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

Love and life are transient
damaged
by fasteners of fear



Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis

Ports 1961 just announced their company’s collaboration with iconic sportswear and boxing brand Everlast, made famous by the world’s greatest boxers and actors. The collection is now available in stores and on farfetch.com. Milan Vukmirovic, menswear creative director, has revived his Everlast classics such as the “Rocky” hoodie and other essentials. They are all adorned with a trademarked star camouflage motif. Unveiled on the catwalk at the runway show that opened Milan Men’s Fashion Week, this collaboration is a tribute to the fighter inside us all.

A true highlight of the menswear collection, Ports 1961’s signature men’s bow sneaker was also a hit. Their bow sneaker features a distinctive suede bow on top instead of laces or more predictable fasteners. Each pair of bow sneakers is raw-cut, hand-stitched and hand-knotted to be uniquely distinctive to the wearer. As well as bow fasteners, the sneakers can also be opened and closed with a central zipper in the heel for convenience and ease of wearing. These sneakers are available in fabrics and shades to match this season’s garments in classic raw-cut suede and leather. For comfort and durability, they feature hardy rubber soles.

Fashion East Men’s presentation for autumn/winter ’17 offered a significant designer lineup. Fashion East, with the continued support of Topman, was excited to reveal a double billing of bright, emerging talent. Sponsored by London Fashion Week’s Menswear, the showcase featured up-and-coming designers Charles Jeffrey Loverboy, Feng Chen **** and Per Gotesson.

A Central St. Martin’s MA graduate, Jeffrey is an illustrator with a radically creative style. For his Loverboy label, his cast included artists, musicians and friends who stomped stylishly down the runway. They created a club-night scene that the audience identified with immediately. Jeffrey’s tailoring was impeccable. His signature knits collaged with chainmail showed up with Swarovski bug-encrusted boxers and foam accessories.

**** was born in Beijing, but her business is based in London. She launched her label Feng Chen **** in 2015 after the completion of her MA at London’s Royal College of Arts. ****’s 2017 collection explored and celebrated connectivity in the digital age. She combines functionality with an astute attention to detail and puts a strong focus on outerwear pieces as the core of her collection. Her clothes are available in New York City.

Gotesson is originally from a small town in the province of Smaland in Sweden. This London-based designer is also a graduate of London’s Royal College. His looks are voluminous denim pieces in classic blues and monochromes juxtaposed and worn with white tops. The collection played with proportions and was an experimental take on the designer’s own wardrobe. “It’s about scale and about finding balanced pieces between either huge or small,” he explained.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/mermaid-trumpet-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

The cacophony of voices pushing and shoving, everyone seemed
to be taller than I was and they all seemed to know what to do.
The teacher showed impatience with my tiny body. It was clear
that she liked the kids whose last names were Johnson and whose
parents owned farms on Highway 15.  They all went to the
Methodist Church in town.

I wished I was blonde with a raspy voice like Doreen.

I showed my plaid cotton tennis shoes and sang “Old **** Tucker”
while dancing my best country jig for show-and-tell. This was when
I learned that it was “Dan Tucker” and that “****” was a bad word.

My daddy said ****, and he wore work boots with stiff golden laces
that crisscrossed onto metal fasteners half way up his calves.
The boots kept time when he played guitar; eyes and mouth smiling
and laughing over some absurd thought he had the temerity to speak
out loud. Daddy was the most interesting person I knew. He quit
school after 8th grade, but understood humanity more than most.

I felt good about singing my song and proud of myself for having
mustered up the courage. I did not have fancy toys or artifacts from
family vacations like the other kids.

I had never heard kids call each other names until I made the
acquaintance of the school playground. It was strange how they
ganged up on the boy they said was hyper and had ***** eyes.
I did not know what either of those things meant, but I knew it
made him sad and made me afraid to talk to him. They said I
looked like a ghost, I did not know if that was good or bad.

Doreen was not afraid of the ball, and that made her okay. My Mom
decided to pick a friend for me, but I did not like Linda. She did
not know how to play with dolls; she just looked at them.
Linda was tedious.

The boy with ***** eyes made more sense to me.

He lived in the yellow house that had a dog that would bite and
scare the nice people away. I finally talked to him in 6th grade
on the hour long bus rides home. Once, an older boy named
John snapped a rubber band on his eye over and over until it
swelled completely shut, my friend just took it, crying, until the
bus driver intervened. John’s older brother played with guns,
and John was scared of him, and older brother was scared of father.

We hated when the brothers rode the bus.

I decided that most boys were mean and that to be a boy must be
terrifying. One year, ***** eyes almost drowned during gym class
the other kids said he tried to **** himself. They thought it was funny.
Girls will never know the horrors of the 8th grade boy’s locker room.
When he was 15 he crossed in front of a semi on his moped, they
found his foot half a mile away from his body.  I wonder if the kids
thought that was funny too.

I was too afraid of my emotions to go to the funeral.

Ghost to ***** Eyes: I am sorry that they hurt you Vincent,
and sorry that I am scared to see your innocence reduced
to road **** in a coffin.

The cacophony of voices pushing and
shoving, everyone seemed to be taller

than I was and they all seemed to know
what to do. The teacher showed impatience

with my tiny body, frozen in fear by the
giant circular stone apparatus where

twenty children washed their hands. It was
clear that she liked the kids whose last

names were Johnson and whose parents
owned farms on Highway 15. They all went

to the Methodist Church in Town. I wished
I was blonde with a raspy voice like Doreen.

I showed my plaid cotton tennis shoes and
sang “Old **** Tucker” while dancing my

best country jig for show-and-tell. This was
when I learned that it was “Dan Tucker”

and that “****” was a bad word. My daddy
said ****, and he wore work boots with

stiff golden laces that crisscrossed onto
metal fasteners twelve inches up his calves.

The boots kept time when he played guitar;
his eyes and lips smiling and laughing over

some absurd thought he had the temerity
to speak out loud. Daddy was the most

interesting person I knew. He quit school
after 8th grade, but understood humanity

more than most. He wore cowboy boots
when he played the fiddle, and if he said

****, then it must be okay. I still felt good
about singing my song and proud of myself

for having mustered up the courage. I did
not have fancy toys or artifacts from family

vacations like the other kids. I had never
heard kids call each other names before

I made the acquaintance of the school
playground. It was strange how they

ganged up on the boy they said was hyper
and had ***** eyes. I did not know what

either of those things meant, but I knew it
made him sad and made me afraid to talk

to him. They said I looked like a ghost, I
did not know if that was good or bad.

Doreen was not afraid of the ball, and that
made her okay. My Mom decided to pick a

friend for me, but I did not like Linda. She
did not know how to play with dolls; she

did not make up stories about their lives
or pretend to be their mommy, she just

looked at them. Linda was tedious. The
boy with ***** eyes made more sense

to me. He lived in the yellow house that
had a dog who would bite and scare

the nice people away. I finally talked to
him in 6th grade on the hour long bus rides

home. Once, an older boy named John
snapped a rubber band on his eye over

and over until it swelled completely shut,
my friend just sat and took it until the

bus driver intervened. John’s older brother
played with guns, and John was scared of

him, and older brother was scared of father.
We hated when the brothers rode the bus.

I decided that most boys were mean and
that to be a boy must be terrifying. One

year, ***** eyes almost drowned during
gym class, the other kids said he tried to

**** himself. They thought it was funny.
Girls will never know the horrors of the

8th grade boy’s locker room. When he
was 15 he crossed in front of a semi on

his moped, they found his foot half a mile
away from his body.  I wonder if the kids

thought that was funny too. I was too
afraid of my emotions to go to the funeral.

Ghost to ***** Eyes: I am sorry that they
hurt you Vincent, and sorry that I am

scared to see your innocence reduced
to road **** in a coffin.

My attic's full
Of Thank You's
That can't keep out
The cold,
But rafters
Hang with laughter
To warm me
When I'm old.

My basement's full
Of Pleases,
Poor fuel for the furnace,
But air vents
Carry welcomes
To keep us cool
Or warm us.

The shed is shelved
With If's and Buts
And jars of
Maybe bolts;
The fasteners
Of family ties,
The glue
Of hearts and souls.

Search the garage,
Open cupboards,
Lift the sideboard lid;
Step into closests,
Check under stairs,
You'll find them everywhere.
We use them freely,
Need them dearly,
Those small words
Sound so good.

Ten O'Clock, day after tomorrow,
Henry Nilson's funeral's almost  here,
I hate to but I really have to go
Cause we've been friends for sixty years

Rode twelve years on the same old bus
Made memories by the dozens
Played sports, chased girls and learned to cuss,
Married sweethearts who were cousins....

Adjoining acres, ranched and farmed
Never had a fight or angry word,
Kept each other's backs from harm,
Old Henry's death just seems absurd.

Melva loved to worry on about the kids and weather
And when the television doctors said
"Go get a physical," she said, "We'd better!"
And then commenced the journey of the dead.

Old Henry'd never had a use for hospitals,
Said only sick people should go, and he'd
No time for such a waste of time at all...
Besides, he wasn't even sick, by gee.

But Melva kept the pressure up, and she
Though never tall, was never short with words
'Til poor ol' Henry finally gave in to her plea
And let her make a date with Dr. Wards.

He  grumbled to me afterwards, about the big to-do,
"They put me on a fast the day before, not even water!
Couldn't have a cup of joe, nor pinch of chew!
And when we got there, the nurse looked like our daughter!

Old Henry seldom saw the sun below his tee-shirt line,
So when she handed him a gown, he  struggled for a time
Before  he put the ****** thing on, "minus any clothes"
And wondered how to cinch it up...the fasteners  were  behind.

Old Dr. Ward gave cautious smile on entering the room,
"How long's it been, Mr. Nilson, since your last  physical?
I  don't have a record of your charts, so I assume
You've doctored elsewhere?" He looked up, quizzical.

Henry cleared his throat and said, "I ain't been anywhere!"
(At seventy, such a terse statement is something to be said.)
"Wal...that 'ent exactly true, I guess. There  was a couple times
I came for stitches or a broke arm"... his face was weathered red.

What happened  next, old Henry wouldn't speak a word...
Results were good, surprised the doc and Melva, too.
"You'll make a hundred at this rate," the doctor purred,
And  Henry saddled up and  left all in a stew.

A week or so went by, and Henry's medical triumph
Made the rounds of gossips in church and at the bar;
"A waste of time!" was all old Henry humphed.
And the next day, a heart attack took him in the car.

No moral now will end this sad old story,
No fancy shibboleths or speculation;
I notice though, the clinic's in less glory,
From physicals, I'm taking a vacation.

Bottoms of glasses, under ***** caps and vases. In pepper pots, though holes in socks, twixt blooming buds and fasteners. Kitchen’s sink; shades of pink, through willow-wood hearts and:
Behind Polaroid frames and flashbulb flays, measuring pixels and yards and:
In sewing thimbles, between knitting needles; gentle beetles, playing cards and:
Through laddered tights and telephone drawers, on written paper under boarded floors. On cotton shirts caked with dirt and in refuge sacks of reticence begirt. Cushion covers and shopping bags, through electrical wire and sodden rags. Under flower pots, inside sticky locks. In coffee mugs and china cups, Teabags and teaspoons and niches for tee lights. Bottle necks, glass jars, coin dish, cream jugs. Window sills, knife block, light bulbs, plugs. Plate stack, lotion ***, saucer, dust. Record slips, ornaments, lamp, clock. Table, chair: drink and sit around it.
I’ve hidden my heart almost everywhere and you still haven’t found it.

I hear the roar of your truck engine as you wait patiently atop my driveway

I slide on my sandals hurriedly, slip out the door
Dressed in a loose, ripply top with my favorite shorts
Bouncy hair and glowing skin
Edible fragrances dripping off my figure, into your nostrils, in which drag themselves to the lobes of your brain, the taste buds of your tongue

And you
With your golden rod complexion, form-fitting black t-shirt, exposing the contours of your sculpted chest, loose Bermuda shorts
Complementary ball cap and aviators
The faint hypnotic smell of sweat and my favorite cologne that compliments your natural aroma perfectly

A playlist of songs reminiscent of old memories
Singing
Dancing
Laughing
Crying
Beats on my eardrums
"Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round!"
Our vocal chords stretch like rubber bands as we scream to these memories in motion

The beach is reserved for our use, or so we pretend
Together, we are alone on this small strip of land
I run to the sand, allowing my toes the comfort of such a familiar feeling
White hot, burning, tingling, relief within seconds as the warmth conducts and disperses across my skin

I unbutton my shorts and pull my top over my head, run to the waters edge in hopes of pleasure, alleviation from the gnawing humidity, liquefying my bones  
I submerge my head, fogging my mind, allowing complete relaxation to fill my entire being

I find you beside me as I surface for Oxygen
Beads of lake water cover you cheeks like melted snowflakes
You stand there, naked next to me, your clothes at shore

Your hands search my back, find the fasteners of my bra
1
2
3 un-clipped by your hungry fingers, which now travel to my hips
Tugging at the thin, lacy fabric covering my
innocence

Now, in your palm

And with your other palm you beckon me back to the sand as you say, with tender breathlessness,
"You're beautiful"
In which I believe you as I lie upon a sandy towel
As you carefully lower yourself upon me
As our fingers interlace
And our lips, thirsting for lust, bind together

We are one

We are love

small items for sewing and other notions.
ribbons wound carefully secured with a
nice topped pin, not the ordinary.

it should be so, or sew.

buttons in bottles, and jars,
safed for the occasion, with
occasional poppers, oft worded
press fasteners unlike hooks,
and eyes,known as hooks and eyes.

the word appears in chaucer’s
canterbury tales, appears here,
too.

haber dashers have patron saints
just like all the other trades,
alongside worshipful companies.

at the mill , all is tidy now.

sbm.

Now a days
I just feel
So drained  

         The moment fell open
         The fasteners broke
         And I was the fool
         Who tried to keep them inside

Broken mirrors
Blood and tears
And I see myself lying here

         Alone in life
         Alone in death
         Body all that's left

The Brain is Dangerous
Don't Listen To Us
We're Nothing But Dust

Paralyzed
Got things to do

Got to make myself care
Got to make my limbs move

Taking the next step
Operating
Motivating
No more waiting

I am numb
 But there's an underlying dread
An underlying nausea
A sense that something is ...off

  Something needs tightening
  Something is stuck
  
  Something is bent
  Something's not right

Polish it up
Tighten the fasteners
Grease the hinges
Straighten what's bent

Scrape off the contacts
Re-flow the cracks
Moisten my lips
Take a deep breath
(From down in the belly)

Try to articulate
Try to be calm
Take a step back
Take a step back

Deflated, spent, and numb
The thrumming of the drum
Will keep my unwilling feet moving task-ward
Closeup on upturned thumb.

To celebrate another's punishment. 

I ***** the tears and remove myself from the responsibility. 

His affliction toasted. 
****** with the cadence of your emptiness. 

Above and behind you. 
She pants and dances. 
Pointing to a staircase spilling over. 
An empty cup. 
Twisting humans. 

The lights glistening and the marble gleaming. 
The night haunting and the tenants moving. 

For all this to happen we perish. 

We press on. 

Banners of bruises and the bones broken. 

A neck brace removed with the blossoming tiara. 

Grow your hair for the cutting and the dyeing. 

Undress your shame and zip your spine closed. 
Your ***** exposed.
Your back broken. 

From the crumbling of two hearts your void is filled. 

Admit. 
The killer is not what we've seen. 
The last is not yet behind. 

The mothers sear with thoughts of love. 
The layout between the next time and this irreparable present. 

Your toes curl as your head falls back. 
Severed with steel and your face molten and mended. 

This bed with these hollow walls brought you leave. 

Believe me when I say this distance is what kills. 
If you crawl maybe in time you will learn. 
Maybe with pain you will grow. 

Under Death's watchful I weep and create myself clean. 
I clip my tail and scorch my bliss. 

And simply because this passed means you'll exist. 
Take your lies and lose your story. 
Starve and tell me you need more. 
I want you to admit. 

Contract and stare at the angry sky. 
Grieving with the stricken roots bled deep. 

Repeat and repeat for repetition's sake. 

Open your throat and flood the desert with your pity. 
Drown in your newfound ocean. 
Die for a sake beyond girders and fasteners.

The ember will burn forever. 
Forgotten. 
Alone and with nothing to shine upon.

sides in position
self imposturing, pre sep
paration, settling scores and bounds
separation
church from state… wait

what are these

things? Words? Or mental wisps
inter
daring done to render due
to whom due, honor or otherwise reknown.

Heroic words. I've uttered some,
imagining all boys did,
singing with their dad's, to Queen,
we
are the champions
of the world, we pretend, to the end, then

we fall away… or they
fall away … the anthems in the ballparks,
oh,
say. can you see… we are the cops,
we are the redcoats and the brown shirts
and the cavalry and the real estate speculators,

slipping my grip, the idea of me, citizen-soldier,
come limping home from the edge
of baseball,
where futbol over laps ancestral lessons
in rendering unto the owner rents ……….

How old is old?
Ask a child, for old men never
learn the bounds, or
if they do, I can't say,
there seem no theys I fit just right.

I
balance _ or I lie /I\ am lifted leaning lost.
…………..

Salt, salaried man,
spending time in reading strange sayings
as if
we
know there is meaning found some times,
we think.
we mentalate, cogitate, take a tic

to stop
and think
a gain or a loss, more sense or less, inessence
or essential point

in time? See? Say what you see? Squiggle wiggle
vermicule breeeze, or
whispy vapour
rising
above or diving into a period,
a point
in time to see ifery vanish in wasery wonder iffing
whatsitmatter,
any way.

We lived past that. Now, we make sense……..

Radical is root-related, as well as
edge
related… out on the edge of known
a
self awareness wonders at my existing
outside the inside
as seen on TV
via AI guides through the explosion of knowns

I am anonymous.
There is a canyon near my home
the sign says it is the canyon with no name.
The map says it is a slot-like canyon, with no name.

Thingery thinking in terms of lines and letters letting
all we knew
blow into the winding times told of in tales too tedious
to
recall
with Howard Bloom level detail. {he is unique}
He touches me, do I not touch back? The curio knows.

How sharp the edge of a point stretched from

the mind that could see the wind whip a spark to life.

Sense when nonsense seems the fashion, the way
forms fashion fasteners around axes,
facistical twigs and vines

something says this is missed as a message,
this ax bound in sticks,
I dare, I do, I ask what was the meaning of this,
and
while we're on my dime, what's with the wings
on the Phrygian cap,

I mean,
what was the artificer's source of inspiration, like
why is liberty always a lady
wearing fashion far up the ladder of learned things,
what is the trick
that
feminine wile, legendary lure, curious art, enchanting
c'mon
one bite.

That idea, boing, stretched so tight it threatens ever
if it
breaks once, just
once

the attention span…

An encrustation sensation overwhelms me,
I'm thinking
I know
I know
I know
nothing so important that it could not wait to be said
by you, reader/writer being ready
read on

words to the wise are plenty,
these who say we know bread, they say leave the leaven.

:they said leave it in Egypt:

But who knows how?
Sour dough is sour dough, y'knows, it don't cook with no bubbles,
no,
dough rises in a backpack tied to an ***, crossing the red sea,
near that place where
National Geographic got that image of a golden chariot wheel,
reminiscent of the drowned army,
or was that
not true?

Do you believe AI knows? I mean, does your believing matter?
Ask who knows what and you learn, the memory we share
holds answers to questions you are afraid to ask.
………….

One in 8 billion, those are the current odds,
taken to scale, with man, all varieties and models,
augmented intellectuals allowed,
the measure,
of all things…
but
two's a crowd.
Social distance morphic resonance,

send me money, I am drowning in debt…
do I doubt?
Don't you, what if… somebody is going to win,
I think I can.

Ha, Wattie Piper, child hood infection exposed
too soon  to
W. Clement Stone, do it now

selah, right word right time, just before
I lose my mind

na na na na
--------------

Is the universe friendly,
does it matter if we know or if we agree?
It is,
I say.

I made my bet, I go with the goodness aspect
of knowledge,
truth itself, yes, the idea, real, the whole

enchilada.
Good is never evil. That is a true story rule,
you can bet on it,
because life isn't fair.

Think no evil, see no evil. My side won.
My weapons are not mortal, I know.
Once fooled, once ready,
I know
the trick is knowing good enough to know
the difference,
by now. We are mostly post-

original disconnection beans being removed
at birth,
with that little blue **** thingy,
nigh on universal by 1948,

super bloom, that was the year, the pollen way,
say,
hey, see this singer singing home song long song
so
far away, way way way away
hey

---- dancing dust motes seen in sun ---

adopt
responsibility

what can you do?

tap out a line of words? yeah, I can.
pour meaning into the mix?

yes, I can. I can

alleviate the misery of another.

wait. can I?
Am I authorized to believe?

What if this thought I'm caught in is a lie,
and I am

use less?
My fingers laugh.

Pointedly.

Value, virtue, please sift this classifying action to
Worth,
Weight,
judgement by
gravity deterr-mind limits
per-
ience weighing

ideology versus religuonic fasteners,
one idea to all ideas

past muons and kaons and moans for merci-merci
whisps
of stories

locks of hair

look lower, tower bound princess,

look down

don't go all rap-und-zeal-ic

the piper took the children, that's how this story ended,

first time the rat-power was nullift.

Echoing memories.
Singing along.
A sweet siren's song,
Beckoning in reverse.

A simple task,
Ignore the past.
Stay true to your course.

Coarse or fine,
Threaded divine;
Fascinating fasteners.

Dogs will bark,
The sun will rise
And, memories
still whisper.

So often it is dead.
Said God.
Of others, instead build buildings.
Mount up, ready, set for your favor.
Mounds on God's ground goaded
Hoards and hoards
about bounties.
Beautiful shapes soften lines on hoards and hoards of faces.
So instead.
Glisten along raceways, gilded in filigree fasteners.
Spreading, trace fingers, lips,
So, space is how our hour owes us

made of maple wood               
are unthreaded fasteners              
ten down in strike, pins

A room on wheels
with my storage platform bed
and my solar powered devices

A party on wheels
with a roof rack that holds 4 camping chairs, table
and a trunk with a propane grille, charcoal grille and fire pit

A room on wheels
with my built in closet that keeps all my work clothes  wrinkle free and organized  and two drawers for my fold-ups

A party on wheels with my 6 remote controlled led lights , laptop with built in WiFi to stream movies and play games

This is my work car and many nights on long trips it has been my sleeping quarters and many nights it has provided a night full of camaraderie

My co workers and I sit around a fire in comfortable chairs as we cookout on my two grilles  from food we all chipped in to provide

At first glance people think I’m crazy but once they get to participate in the environment they can’t believe the fun

I average 28 miles per gallon , I can shower at any Planet Fitness, Flying J or Pilot truck stop as well as stay the night for free in their well lit parking lots

I have screens that go over the outside of the windows like a glove covering the open windows for airflow without the bugs being able to get in

I have a solar powered fan that mounts above my head as well as one that mounts up front to create steady airflow

Underneath the storage bed houses anything and everything a road trip could desire as well as necessities for survival

The glovebox a small hidden pantry for protein packed snacks and healthy alternatives

My workout items hang on the exterior of the closet wall behind my headrest: resistant bands , hand grips and my protein powder tumbler all with designated hooks

I love my small resort on wheels. As it has provided some lifelong memories and always gets a stray smile from others that know not of it’s powers

But the most important reason I love my Cruze is it has provided a really neat father son project and one that shapes a young mans mind and lets him realize anything you think truly can become possible

Regardless of what others think or say because everyone that told us we were crazy has enjoyed a spot around the fire and a well grilled meal

They say “ you know what this is pretty cool after-all, I just didn’t think it would be possible.

The best part is within 10 minutes and 4 fasteners the front seat can be put back in  to it’s original working position

However we designed it so a passenger can still be buckled up while it remains a car camper

Now if only school would get out soon so we can begin our planned adventures for this summer

a hole can be an empty space:
a crater, cave, a pit, or loss

a hole can be sheer enjoyment
a dimple, gorge, or doughnut hole

a hole can also connect things
using a thread or fasteners

Ce n'est pas possible, de
filer comme les Anglais,
or take French leave, when
one is housesitting canines.

As days of departure near,
they begin to detect a vibe;
routines change, boxes are
filled and items disappear.

They identify tones; velcro,
buckles and dome fasteners
mean walkies, but zip sounds
longer than flies, are suitcases.