When I died last, and, Dear, I die
     As often as from thee I go,
     Though it be but an hour ago,
And Lovers’ hours be full eternity,
I can remember yet, that I
     Something did say, and something did bestow;
Though I be dead, which sent me, I should be
Mine own executor and legacy.

I heard me say, “Tell her anon,
     That myself, that is you, not I,
     Did **** me,” and when I felt me die,
I bid me send my heart, when I was gone,
But alas could there find none,
     When I had ripp’d me, and search’d where hearts should lie;
It ****’d me again, that I who still was true,
In life, in my last will should cozen you.

Yet I found something like a heart,
     But colors it, and corners had,
     It was not good, it was not bad,
It was intire to none, and few had part.
As good as could be made by art
     It seem’d, and therefore for our losses sad,
I meant to send this heart in stead of mine,
But oh, no man could hold it, for ’twas thine.

Give me truths,
For I am weary of the surfaces,
And die of inanition. If I knew
Only the herbs and simples of the wood,
Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain, and pimpernel,
Blue-vetch, and trillium, hawkweed, sassafras,
Milkweeds, and murky brakes, quaint pipes and sundew,
And rare and virtuous roots, which in these woods
Draw untold juices from the common earth,
Untold, unknown, and I could surely spell
Their fragrance, and their chemistry apply
By sweet affinities to human flesh,
Driving the foe and stablishing the friend,—
O that were much, and I could be a part
Of the round day, related to the sun,
And planted world, and full executor
Of their imperfect functions.
But these young scholars who invade our hills,
Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,
And travelling often in the cut he makes,
Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,
And all their botany is Latin names.
The old men studied magic in the flower,
And human fortunes in astronomy,
And an omnipotence in chemistry,
Preferring things to names, for these were men,
Were unitarians of the united world,
And wheresoever their clear eyebeams fell,
They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyes
Are armed, but we are strangers to the stars,
And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,
And strangers to the plant and to the mine;
The injured elements say, Not in us;
And night and day, ocean and continent,
Fire, plant, and mineral say, Not in us,
And haughtily return us stare for stare.
For we invade them impiously for gain,
We devastate them unreligiously,
And coldly ask their pottage, not their love,
Therefore they shove us from them, yield to us
Only what to our griping toil is due;
But the sweet affluence of love and song,
The rich results of the divine consents
Of man and earth, of world beloved and lover,
The nectar and ambrosia are withheld;
And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thieves
And pirates of the universe, shut out
Daily to a more thin and outward rind,
Turn pale and starve. Therefore to our sick eyes,
The stunted trees look sick, the summer short,
Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan our hay.
And nothing thrives to reach its natural term,
And life, shorn of its venerable length,
Even at its greatest space, is a defeat,
And dies in anger that it was a dupe,
And, in its highest noon and wantonness,
Is early frugal like a beggar's child:
With most unhandsome calculation taught,
Even in the hot pursuit of the best aims
And prizes of ambition, checks its hand,
Like Alpine cataracts, frozen as they leaped,
Chilled with a miserly comparison
Of the toy's purchase with the length of life.

Give me truths,
For I am weary of the surfaces,
And die of inanition. If I knew
Only the herbs and simples of the wood,
Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain, and pimpernel,
Blue-vetch, and trillium, hawkweed, sassafras,
Milkweeds, and murky brakes, quaint pipes and sundew,
And rare and virtuous roots, which in these woods
Draw untold juices from the common earth,
Untold, unknown, and I could surely spell
Their fragrance, and their chemistry apply
By sweet affinities to human flesh,
Driving the foe and stablishing the friend,—
O that were much, and I could be a part
Of the round day, related to the sun,
And planted world, and full executor
Of their imperfect functions.
But these young scholars who invade our hills,
Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,
And travelling often in the cut he makes,
Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,
And all their botany is Latin names.
The old men studied magic in the flower,
And human fortunes in astronomy,
And an omnipotence in chemistry,
Preferring things to names, for these were men,
Were unitarians of the united world,
And wheresoever their clear eyebeams fell,
They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyes
Are armed, but we are strangers to the stars,
And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,
And strangers to the plant and to the mine;
The injured elements say, Not in us;
And night and day, ocean and continent,
Fire, plant, and mineral say, Not in us,
And haughtily return us stare for stare.
For we invade them impiously for gain,
We devastate them unreligiously,
And coldly ask their pottage, not their love,
Therefore they shove us from them, yield to us
Only what to our griping toil is due;
But the sweet affluence of love and song,
The rich results of the divine consents
Of man and earth, of world beloved and lover,
The nectar and ambrosia are withheld;
And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thieves
And pirates of the universe, shut out
Daily to a more thin and outward rind,
Turn pale and starve. Therefore to our sick eyes,
The stunted trees look sick, the summer short,
Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan our hay.
And nothing thrives to reach its natural term,
And life, shorn of its venerable length,
Even at its greatest space, is a defeat,
And dies in anger that it was a dupe,
And, in its highest noon and wantonness,
Is early frugal like a beggar's child:
With most unhandsome calculation taught,
Even in the hot pursuit of the best aims
And prizes of ambition, checks its hand,
Like Alpine cataracts, frozen as they leaped,
Chilled with a miserly comparison
Of the toy's purchase with the length of life.

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard why dost thou abuse,
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
    Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
    Which usèd, lives th’ executor to be.

Deadly pestilence came to distinguished Florence.
Spread east to west, roamed sickness without human cure.
Divine and human authority disappeared,
God’s wrath prohibited remedy and good health.

Families emptied, gentlemen fell to corpses.
Evil free to **** men indiscriminately,
Ignorant doctor’s advice left medicine like
filth. Day or night decomposing fortune is death.

Sick set aflame in neglecting infinite fire.
Disease black with misery, wicked affliction
with livid spots. Medicine removed anything.
Contact to dead or sick doomed a person sad death.

Every part always died. Abandoned all the laws
rightful behavior a fallen plight. Faithful shame.
Plague is a noble executor’s careless deeds.
A woman with no necessity of required

morals communicated upon death. Healthy,
beautiful, and attractive multitude consumed.
Avoid no very past pestilence in the fields.
The sick had made servants of the required dwellers.

"LOOK!" So quietly you choose to speak...
I hear the sweet vibrations of your voice
my eyes lift to search a dark night sky
and you say, "There! Did you see?"
miles distant, shadowy light flashes
flickering over the mountain shades
lightning slicing through that atmosphere
and I answer you, "Yes.
"I wish that the thunderstorm was here."
you respond with your enigmatic silence
yet still I strain my ears
hoping to somehow maybe hear something from inside of you
even just a faded echo of your unshared thoughts
because you are my deepest desire
it's you alone that I most desperately crave
I'd sacrifice everything I have in this life for you
for only just a fleeting moment, I would
a moment in which you were solely mine,
worth more than I could ever have to give
my very soul cries out, agonizing, for you
my heart begs for your love to fuel it's own love
my flesh, my bones and blood burn to feel the warmth of your embrace
my lips quiver at only a thought of brushing against yours
my entire being tingles and aches to find solace in your affections
I'd rip my very soul from my deepest depths and place it in your hands
my heart I'd also eagerly tear right out of my chest
my promise, my solemn vow I'd gift with my bleeding wounds
never would I- could I, forsake you
if I could keep you, keep you, I would, indeed
a treasure I'd never relinquish willingly
passion, grace, unconditional love, yours forever and free
A picture of these, my most fervent of prayers and dreams...
split- second bursts of color and light
electricity, a bringer, a conveyor of destruction,
birthing fires in the brush and trees, and, mocking, denying me my love...
in that far away storm, a creeping portrayal; image, stretching wide:
I see a vision of your cherished face
I feel unbearable, disabling pains commencing
there's unfathomable sorrow, misery within me
I realize my heart is about to crack, break, shatter to dust and ash
no mind to how great and vast my love for you
no heed to my willingness to give up everything; anything
I glimpse it all in that fraction of a second
those stars; twinkling eyes, tell me an entire story, at the speed of light...:
so unfortunate, that you won't be mine now,
never else either, shall you ever belong to me
my gaze is drawn away, and departs from the place where the mysterious and celestial dwell
relinquish their view of power unleashed, blinking far off, in the sky above
I turn my head; swivel towards you,
for dire, is my need to take in every aspect of your beloved face...
maybe I'd misunderstood; maybe I'd been mistaken,
maybe a bit tired, rather easily confused,
or perhaps, it was a lie that the lightning storm's vision, sly and sneaking, portrayed...
but I can see the tangible, physical you, before me right now,
and, the truth - - -
(which I cannot positively know, for certain,
perplexed and having some doubts...)
- - - an obvious, unpleasant, ugly reality...
my tears have already begun brimming, as I watch, through a blurred void,
and prepare, because that mouth of yours is, once again, opening to speak
a bullet, slivers, pierce through to my soul when I hear you softly utter my name
"Alex, what's wrong? What is your problem now?"
how can you be so oblivious, as I feel so transparent? I ask,
but only to myself; not in such a way for you to actually hear me,
giving you, instead, yet another of my head shakes; slow, speechless reply...
I'm broken, and it's painful when you look at me,
what if you were to notive the sadness and hungry longing buried within my eyes?
please, please don't you look at me!
all of your questions, I'm incapable of answering,
never could I openly share with you how I so intensely feel
my fear of rejection has given me an answer in your stead
and, thus, this love shall go on only inside of me, in silence, secretly
despair, loneliness, burdens so heavy; wicked,
thick enough to rot me inside-out...
torn down, destroyed by love; my very own love - - -
(mine, a love undescribable... immense, immeasreable love;
love which was borne of my seeking indifference, but finding you...)
- - - until my savior of death comes,
will be working diligently to ******, slowly and bitterly, my life force
and impatiently, I'll live out the remainder of my days waiting and suffering;
looking forward to the moment when my black-robed executor shall, at long last, come,
and set me free of these suffocating bindings scarring, straining my heart...
for without you to hold, I am empty and lack purpose
I've no other hope on which to let the weight of my hurt bear
still hoping, inanely, for some unforseeable chance;
a growth of buds sprouting forth from the blooms of God's grace...
"Alex...?" oh, the way you say my name...!
"Say it if you have something to say!"
but still, once again, I say nothing at all,
just give another of my small, weak, neck-twist type of shakes;
a minuscule gesture that gets neither of us closer to anything, or anywhere...
I wipe away, quickly, a single tear that's escaped to leak down my face; slide down my cheek
you are the happiness of my world; my everything,
and yet, here I am, excruciatingly frightened, and left alone with that fear
paralyzing terror, stalking, menacing me into remaining silent;
horrors feeding my tentative heart cruel and brusing, nasty notions,
convincing me it's my destiny to uncover a crushing ruin of defeat, unavoidable,
if ever I was to make an effort to reach out
pitiable... I'm a motionless, frozen captive to its stagnating, discouraging taunts,
a demon, so intent upon pushing me to my hope's final demise...
until then, I'm just some pathetic subject to ludacrous torment; prisoner to torture
shuttering, I hear gleeful whispers in my ear - a surreal voice saying that all my fears could,
maybe, just possibly, maybe, be a confining falsehood; a tower of cruel lies...
...but then again, how could I ever find out and know for sure...?
condemned I am, by my own terrors; haunting fears of loneliness and rejection,
and so, I suppose, I'll never discover what you truly think and feel...
as I sit here, the passenger in your car, I'm so desperately wishing,
~ wishing that my lips and tongue could remember how they used to work;
~ wishing, so fervently, that my mouth, sewed, cemented, and stapled shut,
would somehow break itself open, and then, free, suddenly speak,
something! anything! any words at all!
a simple sentence could potentially be sufficient; could be enough to break these chains, to set my thoughts free...
perhaps, all it would take, language - me, bringing myself to fearlessly say,
"John, do you think you could ever love me?"
but no, I stay void of speech or sound
for now that's it, and there's no more to do - that I can do...
maybe the strength to ask will arrive on another, different day,
only, I hope, that if that could be true, it won't be too far off from now,
because, by then, it may have gotten to be too late...
SILENTLY, secretly, my very pulse screaming of my emotions;
declaring, to no one other than myself, my feelings, my love for you...
and without my vocalization, you just may never know,
but still, sweet man, my beautiful John, I so very greatly love, love, love,
everything about you...

I often find myself being Governed by Idiots of moderate Intelligence,
Not Governed, necessarily, in any Political sense;
Governed or Controlled by someone in a position of Power:
Whether within a Company or a Bureaucratic hierarchy; or a Job Description (An"Expert" or "Executor" );
Or someone with physical superiority or gender qualification.
Whatever, whenever, however --> Some people abuse their Authority over others.

Some in Authority have worked hard and diligently to reach their positions -->
My hat off to them: Good Luck and Congratulations;
You obviously deserve the Privileges attached to the Responsibilities.
I have no qualm with such Authorities,
Providing they don't abuse the Social Trust (too much...).
However, there are many People invested with a modicum
Of Authority that so Deceives them;
These People are self-conceited delusionists,
Ever eager to swagger and boast and abuse Their given Trust -->
A modicum of Authority with a modicum of Intelligence
Is tantamount to disaster for someone else.
Unfortunately, that someone is often vulnerable to the Abuse;
Someone given to being Victimised,
Either by Age or Gender or Sexuality;
Or by physical weakness or Belief or Conviction;
Or by circumstance or timing or just plain Bad Luck.

I'll accept most Trivial abuses of Authority -->
Good Luck to them, providing it doesn't impact Me and Mine too greatly.
However, there are those instances of abused Authority
That can destroy People's lives, either directly,
Or attempt to destroy or damage People's Lives,
For No Good Reason, other than They can.
These Abusers of Authority **** ME OFF no end
And They Must Be Stopped, Weeded Out and Put in Their Place.
They have no Consideration for Others
And the damage done can last a Lifetime.
Enough --> F**k You, *******; Pull Your Head In Before You Lose It!

Too often the Abuser is absolved of Responsibility;
Too often They hide behind a smoke-screen of Legitimacy;
Too often These Idiots Abuse because They can get away with it -->
They wear the Uniform;
They have a purview for Order or Peace or Protection.
Don't get Me wrong -
In the Heat of the Moment, Things Happen, Good or Bad,
And Mistakes are Lessons learnt the Hard Way;
Accept Your Responsibility along with your Authority;
Front up and give a True Account
According to the Facts and Your Decision(s) for Action;
Accept that SomeThings are as They are - UnReasonable as They may Be.
Don't Abuse Your  Authority!
TRUST ME --> YOU'LL REGRET IT!

We greet each other with apologies
Followed by instantaneous forgiveness
Silent, mutual
Screamed with half-smiles
Shy and sweet

We are polar in circumstance
From birth and forever imposed by this
Society
but we are connected by the meridian
of silent looks, obvious telepathy
but we are too rational for that

You are explicit with your shame
Your debt to me
You apologise twice more
“I’m sorry I cannot give you time”
“I’m sorry you are lonely”
A benediction,
“I hope you are not stressed”

We both know why you are sorry
You are the one
With the white picket fence
The obstacle
While I am free but kept wanting
You are sorry we only met now

I reply with my best grin
Feign confidence and
Reward you with my most beautiful laugh
Carefree; that would fool most people
But we are not most people
You know how I hurt

You are sharp
Like freshly clipped nails
I am not; I’m only beginning
But I am the loom that slowly weaves
The frays you’ve snagged
I am the carrier of your hopes
The executor of your will

So I write this poem
To keep me warm
in cold evening train rides and
The general banality
A fan-fic, of the thin pamphlet
That is our fleeting meet

I know you want to read me
Like the latest best-seller
You see clues, a blurb
My handwriting, erratic like yours
But more forceful
The authors, films
And tortured rock goddesses
I adore

My English Lit textbook
hidden in my drawer
dog-eared And scribbled
at Lessing, Rushdie and Joyce
I know you read it on Sunday
When no one was at work

Last night I covered my face
With a clean white sheet
And pretended to be your bride
I’d stand in front of headlights
Just to see your shadow
By my side

Her captor deserves no quarter.
Stupidly cruel and blank,
the executor of silly lies;
the denizen of the dumpster;
the drunken trickster;
the worthless excuse;
the excused human;
the circler of drains;
the drainer of circles;
i see the dark in his eyes...
Why?
Won't?
You.
*******?
DIE.

Ah, today I was called to do
the saddest thing:
an old couple had died
in a car accident
and it was my job
as their executor
to open their separate wills
and fulfill their wishes
and the other lawyers stood around
moaning: Aren’t they the divinest couple ever?
40 years together and they died together

And I read their wills, and the Old Man's said:
This I crave be inscribed on my wife’s grave:
Cold As Ever
And in her will, the Old Woman said:
*This I crave be inscribed on my husband’s grave:
At Last, Stiff Like Never

I said goodbye just yesterday, though days ago you died.
I promised you that I'd be strong, though many tears I've cried.
To take up 'paperwork' is like a cross one has to bear.
And others, in their grief, design to call you laissez-faire.
I want to crumble, but the years have seen me build on ground that's solid; as my heart is true;  and I am duty-bound.
I'm also bound by love and trust – indelible and strong.
I will not fail you, even if my critics call it wrong.
I'll take a breath, I will not crack, I'll see my duty’s end.
And when the ink has dried I'll tell my heart it's time to mend.

Are we then all existentialists
hopeless travellers over life-time?
are we being absurd ,as life seems to be empty
bereft of content and all that's deemed sublime?

time is worse than an executor
who  kills but once--it clings to the flesh--nothing does it relish
it festers and speaks no kind words
only that humans are born to perish


transient is human joy
brittle is its hope
old age creeps in too soon
(it's hard for existentialists to cope)

the waiting
the sighing
the heaving
the suffocating

the questioning
the doubting
the monotonous and inane grinding
which all seems to know no ending

but we are all existentialists anyhow
bearing the cross of being in the here and now

I just heard a kink's song in a commercial
I picture Ray Davies turning in his grave
to a dead man, any product is worthless
for a dead man, wishes can't be saved

you really got me when you ask me why
his executor chose money over belief
I picture Ray Davies with tears in his eyes
they should have let him rest in peace

The heaven hurled the sun —
Eternity for me —
And steady Chariot merged from hell —
Then threw the dust in sea —

For justice was to die —
The Orchards all had known —
Executor reposed the blade
That feebled to the bone —

an outsider ousted
dethroned of dignity
deserted in ****** domain
amidst headstones, herds of harmonized hostages

subjugated to preside over terminus
dominate within an oasis of doom
an inmate of his own undesirable kingdom
inheritance corrupted, saturated in dissolution

cardiovascular induration
a swift digression toward dread
deadening demeanor, hounded by haunts
hindered honor, hardened mind

a glorious emergence, exploitation of plight
executor of terror, decree ablaze in misery
mordant sovereignty, empire of the slain
the corpse king basking in maligned adulation

I fell from the top of a tall block of apartments.



How I remember my children growing

and the never-ending beauty of my wife

my boy and my girl, so full of knowing

my darling, the centre of my humble life.





But the ground rushes up at me as I fly down so fast.





I’ve loved the same woman for all of my time

contented and happy and passionate are we

I remember the night full of ***** and lime

when I asked my love if she would marry me.



And still the ground races up at me…





What joy we have had on our long journey here

with some pains that we’ve shared and endured

sadness has crept in and occasional fear

but we beat it all back and we still feel assured.





I hit the ground --- there is nowhere else to go…



Did I make it…did I not?

Was it a dream…was it not?

©The Executor acting for Joe Wilson – The Fall…2015

There is a tree
with falling leaves.
It releases a sigh.
Flapping leaves. Lifeless.
The sigh
sentences the death pile.
You stand besides it,
and release a sigh.
Are you the judge
or the executor?
You tilt your head, laughing with mockery.
“I am neither.” You cite yourself.

There is a network, working interactively.
You think you are sick. Doctors certified.
Thumbs are numb, mumbling
on the crumbles, plumbing
comfort from the invisible.
A plaster face,
the same as his, hers, and theirs.
You stand besides the tree.

A monster is awake:
too much noise,
too much vibration.
It opens its eyes:
Who are they?
Faces on him, her and them.
They move fast,
faster than lightning.
You stand besides the tree.

Then the face is torn off.
You look at the tree:
Life in the trunk,
death in the pile of leaves.
A judge or executor?
The face in the leaves.

You think
you are unique.
Which face is it?
Seeing a fly on the net.
And thousands of flies.
Then you encounter that tree
out of thousands of trees.
That tree and you:
Half alive,
half dead.

The fly, or the tree, on the net.
You watch and cannot touch,
You stare and cannot move.
The spider climbs close.
You finish the sentence.

Barry S. loved his social worker when she told him what to do. He wondered who would win if Tarzan fought the Easter Bunny, the executor of Spiro Agnew's estate & the Abominable Snow Man.

The juvenile delinquent loved his social worker when she told him what to do. He wondered who would win if Tarzan fought the Easter Bunny, the executor of Spiro Agnew's estate & the Abominable Snow Man.

Just a day or so ago
I was taken off some
ones will -

The executor wrote and
said I would die before
the benefactor -

I never reacted, meek,
I’m a gardener, perhaps
I’ll inherit the earth -

It shows up those of
value and those who
are good for nothing!

The drought has made July linger.  The air smells of sewer *****, sweetgum, sassafras, fescue, concrete and asphalt.  

On this long summer day when the light and heat decide to linger— parents let their children play well into the night on the community’s green.  

Their laughter and the croaking of frogs in the rention pond, just beyond, overgrown with cattails,
has my dog thinking the sound of fireworks and wanting to go back home.  I see the flickerings of the early late night news peeping through the half-drawn curtains as we head back.  

I imagine the children dreaming dream after dream in the hot mist of sleep after the last door has shut.


In that moment I see the first lines of my new poem, full  of that living hurting nostalgia that everyone likes to star and comment on— a poem, that I imagine, might be found after my death by my executor.  It would be one of those critically disdained viral odes charming and popular enough to be embroidered on sofa pillows that comfort the aching backside of old widows. A poem with a hint of despair but not written in despair.   One that knows the substance of July summer nights.

Jesus made a will before
being crucified at Calvary.

It has been in probate for
over two thousand years.

Due to Corona Virus -19
it has finally been read.

The executor said the earth
is not for the chosen ones.

Instead, which is a surprise
to all, he left it to the Meeks.