I’m not yet familiar with
and it keeps my eyes open wide.
It might just be July and simple mornings
or the way he says my name
or the way I stay up late
waiting for a word or two, as a small reminder of being known,
but I am becoming someone I’m not yet familiar with, and it’s quite a wonderful feeling. It’s like the first day in a new city and every road is a new adventure, leading to something new. I catch myself in the mirror, making movements and thinking thoughts I never once did,
and it’s quite a different thing, the discovery of myself, from a different side of the sea. A different side of me,
for I’ve been lonely and angry, at myself and everyone else
but there was this day this spring, when all fell into place and I took a breath and let things go.
I took a breath and let it go
and suddenly the air was crisper
and my lungs lighter
and suddenly
there was him
saying my name
in different ways
and I catch myself throwing glances in the mirror,
seeing someone I don’t know
quite yet
but I can’t wait to,
and that is the start of everything.

I have hope in who I am becoming,
and that is the start of everything.

The instinctual longing for love defines you.
Evolution compels you to love.
Establishing connections to ensure the survival of the species.
To protect the young and find suitable mates.
To create a well balanced society.
Being controlled by chemicals that make you feel.
Chemicals that trigger longing and lust, desire and passion.
This is part of love but not all of it.
There is much more than just chemical reactions to love.
It is the key to survival and happiness.
To give and receive love is instinct.

Embrace it.

When you are in love you are alert and attentive.
The slightest touch comforts you.
Your nerves under your skin are ready to receive even the softest touch or caress.
When you wrap another in an embrace you share the warmth between your two bodies.
You find your hands on their back and theirs on yours.
The new closeness between you two is acknowledged by the same core temperatures that surround you.
You hold each other close
Becoming each others blanket.

Take a breath.

Inhaling the familiar scent that is both unique and common to each thing you love.
The scent of baby powder and warmed milk of your newborn.
The musky earth aroma of your beloved pets.
The warm brown sugar scent of your mother
Or the freshly cut wood smell of your father.
The mixed berry sent of your friends.
The smell of your lover, so unique yet so ordinary to you.
The name of the fragrance forever lingers on the tip of your tongue yet it is mixed with indescribable scent of that person.

Savor the moment

As you breath in their scent you awaken your tastebuds.
You associate their aroma with a flavor you crave.
The air around you has a crisper taste as all your senses converge to make you more aware of every second.
You welcome the flavors you can’t describe
And welcome the flavors that trigger nostalgia.

Listen closely

The heartbeat and steady breath of one another being to match.
As you hold them closer you become one.
The heart may sound like the light tick of a pocket watch
Or the loud beats of a bid flapping their wings.
The breaths can be slow a methodical
like waves rolling onto the sun kissed sand
Or the gusty like the winds that blow off the top of whitecap waves.
But soon your breath and heartbeat matches your loved one.

Watch carefully

When you see your love your pupils dilate allowing you to capture all aspects of your love.
You want to examine every feature of theirs and develop their picture in your memory.
The corners of your mouth may stretch to form a smile
Creating raised cheekbones and crinkles in your skin by your eyes.
You watch as the world around you becomes more beautiful.
Your perception of the world has changed due to the cocktail of chemicals mixing in your brain.
You begin to see love all around you.

You begin to feel it, smell it , taste it and hear it.
You begin to love,love.

When you experience love you realize that it could be the force that launches a thousand ships.
Or cause lovers to die for one another.
The cause for adventure and the winds that push loved ones home.

It is clear that love does not cause an uncomfortable rash that infects your body and mind.
It does not cause distress or insecurities.
Love will never be found in a nightmare,
You wont wake up in the middle of the night trying to run away from it.

You will want to keep love on you like a locket
Holding all the people and places and things that engage all of your senses.
You want to keep it and hold on to it forever because it makes you feel serene.

You love because of instinct.

You love for the experience.

You love for the love.

For now I know I must -
Tame the timidity,
Of my mind.

Channelize the kinetics;
Into a beam of energy,
Directional and definite!

Cutting the crap,
Of unnecessary detail;
Delivering a crisper form!

For now I know I must -
Sharpen the vision,
Of my mind.

Seeing beyond the clutter,
And the shown;
Into a picture,
I know and want to admire!

For now I know I must -
Delve into the depths,
Of my mind.

Revealing the chaos of the form,
Organizing it in symmetry;
Pleasant to trace and redraw,
A canvass of memory;
That shall adorn,
The museum of my life!

dark ocher elixir
of the arcane
when time did bend

you convey yourself to me
in a 16.9 fl oz reused plastic spring water bottle
thawing out in the crisper

bare my being
fang and all
and lick the blood from it clean
so that this light will reconvene with others being
and been

We'd run in mornings
With breath crisper than limestone.
Now her legs are stiff.

Big white fluff,
you have no form really but you are every form truly.

Your distinct milky knobs present a welcoming entrance; a "Three's Company" vibe.
I wanted to catapult up to say hi
And ask "What parts of you, were parts of other clouds I've seen?"
I wanted to know where it has been; what it means.
This kind of magnificence is a collaboration.

You strike me through the glass as I wind around the pass.
I know there is more that I am missing.
Your colors may be richer, crisper but as I see you now
is blissful–
Orange, pink and bright white hues surround the few cues you are giving me,
that say " I Choose you, sullen traveler ! Look at me and be happy!"
And I was, right then– Happy.

That word that is over questioned and often fleeting went through me and however brief, I can say it was there.

The metal x said "Thou shall not pass"
Neon yellow gloves pointed to the sky,
warning who was watching, when they
were hit they flew far and fast (20 feet)

Embedded in the rubber that hits the road,
are what seem to be the remains of a toad,
but they are not, not at all,
they were the dangerous daffodil.

I guess his hate governor must of broke, or
he must have felt the power of engine,
so he closed his eyes inhaled that ****, or
maybe the forced move pumped his adrenaline.

What ever the case, there was not a witness and we know no flower whisperers
The stalks fresh with Spring agility could not stand the weight and snapped crisper.
then burnt back bacon char coaled on the grill, so far this is a measure of his ill, will.

We have nothing but WIDE TIRE tracks to go by and too bad he is the only one, for sure
and at the end of the month he will live here, Nevermore, Nevermore, Never ever more.

Candy soaked and rhythmic
see the words they make no sense
But the feeling that i'm feeling
I swear must exist


time is fully passing and the feeling is profound
like my atoms smashing every time i move my mouth
and speakings coming out, like it wants to feel so proud

but its only atoms smashing when i move my mouth

Twenty thousand steps
winding to the left.
'Cause right was wrong
and wrong was right.
At the end of the road
there was nothing left
so I bent a right.
I love you so much,
but share a night,
          alone;
Something I know so well,
Better than I know you.
But, I worry you've not known
'cause I've gone and well-
I'm worried the message
I've written won't tell.
I'm tired of 'the' shell-
So, I break boundaries and yell.
A life you didn't make
but a life you are willing to take?

no rules-no mistakes

no words
Just Motions
no mind
no world
Just Devotion
somewhere
somehow
Odd(old) Notions
something
sometimes
Magick Potions
no tide
no wave
Just Ocean
nobody
no soul
Just Emotions
no face
no image
God is Remoting


Thrice fold bent,
    one arrow gleaming-
from which we are sent
    all is one
          or at least seeming.
God must be asleep,
          yes, dreaming.
Side road tent,
    plastic tarp teeming-
Come one come all!
    Torii gate beaming~
Some rise some fall,
    Krishna consciousness streaming-
Ten Thousand beings enthralled,
    now just for the meaning...

I'm going under cover
where all vibration is a hum.
And where I tend to hover,
I lose track of where Im from;
Or what direction I'm going,
But, I am indeed in contact~
With something in the sky, glowing.
Accept that as a fact.
They are speaking to me,
teaching me to attract.
It only takes a whisper
for my tongues to get flowing;
And, I start to look crisper~
Upon the world as an artifact
Of art and unknowing.

For god’s sake you’re the boat.
The battered, broken hope on which we are all kept a float.

Promises, Promises of a vast and open sea.
Promises, Promises. How it lied through my teeth.  

Upon this filthy little river, we shiver down so madly.
We hear promises of an open sea who's margins move so gladly.
And though they are just a whisper, I hear it crisper and so clearly.
And though I'm not the listener, I fear I’ve fallen for it dearly.

Promises, Promises of a vast and open sea.
Promises, Promises. How it lied through my teeth.  

The air comes calling out the caution. Warning us as often
as the boat creeks,cracks and splits. Will it be our coffin?
Lost in pursuit of a far away dream.
Where silver linings gleam from clouds that seem drawn.

For now I know I must -
Tame the timidity,
Of my mind.

Channelize the kinetics;
Into a beam of energy,
Directional and definite!

Cutting the crap,
Of unnecessary detail;
Delivering a crisper form!

For now I know I must -
Sharpen the vision,
Of my mind.

Seeing beyond the clutter,
And the shown;
Into a picture,
I know and want to admire!

For now I know I must -
Delve into the depths,
Of my mind.

Revealing the chaos of the form,
Organizing it in symmetry;
Pleasant to trace and redraw,
A canvass of memory;
That shall adorn,
The museum of my life!

Do you follow me...

I've scattered thought
across countless stages of unveiled catwalk
Graced anthologies of rhyme
Watched you
watch me
indulge in second guess
Still ...
reflection
seldom circulates
obscured from Elementary

Fact is... words refrain
as thoughts pile higher
Each ode grows less incent
from straining to dip our quills
Leaning
way beyond comfort
to soak
in crisper thoughts

Our only regrets ...
a shortage of counterintelligence
~~~