feather duster
collapse me into an almond cluster
shake me into waves
don't say that jesus saves

I am
A feather duster.
Clogged with fears
and
Fluffy cobwebs
How odd
There is no more me
Only more
It.
A thing
a material kind of demeanour fling
slash
overthrowing one night plastic wonder
And I have found
myself
hiding beneath oblivion
and
a cheap stock price
Renewed,
exchanged
changed
paid with loose change
a chain of recurring events
Money making
plays me out of my
hiding spot
And I gross
in all vastness
the price times infinite
of what it took to create me
The other feather dusters
they
would be ashamed
to have me sitting with them
Because I cannot begin to
stop wanting more
More than an item of plastic.
a.l.h

This disaster by master
Coming faster
An intoxication and
Not a charm
This disaster spread
Like word of honorable pastor
There is a cloud
Dark cloudy cloud of
This disaster
This disaster flirting the environ
This disaster caressing the mammals
In its environs. ..
Oh this disaster a disaster
They fear this disaster like when
Oil castor drops in fire
This disaster pretty nice not
Like pearls in shells of oyster.
This disaster scary to their bones
Take this duster
Rub and wipe this disaster
Please take it!

"I have never been content with being Amy*."
Her words break my heart because she is Amy.

She is killing herself in the loudest way possible.

Amy would sell her soul, she would sell yours, too.
Men fuel her habit of huffing her "duster".

Amy is not a *****.  She only sells her body.

In time we stand still forgetting the memories
That burden the frontier with poison and tragedy
Lest we forget that the deed had been signed
By prospectors and cowboys who’ve long since died
Aiming a loaded shell towards eradication
An idea that precedes psychopathy in terms of petition
Yet ponders so freely to children so willing to point them the barrel and fire such rounds

I urgently take the bounty for the hunting of the buffalo
Using their skulls for declination, a sturdy stronghold
Yet deep in heart I realize that it spawns back to devils
That pay only to spoil their countless fruits of survival
The cause paints our flag a brilliant blue
The blood breeds red and helps assimilate too
From their ponytails, against remorse, I could yank off their heads
And perhaps repay the herd of bison for their dead

We danced mountain songs naked under pale blue moonlight
Imitating their gestures in the style of caricature
The stars glistening, reflecting in pools of gory mucus
The rotting carcasses that attract forest vultures
Which we willingly hunt and devour without hesitance

A rack of scalps hung from the duster, cloth sodden with their fluids
Marking migration patterns on various maps to follow and stalk with
Here we sing to the villages of which we’ve burned down
Hoping that God, in His grace, could forgive such savage hounds
The calls of doves forfeit an olive branch
Which I gleefully wave just as they have
My own Trojan horse stitched together with leather
That wasn’t dried enough, and now radiates a stench that reminds us of their innards

I’ve slaughtered and mangled all over this place
Made worse by their stories of which I desecrate
Publishing such influent texts that examine the earlier beds
Of which they rose, so little prose, such daft fools with stone age tools
Crops yield only ******* food made for the feeding of the poor
Discarding the rest of them as bait or our personal ******

“I weep for the white hand that cared there for me!
To wrap me in blankets and help me to feed
The weak child in infancy cooing so sweet
Not knowing they’d have him killed in his sleep”
Annihilation fits best at the source, this genocide funded by the Master of Greater Deed and Good
The weary dead, the weary live, the weary now stay in places we couldn’t stand to be in

A gift that gives only twice, an upstart arch that cradles this land so warmly, inspiring us to embrace our homes
The promise of freedom which notions an equality we could find only in remembrance of scattered bones
The lawmen there, they never repent, they’ve lived all their lives and they never forget of their deeds, which secretly brings a perverse enjoyment none other recieve
Unless you count rapists and murderous men which tally their targets and hold out the heavy heads of victims in satchels and bags
A shame we now see them as monuments honored so swiftly, decorated with golden plaques
Please leave some flowers in the mass grave I was buried in, somewhere in Arizona, it wouldn’t hurt to sense the illusion of fresh air
A torso of tooth and rib and a dried clump of hair
Look down on your works, ye lowly, and despair!

Paris has traditionally been the city where inter­national designers – from Australia and England to Beirut and Japan – opt to unveil their collections. However, Karen Ruimy, who is behind the Kalmar label, chose the runways of Milan Fashion Week for her debut showcase in September.

The Morocco-born, London- based designer hosted an intimate al fresco event in a private palazzo to launch her holiday line of fine cotton and silk jumpsuits, breezy kaftans, long skirts, playsuits and off-the-shoulder tops in tropical prints.

Ruimy had a career in finance before moving into the arts – she owns a museum of photography in Marrakech – and has become increasingly involved in fashion and beauty, thanks to her personal interest in holistic therapies.

These are clothes, she explains, that marry luxury and wellness, and are the things she would wear when she wants quality time by herself. The fact that they are made in Italy, convinced her that Milan was the right place for her debut – where she showed alongside the likes of Gucci, Prada, Verscae and Marni.

On fashion calendars, Milan has conventionally been the place where the runways confirm the trends and themes hinted at ­earlier, in New York and London. However, this season, the Italian designers did not speak with one voice, making Milan Fashion Week all the more refreshing for it.

Often, there might be an era or style of design that dominates the runways during a particular season, but for spring/summer 2017 in Milan, there was a standout showing of techno sportswear and techno fabrics employed in updated classics such as coats and box-pleat skirts, or with references to north African and Native American themes.

The Italian designers sent looks that would appeal to everyone, from the haute bohemian and athletic woman, to the cool sophisticate and the art crowd, as well as – as in the case of Moschino – to the iPhone generation.

Only three seasons ago, Gucci’s creative director Alessandro Michele was lauded for his complicated maximalist styling. Yet in Milan, Gucci channelled a dreamlike vibe with Victoriana, denim, athletic apparel and oversized accessories, thrown together in delightful chaos, making it difficult to predict the direction Michele is taking Gucci in.

Currently he seems to be in a holding pattern, hovering at once over 1940s Hollywood glamour, 1970s flared pantsuits, and ruffled party dresses from the 1980s, in a cacophony of ­colours and fabrics.

The feeling of joyous madness continued at Dolce & Gabbana, where street dancers emerged from the audience to start the party in the designers’ tropical-themed show. The clothes used some of their familiar tropes, such as military jackets, corseted black-lace dresses miniskirts. New, however, were the baggy tapering trousers redolent of jodhpurs, and the lavish and detailed embellishment the designers used to sell their story.

Wanderlust dominated the moodboards at Roberto Cavalli – rich patterns, embroidery and patchworks inspired by Native Americans – and Etro with its ­tribal themes on kaftans, duster coats and Berber-style capes.

Giorgio Armani, Agnona Tod’s, Bottega Veneta and Salvatore Ferragamo – with its stylish twisted leather dresses and crisp athletic sportswear designed by newcomer Fulvio Rigoni – all answered the call of women who want stylish but undemanding clothes.

Marni would appeal to the art world for its graceful, pioneering ideas. The label’s finely pleated dresses displayed a life of their own, and its micro-printed dresses were gathered, folded and distorted to walk the line between stylish and quirky.

In contrast, the sportswear at MaxMara and Donatella Versace targeted the dynamic generation of athletic women, with sleek leggings, belted jackets, power suits and anoraks. Versace has made it clear that she thinks this is the only way forward. She may be right, but there’s always room for the myriad styles displayed at Milan Fashion Week in all our wardrobes.

It was feathers with everything at Prada. Silk pyjamas, boldly coloured and mixed checks, cardigans and wrap skirts with Velcro fasteners show Miuccia Prada reinventing the classics. Most glamorous was the series of evening dresses and pyjamas with jewelled embroidery and feathers, worn with kitten heels that married sporty straps with heaps of crystals. Prada’s must-have bag of the season is a bold clutch with a long strap fastener, that comes in a multitude of geometric and daisy patterns.

Versace

Over the past three seasons, Donatella Versace has been carving out a new image for her brand – a shift from the luxe glam of red carpets and superyachts, although the inhabitants of that world will be sure to buy into the new Versace vibe. Donatella’s girls are both glamorous and empowered. The sporty look is tough, urban and energetic, judging by the billowing ultra-thin high-tech nylon parkas and blousons, stirrup trousers and dresses (the shapes of which are manipulated by drawstrings). Dresses, skirts and tops are spliced at angles and studded together. Swishy pleated dresses and silky slit skirts gave energy when in movement, and were as soft as the look got.

Bottega Veneta

Model Gigi Hadid and veteran actress Lauren Hutton walked arm in arm down the Bottega Veneta runway, illustrating the breadth of the Italian maison in Tomas Maier’s hands. This was a double celebration of the Bottega’s 50th ­anniversary and Maier’s 15th as its creative director. Menswear and womenswear were combined, and the focus was on easy, elegant clothes in luxurious materials, such as ostrich, crocodile and lamb skin for coats; easy knits and cotton dresses worn with antique-style silver jewellery; and wedge heels. Fifteen handbag styles debuted along with 15 from the archive.

Fendi

Silvia Venturini’s new Kan handbag was a star turn at Milan. The stud-lock bag dotted with candy-coloured studs, rosette embroidery and floral ribbons couldn’t help but charm every woman in the audience. It was the perfect joyful accessory for Karl Lagerfeld’s feminine vintage romp through the wardrobe of Marie Antoinette, with sugary colours, bows, big apron skirts and crisp white embroidery juxtaposed with sporty footballer-stripe tops – effectively updating a historical look.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

getting stuck
restless in the dust
stirred by soft touches, hard to handle
flurries of hesitant spontaneity-
take flight in the heated tango of 6:17 p.m.
will the billows settle among the fabric
or will it settle for nothing, yearning for fresh winds
floating endless on breathy quotes
wisdom of ancient used shirt sleeves
I believe I have a chance
to choose

breathe it all in.
wilt like a flower under the pouring rain
breathe it all in.
heart beat comes to a gradual stop only to pound with sudden acceleration

words
i lack the words
i lack the words to describe
how taking one more hit
almost takes me to heaven
...or i should say hell?

because sometimes
one more hit is all i need
to remind me that in an instant my heart could stop beating

so i'll take one more hit
to suffocate the taunting voices
so i'll take one more hit
to forget each time love is not reciprocated
so i'll take one more hit
to slow down this heart that won't give up
one more hit to
remind this heart that sometimes it's hope that kills
because the rush of almost dying almost makes it worth living

I slide the door open,
she was rightfully there.

It was the room I assigned for her
she had just moved in.

A few spares of her outfit peek out of her wardrobe,
A couple dresses as well
One blue; one red.

At the side is a broom; feather duster and such
Still lying around.

Her personality hadn't changed the room yet.

now

I take my first step in,
she amusingly begins bowing already.

No different than the rest of the furniture she is: tidy, a pleasant aroma around her and a pretty thing to look at.

I greet her, my maid.
I hear those dutiful words, that name: "Mistress".

She's blushing; her arms so obviously tense.

Every footstep I take towards her echoes in our hearts.

...


I lock our gazes- such an adorable and intimidated look.
Her lips are trembling as I get closer: "Mi-" she tried to say.

But my finger was keeping her mouth shut.

"Shhh" a whisper followed by a modest nod from her.

The tension is cut as I slide my fingers down her arm
her gasp held hostage by me.
She could make no sound.

I can't help but giggle.

With that smile I lean closer to her.
To her lips.
I had her captive already, my arms resting on her hips.

"You are my furniture, dear."
"Yes Mistress."

It is all there was before with my kiss
I took over her mind.

I've become acutely aware of the gravity in the fact that all I said to her was that I don't want to be the one who starts all of our conversations anymore
And that since then we have had no conversations.  
I don't think I will be rid of the haunting that this is my fault until I am haunted with the fact that it may be hers
In so making her not the woman I wanted for
Nor the woman I was all too eager to give myself for
Thirdly making me that man who opened his rib cage exposing his heart for her taking
Only to collect dust, rain drops, and those twisty helicopter things that fall from trees in the autumn
All from being left open so long on a very windy day when she saw what my heart was stretching to offer her and chose to leave it there
Couldn't I once be the one worth taking
Or at least notice when she's not the one worth opening up for.

There are days I wish God hadn’t built me with a zipper for a sternum
You know I don’t always mean to show them everything
It’s just sometimes I forget to zip it back up after I take it on walks to the liquor cabinet
My heart is a bow-tie drinking Manhattans at the center table with a chair full of friends and a twinkle in his eye
My tongue is a rolled up cuff drinking whatever’s on special at the end of the bar confusing, “I’ll have another” with proper conversation
My mind has an unplugged mini fridge in the corner with two luke-warm ciders waiting for a chance to celebrate...remembering to brush my teeth
Depression is a funny sort that way, it’s all her fault, right up until you remember how hard it is to brush your teeth everyday
At which point it’s either your own fault, or we’ll try again tomorrow.

Knowing is not half the battle when the battle is not being waged in your head
Knowing it is all going wrong is just another reason to never put on the helmet and see what the battle may bring
Seeing what right looks like on Pintrest is not motivation to check my zippers
It is the battle cry my stomach gives my lungs after lunch
It is the battle cry the fists of my mind give my heart when we are alone
It is a crop duster driven by the Morton’s Salt Girl, who never misses the open wounds of my torn innards strewn about an open field after losing the battle for the day.
I am a slug on your porch and I shrink with every grain
And you will never hear me scream
It’s just so tiring to tell someone you hurt and have no blood to prove it.

I do not much dream for stars or skinny girls anymore
I am afraid of what their sharp edges will do to my fingertips
I’m just looking for something I can hold on to
Someone who will remind me that I have a place here
If that place is only to take up oxygen
Sometimes I let my dreams get away from themselves and I dream of great magical things:
Like being loved back
Feeling important
Sleeping peacefully

On occasions I even see myself at work opening a love note in my lunchbox from someone who felt compelled to take the time to tell me they love me
It always swells my heart
Makes me want to be a better person
To get out of bed
Run a marathon
Sing an opera
Lift a weight
Sky dive
Read a book
High five a stranger
Take a dancing class
But then I wake up and look across my room at just how far away the light switch is and decide I must be afraid of the dark
Since I never remember to turn off the light before lying down and I never have the strength to get back up

I dream most of all of having someone to tell me the things I need to hear
To give me a purpose
A vision
A reason to live
To stop letting me find better excuses
To yell in my ear or write me a note that says,
“You are worth it, every minute, every cent, every effort.  You are worth it, because you will become a great man and because I love you, and because you are destined to change my world, and because your son needs you, and because you are brilliant, and because the world needs your words, because I need your words”

But the only notes I get are the ones I put into my own lunchbox as a reminder come noon-time
That even if for no other reason than because I said so,
I am worth it

I'm a lost sock
Longing to keep a foot from feeling cold
Even though I can't cover your entire body
Ill settle for an extremity
Because it's true that
Something really is better than nothing

I was dropped between the dryer and the washing machine
Forgotten about just like the paper clip and the thumbtack
My mirror matching partner
May have gone on to meet another
But either way I lie here in lint

I remember the comfort of being in a shoe
When the warmth flowed through me
I knew I was really getting somewhere
Always aware I was part of a pair
One of a two
Half of a couple that together made a team

Then again there was way back when
I was pressed and packaged and pristine and
Presented myself to people in a store
Who could care less to think twice or
Double take and have a second glance at me
I was as unique as all the rest
But I took my job very seriously

Now I crave to do anything
To help anyone and be of use anywhere
To maybe one day be rediscovered and
Perhaps reunite with my other or
Become a fine furniture duster or
A puppet upon the hand of a person Practicing how to be humble

It's a dream and a hope and
One of the few things left I'm free to have faith in
They can take my feet away but
They can't take everything

Somewhere out there is a bare paw
Chilled to the bone and shivering
Stinging exposed to the world
Wishing I was there

Come find me
Drop something worth picking up
So you notice that long lost missing sock
Reach and retrieve me and return me to reality

I've been waiting for this forever it seems
But through your eyes it's just a
Routine insignificant finding
Unknowing that it means the world to me and
My entire existence revolves around dependency

watching the same collage video on a loop of
leaves drying up
snow melting under the surface of a sweating floor
you leap up to grab me but there's only a cloud of moonlight coming through your window
you feel the arresting tackle of all the butterflies leaping out of your chest with rapid eye movement like the eyelash kisses you would give the mirror
the fluttering turning their wings into  heavy blades that leave a pinkish glow on your chest

my name was worn out that spring and you never learned to turn the light on at night

With a clean duster,

the maid goes around the house --


waving like a queen.

remember the melding
of gilmore and bing
the springfield gates
and desmond ring

remember the trojans
and fools in the pack
sea fair jeans
and corkscrew flat

remember the cabin
and *****’s garage
the gary point dunes
and moncton mirage

remember the warehouse
the water logged seats
tin foil caps
and simple retreats

remember the cave
and turn on the cut
emery’s mini
and hamilton’s hut

remember the burger
and shake in the air
bubs in the back
with little despair

remember the valley
and 66 ford
burgundy lips
and samworth’s chord

remember the plainsman
a 7 inch log
the ***** old frenchmen
and bore-*** hog

remember the javelin
and mushay’s wheels
beaumont’s baggie
and jennifer beals

remember tough charlie
tossing brad rand
the belyae roundhouse
and beer in the sand

remember park polo
and scaling of firs
sleeping in rafters
at 8 bucks per

remember the mayflower
and brothers von grant
the max air follies
and chivalrous rant

remember the flipper
the floyd and the clap
banana boat sunday
and pemberton trap

remember the purples
the rasp in the street
the oliver jokers
and shady retreat

remember the gators
and brick house café
a flash in the pan
and crib cult stay

remember the church
and talbs on the bridge
goofy’s memoirs
and cypress ridge

remember smaldino
whom perry cut short
***** and a ****
and moria’s port

remember the zuker
and gilligan’s isle
the pep chew bust
and 8 tooth smile

remember the action
at blundell and one
the nauseous fumes
and pump house run

remember the canyon
and rock on the cliff
a tourniquet bind
that kept us adrift

remember lake skaha
and jvc tunes
the j bain query
and peach fest goons

remember the irons
and broad entry beads
the alexander boys
we must pay heed

remember the gates
the 12 hole stare
the hospital bed
and ky affair

remember the farmhouse
an open air deck
the john deere tractor
and cowboy neck

remember the wheat field
and jimmy crack corn
the burlington plaza
and fraser street ****

remember the pincers
and wee ***** white
the concubine fractures
and strong overbite

remember the carving
portrayed at the scene
the billy goat battles
a young man’s dream

remember lord brezhnev
and moby the ****
the second beach sun
and paper bag trick

remember the screening
the silver light show
banshee boots
and phipps’s throw

remember the epic
and baby oil block
trash can brassieres
and window rock

remember the law
jack rabbit in may
an 8 track mix
on alpine way

remember the dunes
a pig on the spit
the underarm hair
and corn bull-****

remember old frankie
and bursey head post
the koa leaves
and tiki shore host

remember b taupin
the lyrics he left
cold muddy waters
an odd treble clef

remember street regent
the trips in the night
the trailer park cap
and lightheart fight

remember kits causeway
mortimer and beaks
jk's cabin
and muscle bound freaks

remember glen cheesy
and billy the less
the frozen puke patties
and borkum mess

remember the catfish
and pickerel rock
the emerald meadows
and rainbow dock

remember port dover
with fish on a stick
wayne in a bunker
holding his ****

remember the ironside
limes in a tree
the usc campus
came with a fee

remember the duster
an arrow in heart
the frog man bug
that would not start

remember the zimmer
the ram air hood
a family wagon
with panels of wood

remember peace portal
the 33 back
the power built drive
and dangerous tack

remember the reds
the blues and the greens
the furry point island
and country book scene

remember the springs
and i 95
a lone state trooper
with blood in his eye

remember may’s cabin
and stuff in between
the frame and the picture
and morning snow scene

remember the boss
with a 302 scoop
the diamond tuft console
and back seat coupe

remember ioco
the **** and the spit
the skid road race
and hurst floor kit

remember the shore
and tents in the park
a campfire roast
and kerosene bark

remember the hooger’s
kit kat club
the colvin’s and setter’s
a man called bub

remember the creature
with silk strand hair
and afternoon flask
with little despair

remember quilchena
and robbie the mac
the rice stead box
and tap on the back

remember miss williams
a pilgrim’s salute
the fairmont sister
with all of her loot

remember port ludlow
a scotman on dock
the everett street bridge
and single leg sock

remember the masters
and all of the roar
the faldo follies
at norman’s door

remember jeff samson
tied in a tree
the robertson fastback
with white leather seats

remember the balance
and pulling of 4's
the moncton warehouse
and hollywood ******

remember the hospice
with carter in wear
the power of gospel
and magic in prayer

remember the mini
counting the crows
aberdeen villa
where all of it grows

remember the ballroom
the battle of bands
the buccaneer bikers
and front row stands

remember the steely
and 50 odd pulls
the crook in the cranny
and pilsner bulls

remember the mustang
tb paul
the ****** shack sergeant
was missing a ball

remember dear kevin
head first in the pool
a sheik in a minefield
and ****** gas fool

remember the rumble
and bats in the night
an old lady screaming
to a young man’s delight

remember cliff olsen
that sick little ****
who will be in shackles
on lucifer’s truck

remember the bumpers
and cutting in line
the mice on the ****
and bo in the pine

remember the law
stabbing the corn
a bucket of ammo
and mekong horn

remember s boras
the piercing of yes
the color line paper
sikosie at rest

remember the pinto
and seven road plants
mother’s fine pizza
a trial lawyer’s rant

remember the kennedys
with ***** painted black
a pond in the shadows
where monty looked back

remember von husen
the sea to sky test
a farm hands daughter
was one of the best

remember mr pither
and mao sae tung
helena the cougar
and egg foo young

remember the cinder
and frances road bake
***** the whitehead
would make no mistake

remember the quan
and mental mix
the java hut sister
with pixy sticks

remember j rosie
banging his head
in a moment of dr
we thought he was dead

remember the hammer
discussions caught short
siddrich and roger
and monty’s abort

remember 6 nations
and KOA
the pool hall fight
when everyone stayed

remember the skinners
and tommy the med
the lost tough china
and bubs in the shed

remember the doobies
zeppelin and cars
floyd and the *****
and shankar’s sitar

remember old dustys
the blue and red chair
the cypress hill caves
and mullet cut hair

remember the promise
and vows that we made
on the 2 road stairs
in goodman’s brigade

remember those moments
and handle with care
for the garamond stamp
will always be there…

The broken clouds and cluttered mounds
Of the castle dark and grim
The straying woes of bootstruck hounds
Flew fast from deep within
And though the trees shed leaves and weep
While winter takes its grip
Still the grounds will never sleep
On those sullen earthly strips.

When came a knocking hard and fast
Urgency and haste
A figure tolling on the door
Tall and wooden, chaste
The simple portal opened to
A simple hallway bare
But of paintings, deep and clean
'Is your master there?'

Within the shadows of the night
The man spoke to the dark,
But saw no person, now he might
Perplexion left its mark
Peering through and searching in
The figure broke his tact
He took himself out from the wind
Door closing in the act

He called out soft and gently
Silent came the reply
The man looked in and then he
Searched down and up and by and by
The hallway stared in harder
The lounge looked on and dealt
A whisper to the larder
His footsteps on the boards were felt

The man, nonplussed, but guaranteed
His pay upon the meeting
Of the lord of the castle's deed
But he was paid no greeting
Not a soul to meet him there,
Though he searched the room
Of men he found no hide nor hair
Save the marks of a duster broom

And the spot of ***** pots in the kitchen
The soot at the foot of the chimney
The sound of hounds from about the grounds
And a meal to steal out on the table

The man looked from the window
And saw to his surprise
Some beast awalk without its tow
Of a master's watchful eyes
The wind blew strangely heavy
On a door that swung ajar
The man went down there, ready
To greet the host, but from afar

He saw the empty darkness fell
And heard the moan of the floor
He smelt the musk of rain as well
Pass by him from the door
The dining room mumbled to the hall
And it passed its message down
The cellar murmured through its wall
Creaks and groans from all around

The lamps behind him all were lit
The house was bathed in light
The fire took life within its pit
The man grew cold with fright
He shut the door and heard the roar
Of the wind break 'gainst the knocker
Thump, thump it spoke up more
Keys firmly in the locker

The stairs creaked under the feet
Which ne'er were seen to move
The man still followed achance to meet
The house's master so to prove
His duty done, his quest relieved
He followed up the stair
But a shout he passed, you'll soon reprieve,
For what he glanced on there

The doors aswing to beds and baths
With moanings and low crashes
The house alive with joyous laughs
At this venturer who passes
He looked in after shrieking
And saw a bedroom bare
But for the snores of the man he's seeking
His body lying there

The man asked not of his health
As he saw the stiffened white
Of the skin of the face apart from self
Aghast and dead from fright
The venturer looked 'round
And heard the cellar speak
It's booming sound from underground
Bade him leave below his shriek

The man abed had moved and walked
His taught face moved not, still
His teeth slid and their rotting talked
Breathed gas as his breath came shrill
Our frozen friend did not contend
With his meeting of the master
The castle changed him by the end
He fled there all the faster

He was not found till late that fall
By boys who played in the grounds
They'd crossed a wall and found him all
Near pawprints of the hounds
They saw his hand clasp round a sheet
Of paper, the castle's deed
On the page he'd told his meet
Of the lord of the castle and he'd agreed

By his signed name on the dotted line
To give to all who claimed it
'This castle which I have called mine
For a thousand years.' for he saw fit
To give to the man who spent a night
The castle they'd keep company
But for the men who died of fright
The castle is still empty.

In Farmington the misfit suffers the jukebox and dances to an unknown song. He dances on the pool table. He wears black—black skull cap, black
duster, black shirt, black slacks, black boots. He's in Farmington and
the women here drink Bud Light. He dances slow. It's similar to a dance
you've seen before. You have that friend that climbs on couches after a few and half staggers, half sways. The women here watch him with unhappy eyes and hands stained blue from the textile mill. He seems to mouth the words although he clearly doesn't know the song. They, the women, dig their elbows into the bar. Pocked and graffiti'd, the bar soaks up spilled beer and ash and nail polish. Behind the bar a sign reads: Free Beer Tomorrow. And for some reason, you must admit, this sign's effect never dulls. The Misfit pantomimes a dance with a pool cue. His face is severe, serious. He's in Farmington dancing with a pool cue on a pool table to a song he doesn't know like a drunk friend of yours and the women are watching. Next, he does something amazing. He removes his cap. He's got shocks of bleached hair and burn scars run like rivulets between the patches. He tosses the cap toward the bar. One lucky woman catches it and summons herself to the pool table. You want them to have a bit of dialogue here, to say something oblique and innocent. Instead the lucky woman dances at the man's feet. He surrenders a smile and he's got small tracts of bleached hair and burn scars and he's in all black and he's dancing. The lucky woman, she's in a canary yellow patch dress. Her dance, although clumsy, still mesmerizes you. It's without ego, without shame. She is a child. She is the light in the room. She is, in this moment, the world entire. He pulls her onto the table. It's time to appoint the Misfit and the lucky woman names, you think. His name shall be Joshua. Her name shall be Anna. Palms together, her head resting on his chest, they sway. The smoke and the tracers of light meld and Joshua and Anna's outlines become muddied. Their bodies merge and they are both yellow and black and covered in burn scars and bleached hair and the women are still watching. As the song starts to fade, someone—maybe it's you—drops a few coins in the jukebox and it begins again.

She’s sometimes a fairy
Or a nymph from the sea
A troll and a Viking
Wise woman for free

A housewife a mother
A cook and a nurse
She earns just some pennies
To put in her purse

She yearns for romance
To be some ones muse
Not wielding a duster
And cleaning a hoose

One day she will find it
She’ll wish on a star
And the folk will all say
She’s “a ******* to far”

The Kuwait Warriors are in my Jeans
My new favorite cartoon
Saturday mornings, sugar cereal, spoons
I use force to deal with the mentally ill

Prison gauge my earrings, brah
Psychiatric hospitals for playtime with myself

I can ******* to hippopotamus
Look to me like I’m amazing
I’ll be a living god

Not really, more flu shots
Put them in my eye
Sky for my eye and flanksteak for my heart
Give me all the Bacon and Eggs you have

I call my mustache the crop duster
Cuz I’m always cleaning bush with it
Blow a load
Of cash
On my body shots

This moment I share with the child just born somewhere
taking its first breath wailing
and my friend here in the hospital bed
gasping out his last breath.
His children chant the glory of Ram.
The room resonates.
Beyond the window the sky resonates.
An eagle circles unhurried
among the rainclouds.
A duster over an old blackboard
erases all jottings.

The first rains of another monsoon
come pouring down.
Together we set paper boats sailing,
over a pool in our backyard,
away somewhere.

It starts like this
Watch the ocean and sky kiss
Building a ship of feathers
A place for sunburnt, stranded sailors
A tray for stillwater dreams
We crave a spell, a fix, a score
A contagion or a cure
Wearing shades till the candlelight begins its rhyme
Never get caught in nursery time
Never make contact of eyes
We tell ourselves it's Bethlehem
Inhaling glass
Playing house
Psychological profiles of planets
Silence amuses and upsets
Lay on your backs, arms out-stretched
Watch other heartbeats teach flying lessons
Hallucinate in sunspots
See the clouds as they dot out your fate in negative space
An extinct hue of eyes amidst a shade of blue
Stick your head out the firmament
Past the clouds
Breathe in the stars
Dome of the world
Never as menacing as these white fences
The moon and her ******
All our defenses against a scorching sun
Skyscrapers pierce but our fingers an eyes remain the best tools to drill small holes
To see what we want to see
Squinting in belief or disbelief
Hot cities and cold deserts
Hot coals and dust bowls
Anchored ghosts
A strange, soothing spark
A defeated arc
Acorn fell upon my head
Mother earth waits with bated breath and open jaws
Beware mass hysteria in a closed world
Fear-mongers striking dumb first
War efforts
Sounding alarms
Black swans
Sick doctors
Confetti leaves
Glittering sheets of ice
Thrones of sapphire
Where is all that truly radiates
Invisible lighthouses of hearts
Pitching tens for spiritual camps
Sitting Indian-style above his grasshoppers
Waiting for the day they'll make music again
Rotating along the circle curve like Buddha on a toy train set
A supposed circuit unending
Making night, restoring light
Millions of years in one blink
Life unworthy of life still thrives
Tattooed with shoelaces and turquoise veins
Repercussions of deformity
Antiseptic bombs
Hitchhiker's thumb
Scapegoats and escape artists
Chicken pox
Contempt attacks with gnashing teeth
Compliments and black *** magic
Totality, forgiveness, thunderstruck
Too good to be true
Kneel in the desert and die
Animals **** and we sing love songs
Oblivious housewife with a feather-duster
Talking puppets
A flick of ash
Adam's rotten-apple atoms
Superbirds and Zenplanes
The Morning After
Dead idols, trendsetters, setting worlds on fire
Casino collapsing
Purse-*******-Keys, check
An embrace like a boa
Penetrate, Swallow Whole
One nail through two feet
Time's cruel canopy
A funny tragedy
The audience is laughing blood

In the glass hours of morning
I am back in the lecture hall
With my uniform, bag and everything
Amid the class teacher’s frenzied roll call.
Roll no.9 she shouts out
I’m here ma’am no doubt
Me she gives a grim look
I hide my face in a book.
She rises with duster and chalk
I force on myself a silence
Pretending to hear her talk
Holding onto my brittle patience.
She goes on and on and on
Her babbles pouring like rain
Soon my defenses are all gone
Staying awake becomes a burden.
I get away into my dreamland
Far from the stiffness of rules
Where I dance holding the fairy’s hand
And there are no syllabus and schools.
My dream is so cute and cool
A freedom of endless peace
Till my ears feel the stinging pull
You’re sleeping? Shouts the Miss!

I

...she tip-toes in, sprinkling
Fairy-dust into the darkest
Corners of my mind's living room.   
Shuts the door behind her with
A smile of the kind that sees
Sobbing babies of all ages
Silent and asleep.

Skulls as candle-holders, knuckle
Duster paperweights, blades
["...there are so many
Weapons in here..."].
My taste in art and decor
Is dark and delightfully human.
Aesthetics so alien to an angel.

She sees right through it.
Warrior or shaman,  
All souls are children in  
Her eyes.


II

Having pried up puzzle pieces
That were hammer-****** into
Submission, she puts deep things
Into place
["Shh... just follow the sound of
My voice..."], has love enough for
Lifetimes, yet will always be

Her own.
How could any man not
Dream to harness as much as a
Single ray of her shine?
Comfort; healing; an element in
Human disguise. But her laughter  
Sparkles its give-away:

Us mortal men don't carry  
The strength to hold her as gently,
Lightly; unpossessively as one
Must.


III

Goddess demanding her hugs
Received, or angel pulling pain
From something broken.
Hands that love the life in  
Everything touch also the
Spaces between things.
Find us lost ones there.

A warm river cutting through
Winter frost, ice cold slumber
And lonely fatigue.
*Tired? Here, I'll make
Time go away
For a
While.

You owe me nothing,
Little boy.
Our souls are always
Even.

I only wish I had a better memory...

Everything just became too monotonous, even with the light glittering on the surface of the water, casting thousands of facets across the pool deck like shattered glass.

So I went out for a bike ride.

All was quiet and seemed to sleep in the sweeping hand of the warm breeze that traveled all the way from the beach, and I can smell the faintest smell of the ocean waves, in the midst of all the jumbled pollutions and crashing smoke of smokestacks and exhaust pipes.

Then I saw.

On the side of the road there was a small black rag, that was not a rag, but a tangled mess of feathers twisted into a grotesque shape like the claws of death. Little threads of raw life all dried up seeping through shining fibers that had lost their sheen, turned into dull blackness, like strings of tar forgotten on the roadside.

So it goes.

And I rode on, into a large expanse of concrete, dotted at intervals down the center with trees covered in purple blossoms, standing out boldly against the dark grayness and stark white lines. A silver car was parked lazily in the shade of a purple tree, with sunlight shining off its streamlined hide. The shiny metal surface was being whisked to even greater heights of polished perfection by a rainbow colored duster, its wispy hairs blown sweeping gently across the Civic as the small lady in the purple shirt that matched the trees dusted busily. With her trimly cut black dress pants and pointy shoes, she moved quickly, half of her face hidden in a pair of expansive brown sunglasses that perched on her nose. What she was doing, no one knows.

Will no one remember?

I will time travel.

Now I am gone, and her existence still is, and was, and will be until it is gone. So will the sorry little rag of feathers by the side of life's unknown road, and the policeman parked across the lot, eating a donut.

ageism

mob mentality
of the boys
you were



faith

in these
the footprints
of a left-handed
boy



doubt

unicorn sickness

as so

rumored



gentility

duster
of my father’s
bookmark

identified

by her picture
day
invite



final resting place**

god already underway

I can’t love you
And I can’t **** you
So
I’m going to drink this here poison
And wait for you to die

Here I am again, first poem in x amount of days
3:13 in the morning, street lights are dull orange rays
Feeling the inspiration I've lost for the longest time
Surprised I actually got this far without messing up the rhyme

I am sad, alone
So tired, unknown
To the new people all around me
In this new and empty place

Faceless foes have bound me to the lonely human race

Sitting at a bus stop, a can of duster at my side
This storm that slowly rages must be a billion miles wide
But even when it passes my anger will not subside
These torrential raindrops ain't got **** on my insides

I miss my home, my lover
my father, my mother

I have friends who are frankly not there for each other
Screams that no pillow or pistol will smother
No way out, or at least not one I can discover

So here I am, 3:43, chain smoking my cigars
Listening to the storm pounding on the thin hood of my car
Playing with lighters and knives while the sorrow survives
Writing this while waiting for a dull sun that won't rise

I want my old, comfy bed
A few people dead
The few hopes that one day my few words will be read
My hate to be filled
By a few knives running red
A fire, an earthquake
Things a few people dread

Because of the few faceless foes in my head

I don't want to be myself right now, I want to die
But I don't, I get scared, so deep down that's a lie
But I can't get it out, can't shout or even cry
Just smoke, huff more duster, watch the lightning lit sky

When you **** yourself up just so you can pass out
You'll truly know the desperation that I'm all about
So I'll just chill in my room with my few faceless friends
With brain cells to **** before the world will end

doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block

order, orrrder,

i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793

all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel

kazoos squeak  the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.

now to business

the agenda for the day

1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.

2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.

3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.

4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.

5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being

6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.

please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.

i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.

and may the foot be with you

The door and the doorway
form a cocoon around my
fingers and this metamorphosis
is still lovely because instead
of a butterfly I get bruises.
and white hot knuckles.
and a raspy throat when
afterwards I asked myself where
the air scampered
away to I think it’s hiding
under my bed and in the
piles of clothes that I
left on my floor because
every time I tried to pick them
up
I picked
up
the phone instead.

Don’t talk to me as if I’m
the last string holding the
tag on your bed sheets together
hile telling me that
I’m the last string keeping
you away from a 200 foot fall
while you’re bungee jumping
how do you expect me to
snap you back in place every time
you wander
I am not elastic.


it isn’t me that turns your
words into cobwebs in this breeze
I’ve heard everything you want to say to me
1000 times before
at least
give me a square of time
for my own thoughts
to act as a feather duster
in the attic of my mind.
to clean up your cobwebs
where you nested once,
you lay your eggs inside of me
and there are 2000 tiny animals
ravaging what I was saving for us
what’s left of my mind
I have a bottle cap and
a glass heart that you
copped from DC
you’re still running
and these bottles of vicodin
and oxycodone are chasing you
but you haven’t yet realized
that you’ve already tripped

Mishaps and mispronunciation,
messy rooms and messy beards,
crops and crop duster airplanes.
Too many insiders,
too many to count.
We counted on the fresh air
in our bike tires to get us out.
Out in the open world,
the woods, the fields,
the lakes, the ponds,
the Indiana bonds
too tight to ignore.
A prison with open doors
if nothing more.

I am the unfolding  transformation
lifting you from the bottom of
the garden.
As there was a time when I
was obsessed with just money
and survival when I sluggishly
crawled constantly feeding.
Imprisoned by my body my flesh
I could not transport myself to
a higher thoughts or place.
Many parts of my life covered in
darkness I nestle quietly in my
chrysalis.
As I tuck myself in my own sheets
I collect all the food of past experience
and wait for a transforming party
to begin.

My back broken by an anvil I
used to carry now, letting go I
see it falling my back starts
healing.
Time i spent counting money I
now spend smelling flowery
perfume.
Take a glance into me you will see
the power of my spiritual eyes that
attach above and behind me.

Look into me and you will see
that i am a lot bigger than my body.
I live such an innocent way, but
the enemy is shocked frightened
away when he see the size of
the real me.
As a ignorant predator may foolishly
fear me but the better informed see
all my beauty.
Filled with colour my spiritual eyes
give me wings help me fly.
  
As I float I surrender to the joy
of a puppets dance as I am pulled
by strings not from this earth.
I show the world that change is
created not by a sledge but by a
little polish or feather duster.
As I lightly spread my change
with the softest touch.
Whether inside or out i spark a
permanent change with touch
like lovers kiss.
All the forces that I push to an inner
change are reflected in the
colour that springs outwards.


As I touch the sweet center of a heart
a rose I have a little sing and give
life a new ring.
As I breath and relax many gaps
open all my needs my soul spills past.
I am lifted through my life by a
force of GOD I spend my life
half angel half human.
As I spend my life simply and
freely I flicker my only mission
to spread some colour.
All stresses evaporate disappear
as I blend with the forever field
of change.
I am the one and only match you
need to lite the bonfire the flickering
flame of cascading change.

So much to learn when fully absorbing
a rapidly changing butterfly view.

I used to be a
rocking chair
in the home of a lovely
elderly two.
In the summers I sat in the shade
on the porch
that was my world.

But I got tired of going
back and forth
with the same old things

I used to be
a pair of rubber gloves
belonging to the maid
of a grand old palace.
I held the sponges
that cleaned the biggest of ballrooms
and the feather duster
that danced along
the most delicate riches.

But I didn't like
being used
to do someone’s
***** work.

I've been a wish from a genie
(I was taken for granted)
I've been the pencil of an artist
(That job was too sketchy)

I was a sapphire gem in a mineral museum
(But I started feeling really blue)
I was a sunken stone in a rolling river
(But I just couldn't go with the flow)

Though, I don’t regret
a single thing I've been.
Because the best part of imagination
is the only thing about it
that I don’t need to make up:

my mind.