I was conscious the moment her hand touched mine.
It felt as if I was sleep waking in a beautiful dream.
I had no insight to anything before that. No remembrance of if I dreamed or not.
There was no grogginess no want to close my eyes.
I felt at peace laying there watching her stare back at me.
The simpleness of it all.
The experience of something so precious shrewd in nature
To be perfectly honest there is no place I'd rather be.
Her voice assured a deep well that cured need for thirst,
the sheer depth of a look shared from eye to eye.
I told myself it was just a dream,
But when she touched me; I refused to wake

Have you ever sat until some part has gotten really numb?
It happened to me yesterday to the left cheek of my ***.

At first I didn't notice until I tried to up and stand.
What should have been so simple didn't go exactly as I planned.

Initially I rose ***** without any feelings of being sore.
But that changed quite abruptly as my nose impacted the floor.

I don't think I was down too long as the hurt still felt quite new.
Initial pain was somewhat lesser from the grogginess as I came to.

The doctor says it isn't broken and the redness will fade away.
I hope it is so tomorrow as it isn't feeling any better so far today.

For those there to witness much laughter was enjoyed by some,
as I crawled into the ambulance to avoid walking with half a ***.

POSTICTAL PORTHOLE-(TIME BLOWN BACKWARDS)

Frozen breath holding back weight, against the chest seems great stacked like stones

Starting softly to see from the third door down the row,reclusive, damage is waiting to show

Others in red alert our mind coming on slow, their fear no reflection on our unknowns

Peace while in waiting,thoughts flow slow into a reflecting pool,echos beginning to grow

Time blown backwards when clocks stopped ticking , simple assessments our only goals

Mental evaporation senses left wide open,trying to find the song but only get static from the radio

Held back by grogginess looking out from fogginess ,bits of life as viewed through those holes

Oh MY I made it,escaped , BUT when will blackness call again,laying low not quite thinking of that other plateau

Bolted ,jolted rousing frequently followed by drowsing,hearing as a low hum ,sounds soon forming new tones

Nonexistentance now part of the ritual ,for the witness memories are visual,slowly waiting to say hello

Perspective has changed, await for thoughts to be rearranged ,senses in collusion with massive confusion,new beginning like waiting for future episodes . R.C.

Toddlers can put green crayons in the freezer without
Anybody questioning them and I
Have a problem with that.
I have a problem with the fact that toddlers can put
Green crayons in the freezer and tell their parents that they are
Preserving
The Earth and that they’ve been learning about
Animal adaptations and conjunctions in school
And that they
Love
Their friends.
I have a problem with the fact that a
Toddler’s idea of
Beauty
Is a butterfly landing on their finger during
Recess, a snowflake on their tongue, the
Grogginess of  staying up past 8:30,
****** snacks, Dora the Explorer,
The satisfaction of scraping the
First chunk out of a tub of butter, the
Giddiness and fear at your first sleepover,
The one where you had to timidly shake your
Friend awake in the middle of the night because you could
Not for the
Life of you find the bathroom.
I’m not ashamed to admit that
I haven’t said I love you in a time that
Lingers like the smell of burning.
It’s always love you or love ya and I’ve
Forgotten what it feels like for those words to
Caress my lips, to guide my heart
Out of its cage into the
Stale air.
I want to be considering beauty like a
Toddler.  I want to be watching Dora and
Learning about conjunctions, but instead I’m
Crying because I can’t fit into my jeans right and I
Don’t know how to do makeup.  I want to say
I love you and let it
Ring in the air like
Frozen music
But I can’t
Because you’re
States away and instead I brush my hair
So many times for people who don’t even like me that
There’s no personality left.
I have a problem with the fact that you
Moved on so quickly and left me with the
Loves me not flower petal and that
Dora the Explorer is not on Netflix
Anymore and the price of Happy Meals goes
Up everyday like the age of my
Heart  
And that
Toddlers can put green crayons in the freezer without
Anybody questioning them and say that
They
Are preserving the Earth.

Times between night and mornin,
Just when the chill about sets in,
Limbs frantically search for that crumpled quilt
Increasing warmth and ahh sweet grogginess.

A dream floats in my blank sleep
You and me tootling along a forgotten, familiar street
In a battered old Hyundai Santro?? it is.
Twenty years of acquired cobwebs melt
Evoke fond memories and unexplored possibilities
Overlaid with a wild imagination, the images move in slow motion

Me driving, your gaze surveying the landscape
You are older and plumper, I have a beer belly and a bald patch
There is not much to say, or too much to say but no time.
Four Eyes frequently lock and search for something
Knowing it but daring not to say.

Your sultry liquid voice breaks into a song, an old Urdu ghazal,
Of obscure origin and meaning,
The notes glide and acquire shapes in your husky abused throat,
Silvery quicksilver, flowing, and always round  at the edges
Unfettered and undisturbed by the bumpy ride and noisy springs
Brings whole of creation in the Battered old Hyundai Santro Still.

The vocal vibrates and resonates in my bones and skull and in my soul
Stimulates humours I didn’t know exist
Eyes lock again, a mild smile is exchanged,
We understand each other
Know the limits and improbabilities
Its not going to be in this life time dear.

Let’s seal it with a kiss
An embrace exchanged over the gear levers and handbrakes
Oblivious to the barreling old Hyundai Santro
Your tiny ******* and Pantene scented hair
Your lips still perfect, soft, warm, moist and downy at the corners,.
Unfamiliar yet so familiar.

I want to fall in love with his bad days
His insecurities
Become a best friend to his loneliness, his fears
A partner to his loathing

I want to love him for all he thinks he isn't
So I can prove him wrong and kiss away his hate

I want to fall in love with his tears
His messy hair in the mornings
His grogginess before his cup of coffee
His clumsy and nervous stutters

Everything about him, I want to find myself fawning over
I want to give him my all and love his everything
Because love doesn't pick and choose
It consumes all or it leaves with nothing

If I only choose to love his shimmer in the sunlight
Or his childish smiles and giggles
Then it would be as if I loved a portrait
Our love would only tarnish and fade with time

I will love everything or I will not love at all

And so I fall again
Into the blackest cycles
The dark patterns
Of dreary steps
Running on auto
Not feeling like I ought to
Piloting the craft through
Though taking many hits to the hull

And perennial pardon ,
Sure as the sun will rise
With the impending dawn,
****** my plaintive passions
Sickening and splintering the dream
One from which I awake with a start
Bloodshot grogginess
My purest art

My mind woke up, and its first thought was you.
Then my heart rubbed the grogginess out of its eyes and readjusted itself to the newness of the morning.
The instant it realized what my mind was thinking, a pang shot out all through it and it started to ache.
It was reminding me of why I shouldn't.
My heart and head do this every morning, and every morning I make them stop.
It's too draining to deal with on a daily basis.
My mind should know better by itself now, but it’s willing to break every single last rule when it comes to you.
Have you no mercy upon me? Upon my heart? Upon my mind?
Have you no compassion for the pain that you put me through?
Most mornings I feel guilty, as though I should go back to sleep, but there’s no point seeing as you take over my dreams too.

It’s always you, and I’m convinced that it always will be.

I go to sleep, it’s you.

In my dreams? You.

When I wake up... It’s no other than you.

The cycle is vicious.
You’ve overstayed your visit.

Please… just pack your bags and be gone, my head no longer wants to be your home.

I wake up to the first note of my alarm
Ringing loudly into my dreams
Pulling me from the depths of sleep
Out thru the ocean of slumber and awake

Never anytime for the snooze button
I have no extra time to spare
I set my alarm for the last possible minute

I stumble into the bathroom
Rough my hair around a little bit
And peel the sleep out of my eyes

I turn the shower on and step in
Standing still for just a few minutes
I think that maybe I may fall back asleep

A lighthearted prayer escapes my lips
Hoping the hot water will be enough
To wake me from this grogginess
But of course it never is

I’d really rather not get ready
And just crawl back into bed

Ten minutes have passed
Now it’s time to get out of the shower
And get dressed

I blindly let the dog out of her cage
Walk her outside to do her business
In the thick early morning fog
She plays around for a few minutes
It’s all the time that I can allow

We rush back up the stairs
And back into the warmth of our home

I hurriedly pack my lunch
From a limited number of choices
And empty cabinets

The dog accepts her treat
And trots back to her cage
She is trained well

The thought occurs to me
That if only people were so well behaved
Maybe I’d enjoy their company more

But I’m running late by now as usual
So I don’t have time to dwell on this thought
As I close the bedroom door
She watches me and I hear her whimper
A soft goodbye with her eyes

I grab my lunch bucket and head out the door
Muttering a poem of early morning under my breath
Which seems to hang frozen in the air

I unlock my car door and slide in
Keying the car on in one smooth practiced process
The radio booms to life because I always forget how loud
I had the music playing the previous day
And my right hand quickly reaches
For the volume **** to turn it down
But only a little
At least until I get out onto the road

Every second of my drive to work
I sit talking myself into not turning back around
To go back home and go back to sleep

Most days I’m successful and I end up at work
Punching the time clock for an eight hour or more shift
Of busting knuckles and periodic book reading

Most days though I really should just turn back around
And go back home and go back to sleep

Most days though I really should never
Have gotten out of bed in the first place

touches ungainly in the darkness.
breathes entangled in each other's throats.
hands. roaming. traveling. drifting.
the familiarity of your muscles.
tongue. tasting. consuming. savoring.
the orbit of your back.
fingers. soaking. engrossing. immersing.
the blueprint of your slumber.
your slumber. my slumber.
your face nuzzled in my bird nest.
my arm wrapped like a boa constrictor.
your calf easing my calf.
your early rise. my grogginess.
your gentle smile. your hungry kiss.
drift. drift.
back into the wondrous state.
a world where we both reside.
darling, to sleep by your side
every night of every day
of every month of every year.
i dream. i dream.

It was a Saturday morning.

My eyes,
they fluttered,
lashes grazing against
the top of my lids,
pitter, patter, flutter,
am I awake yet?

Hours spent
drifting in, drifting out
somewhere I slipped,
swiftly,
floating in between
sweet, delicious dreams
and soft, serene reality.

The universe opened
wide
just beyond the unlatched windows.
The wind
whispered to me
as it slowly blew by
the quilted drapes.

"The universe is yours,"
it whispered.
Awake, rising,
how I was aware,
senses heightened
by the morning air,
or was it afternoon?

No matter.

Grogginess faded
as my eyes focused
on the whimsical, soft shapes
that shifted, turned,
dissolved, bloated and
withered,
the clouds spoke to
me,
creating a slow, two-step
harmony
in my soul.

Sunlight faint,
that early afternoon light
the kind that
makes everything beautiful,
and poetic,
even the 3, oh wait,
there's 4,
flies buzzing,
circling round and round
the overhead light
were they dancing?
playing a tune?
The sunlight made it so.

'Twas all a chord,
a line from a song,
a poem,
a simple moment
in a complicated world,
and all I felt, smelled, heard, saw, tasted;
I am alive.

8:43 AM // 6/27/14

I don't know what it is about you but you make me feel something I've only seen in movies, you know how right before the big finale there's an uproar, a ******, a point of no return, or the kiss of a lifetime? Well you make me feel that in every inch of my bones, right down to stubs of my toes, you're smile sends chills down my spine although I have never been a fan of the cold you make my heart melt. When I hear your voice telling me all these sweet things I've heard millions of times before for the first time in a long time my gut is telling me to trust it, to trust you. Although letting people in has never been hard for me letting people go is what seems to be the hardest, I guess nobody bothers reading the fine print anymore, although mine clearly states that "I am an enigma of joy that will always put your needs before my own and shower you with affection even when the world is being cruel, I'll be the sun beam that shines through your window even though you haven't seen the sunshine in quite a few years and last but not least I will love every bit of you...even the parts you thought nobody ever could" so when you embrace me I hope you don't break me, by that I mean my heart, it's paper thin although I miss it being my favorite shade of purple velvet, oh yeah and that's another thing: skin. I love the feel of your skin, the way you ran your fingers in a circle along my lower back like geometrics and finger painting were your best hidden talents. the first day I met you i layed on your chest and listened to the rumble of your heart beat while the grogginess of our stomachs sang an entirely different tune, I guess we found even more things in common. So far I have found so many things I can't wait to love about you including every weird fetish and habit even if I have yet to witness it. Like the way your voice sounds when you sing and if you sing in the shower and if your favorite song changes every week or hey maybe you've had the same anthem for years now or how your laugh escalates and falls as you laugh at your own inconvenience or what you do with your hands when all you have to hold is air or if you pout your lip when you get upset ((like me)) or if you even do anything at all when you get upset, I want to learn why you love certain words even if it's just because of the way you pronounce them and what shows you still love to watch on Saturday mornings, do you even have breakfast on Saturday mornings or are you still dead asleep till noon breaks? What hand do you write with and how big your handwriting is, do you like letters and if so, how often can I write you one? Do you mind if I ramble or even tell you about the color of the sky or even coffee shops I've never set foot in. Do you value moments or are you a fan of the bigger picture, do you analyze things and if you don't then, i totally don't notice how tight you grip my hips when i kiss you too hard or how cute you look when you squint your eyes... if not then i am sorry for noticing these things. How often do you like to cuddle and if your not in the mood we can just lock pinkys, that'll be enough. Do you scare easily and if you do, pick a movie that scares the living hell out of you just so I can see how you let your emotions effect you, do you pick your nose when no one is looking or do you think that's gross (because if you do I so DON'T do that). I want to know what tv shows make you laugh and what food makes you happy and what things make you sad, does anything scare you and if so is it something cliche like the El Chupacabra or is it something more serious like what cereal you wanna buy tonight or the future or heck even dying because whatever it is everyone's afraid of something, I can't blame you for being human.  Are you ticklish? do you like nose kisses? can I use you as a pillow or a chair when I'm too lazy to move an inch Do you like silence or would you rather talk until sunrise, whichever is fine with me. I'll listen to sound of your voice or the sound of your breathing as long as I get to hear it forever.  

*(v.m)

It was just the tips of your fingers and the way they weren't ashamed to be between mine. The way your skin's not mine, and mine will never be yours, but you loved its freckled smoothness anyways. It's just because my heart broke when every word you passed to me in two a.m. dizziness turned itself into a confession, and the way your eyes gave you away, and apologized for wanting to not be alone tonight.
It's raining today, and I'll never be the weight upon your chest at night, or the pitch you'll tune your self-acceptance to. But I will be the grogginess of morning that never lasts forever, but never fails to come back, and I will love you like the very saddest memory I keep away in my chest. It's not important, but it's where my mind goes when it's windy, so I guess I'll love you there. In the spaces where no one sees it, because no one sees us.
It's just because your smile broke when you said that nothing hurts you. Well, that's certainly not true.
But I will love you like the ocean at midnight, a stillness I'm never allowed to swim in, and can only love from  distance.
But I promise to love you anyways.

Coffee
Rich and dark
Slowly spinning in a white cup,
Therapeutic aromatherapy
Creating a warm feeling
Even sophisticated,
A smell that sells houses


Breakfast
Sizzling, crackling into life
Taste-buds still blurred
From the grogginess of sleep,
Bacon and eggs
Like Morecambe and Wise
An inseparable odd couple


Newspaper
Folded and re-folded
Onto an article of vague interest,
Words from another world
Unimaginable, war torn, desolate,
Colder than the rain-washed street
Outside this café window


Cigarette
The first of the day
Smouldering between yellowed
Fingers moulded to its shape,
Smoke slightly burning eyes
That are awakening to
Another fragment of life

Life
The crack of dawn,
Grogginess kicking in,
Struggling to get up for the day,
Everyday just like the rest,

Same routine,
Sleep. Eat. Learn. Study. Sleep.
But one day something changes,
A kink is thrown in the system,
Nothing is the same again,

Going to school different every day,
Trying to adapt to the change,
But it is hard to change,
To this lifestyle that is different,

Not knowing what to do,
Or what to choose,
For life has thrown a curveball,
In my life plan,
And I don’t know what to choose,

Eventually will have to make decisions,
Which I’m not ready to make,
For I’m afraid if I choose,
I will make a wrong choice,

Time is ticking,
And I have to choose soon,
For not being ready is not helpful,
It is coming too fast,

For panicking is what I’m doing
Do I choose sports or school,
Will I make the right choice,
Or suffer my own doom,

These choices will help mold my fate,
And the pressure of the choices is unbearable,
For I can’t decide a choice,
I love all the stuff I do,

But I don’t know if I’m ready to say goodbye,
To my friends. Sports. School. Or life too.
For life is going by fast,
And I can keep up with it,
I wish I could just stay back and live in the good ol’ days.

The sticky grogginess of the morning
often wanes as the day lengthens.
Your body begins to crave entertainment,
nourishment,
all sorts of things that are unrelated to sleep.
But after exerting oneself,
you are reminded again of the luxurious feel
of your mattress.
You drag yourself home,
leaving your belongings at the door,
shedding the garb of work and monotony,
and scrub away the grittiness
of the thin film you develop
from a day of human interaction.
Perhaps there is a delicious refreshment
awaiting your empty, tumbling stomach.
You soothe the anxiety rolling in your insides
with each sweet, pillow-y bite
of a chewy sugar cookie,
quenching your thirst with fresh, cold milk,
or a perfect, steaming cup of hot tea.
Finally,
clean,
warm,
and satisfied,
you seek reprieve
in the cool, crisp sheets,
freshly turned down.
The pillows are perfectly placed,
cradling your head,
and the mattress beneath you
is like a cloud
gently lifting you,
carrying you high and rocking you,
as you lay beneath the pleasantly slight weight
of your sheets.
There is a specific moment,
just before you succumb to sleep,
when your body is in such a state of peace and comfort
that you can think of nothing
but giving in to it.
Such a satisfaction can only be described as
bliss.
Your body has no complaints
for the first time all day.
It is perfect,
delectable,
almost guilt-inducing,
like your tea, right between too hot and too cold,
or a bite of chocolate that's neither too bitter nor too sweet.
That moment,
were I to capture it,
and bottle the feeling,
is precisely what it feels like,
to embrace you.

"are you depressed?"

i wipe my eyes of
slow
grogginess,
i pull myself struggling out of a
fluctuating dream state to rest
temporarily in reality.

"what?"

"oh well... wanting to sleep through everything, and never
wanting to do anything is one of the
leading causes of
depression"

thanks i really had no ******* idea

"well i had it all through middle school
so i wouldn't be surprised."

"maybe you should talk to someone about it,"

i packed my things
angrily
loud, in her
echoing teal classroom,
and left quickly.

*she really has no ******* clue

My eyes droop
To the sound
Of the night caving in
And the lights dimming out

My vision clogs
With grogginess and
The mistakes I made today
And the ones I will make tomorrow

So I smile
Because the future isn't certain
And I like mysteries and all,
But one thing is for sure
That every night, before I am consumed by sleep
My eyelids will be imprinted
With your angelic face
Burned into them

And another thing
Although I will make more mistakes tomorrow
I still have you
And that can only mean
That I'll also do something right

And with that
My mind is filled
With fog and clouds and smells
Of days and nights
And a smile tattoos my tired face
Form the memory
Of you

I have a love/hate relationship with morning,
And not for the reason you might think;
No, I have no problem with alarm clocks
Or early jobs, cold breakfasts,
Or the grogginess only cleared by a cup (or three) of coffee.
No, I have a problem with literally waking up.
On days I wake up without an alarm clock,
I hate it. Well, hate is too strong a word;
Really, it's bittersweet.
I swim up towards consciousness
From the warm depths of sleep.
I float on the strange, ever shifting barrier of
The dreamworld,
A silver sea rippling with black and white reflections,
Hints of rainbow.
My brain is trying to tell me something,
I'm sure of it, if only I could
See the message for a bit longer.
There is one moment,
One single, tiny, brief, glorious
Moment
Where I know that I'm dreaming.
My dream-self is warm and fuzzy and
Right in the midst of an imaginary...something,
And I know that this instant is all I have left of it.
I strain, focusing all of my real-or-not energy
On decoding whatever it is that I can't quite see.
I revel in the mysterious firing of synapses deep down
Within my brain, forcing pictures of
Life
Onto eyelids that have never seen
The bright-hued portraits
I hang before them.
And I won't be able to think about it
Until that last, final instant,
I try to keep it with me like water in a seive,
But I cannot stop myself from floating up,
Out of Dreamworld, off the surface of the pool,
Away from, from..from....
It's gone.
I can't picture it anymore as I am
Inexorably dragged up towards my life.
I wake, eyes flashing open.
Heart pounding.
Out of breath from my struggle to
See the other side.
A tear escapes from the prison of lashes.
****. I was so close this time...

Memory is a fascinating thing; it allows us to selectively remember our happy moments, but never lets us forget our worst. I remember the first time my grandpa had taken me fishing. I wasn’t a fan of early mornings at all, but on this particular day, I could call myself the world’s number one supporter of these dreadful sleepy mornings. The summer was hot, but the mornings were the kind of ice cold that bled through your skin and tickled your bones. It was 5:00am and I had just rubbed the grogginess out of my eyes, stumbled into the bathroom and unsuccessfully tried to run my fingers through the rat’s nest that consumed my head; but being so young and naïve, frankly I wouldn't care if I didn’t have any hair at this point. The old floor boards creaked below my bare feet as if they were yelling at me to go back to bed, but this sound was welcoming. As we made our way outside, the dew covered grass soaked my feet; I guess that’s why my grandpa had told me told to wear running shoes-oh well. I welcomed the smell of gasoline as my grandpa started his ancient boat, almost as ancient as the floor boards; pulling the chord back 3 times in order to start the motor. The boat lazily tipped from side to side causing little ripples in the water that started off so grand and significant, then eventually melted away into the dark water; I guess that’s how everything starts off.  It took him 10 minutes to find the perfect spot- in the middle of nowhere. He claimed that “this is where all the big fishies hide out.” The sun had just begun to glance over the horizon, allowing its dull light to charge my body with the little hope that remained. I wanted to catch a fish, any fish, so bad it physically hurt. I wanted to make my grandpa proud. I sat there, waiting patiently to reel in a small scaled creature that would determine my fate. But I was left there empty handed and disappointed. Staring into the deep dark void that had now became this lake. I watched my reflection, distorted by the gentle movement of the water; the only reflection I could stare at with genuine innocence and self-love. A moment in time frozen from the rest of earth’s wildest chaos which would not be contaminated by my future; grandma at this time remembered me; her dementia had not consumed her brain like the cancer that had consumed my mom's throat. Or at this time my grandpa was cancer free and happy, and my dad didn't reek of infidelity and still loved my mom. It was a time which was the closest to perfection I have ever reached, because we were all happy. I guess dark rooms filled with cigarette smoke and  broken souls had replaced fishing trips with my grandpa, and I guess that’s why I can’t look at my reflection any more, and I guess that’s why I stopped swimming and I guess that lake only reflected what I could never have. Like broken mirrors, the fragments of our family had been lost like the ripples in those waves that day and there was nothing I could do to get them back. I never caught a fish.

10:00 am. How
is it still dark?

In a forest.
Top bunk. The hint
of apocalypse

In his sleeping face, the
world away.

I come down the ladder,
foot landing light on
the floorboards.

Cocooned in a blanket
as I head toward the porch.

There’s no roof. Only screen doors,
wireframes, a platform. Can’t
call it a house yet.

To the lake I go to meet the Fish.
The second I get there, it shoots out from the water,

Telling me,
“your clock is broken.” Then it plops back in.
I leap and return to our “house.”

With military precision and speed, I reach the top bunk.
But in my rush, I stop and see

His strange face, still asleep.

I ****** the clock from the wall.
I wind it back to 7:00 am. Then the sun
Comes up.

I go to him.
I lay with him.

I put my hand over his belly,
feeling it falling and rising
as they replenish with air.

He begins tossing slowly.
And I hear the growl.
The sandpaper breath.

The thing you do
to get the morning out of you.

And on cue,
his eyes open, seeing me. There is a moment
when he doesn’t recognize me. Then it registers:

I am a person he knows. We are in bed.
It is morning. This is the only place we belong in.

There is nothing to worry about. Everything is correct.
The hierarchy of details worm their way in shortly thereafter:
Weather—sunny. Temperature—a bit cold. Feeling—hungry. Taste—dry.

Soon the wub wub wubs heard through his grogginess
dissolves into clearer, more articulate ambients.

With nothing out of place, finally,
he looks at me. I can see he knows me.
I can see he knows I’m obsessed with his skin.

I want to eat it. I want to wear it.
I want to burn it then inhale it.

My lips glide over his chest;
his knuckles rub my ribs,
like police dragging their batons along prison gates.

Finally, he asks the thing he always asks,
a question I always fear.

“What time is it?”

I say what I always say.
“The time is right.”

It's another fresh morning as it rocks and creaks, this old chair,
And the lingering grogginess is whisked away by the cool air.
Myriad patterns of the white against the brown dance for the eyes,
And the cup spreads warmth to the veins through the fingers hugging it tight.
The earthy aroma of the faraway lands gives a big jolt,
And the tongue unites with sweet frothy milk and bitter espresso.
As coffee meets morning senses, it's a hard-to-describe feeling,
One of pure joy never failing, intensity never waning.
It's the same coffee in the same cup that satisfies every day,
But why can't everything in life be as perfect as it is made?

Cuz buzzards circle o'er me
eyeing these lovely bones prithee
id est Roy L. T. Canard, Si
hence impossible mission
to be lovey dove vee.

Vague remembrances of dream  
which recurred with frequency
transfixed by Sir Real majesty
shows me and the misssus evicted.

Hum habitually hiccuping
in tandem feeling woozy
virtually celebrating monarchism
with British Royal Family,
and about eager and ready
to take a snoozy
so please pardon this poet
exhibiting being a lil oozy,
nevertheless yours truly
birthed the following verse
a reasonable rhyme and doozy
considering yours truly tipsy and *****.

Now this raggedy man
whilst deep in sleep
this past night
what felt like galactic body
fell upon ma slumbering heap
affecting immediate fear
lest worst nightmare
viz management boot us
into emotional inferno

felt steel tipped kickstarter,
would crush with might
but lo… heavy weighted body
just zee spouse
plunked herself into zzz land
immediately within unconsciousness deep
that's the husband unable
to recaptcha pleasant dreams
well nigh past midnight.

Unable to shake away drunken stupor
nor defeat insomnia
reliving sinister tête-à-tête
so...rather than emit shrieks
like some angry bird
idea arose to resume completing poem
expressing discombobulated state,
whereby sixty shades
of grey matter feels
similar to thick whey curds
palliative sans restorative power
per rest hopefully clear muddled pate

plagued with grogginess
and marauding herds
of mailer daemons worse
than unsuitable mate
or a world wide web filled with nerds,
thus lethargy purged
via catharsis forming swords
follow rhyming pattern
to convey drowsy tipsy mood,
a synonym for my words.

Noah respite despite eliminating kinks
courtesy arched back from cat nap
as ginned tonic, nor lion here
feline groovy getting high temporarily
spells relief and serve as balm
with pillowed temptress ever near
beckons softly inviting calm
before this human
goes awry and berserk on manic tear
being revisited from haunts
inside head of this wordsmith
caught by men in white coats
coming to take me away
**-**, hee-hee, ha-ha,

to the funny farm
straitjacketing this maniac
wrought with weariness
dark ringed circles around eyes  
showing Adonis long since didst veer
Judas Priest or  
if you prefer heavens to murgatroyd
can't stomach bulge
spills o'er tattered underwear,
whose ***** by the way
once upon a time
about the size of average palm pilot,
yet taut for witnessing
three score plus three mortal year.

This ole goat intoxicated,
plus forcibly locked within
fas paux blinding darkness,
the pitch black common
all purpose room
in disarray after Skyping English fete
at fictional Knock Less Apartments aye
daily encounter, one bewitchingly

hair raising dreaded locked
rooted tension doth amplify
fiendishly horrible, jeeringly loopy,
nippy nap noopy,
pugnaciously ravenous, talon
viciously wizened, xenophobic yeti, zapping
zeroing zillion zippers,
zoned alley bye

barred doors fate helplessly jury-rigged
sealed with plaintive cry;
no escape known to this man caught
in a deadly voodoo clutch,
thus doomed to die
ugly cannibalistic, frightful,
heathen rumors myopic eyes espy
alarmed at feeling trapped

akin to a wingless fly
tapping reserves of scapegoat
coping techniques ingenuity,
which earned me moniker "fall guy,"
where accursed cruel fate destined exit
from getting husked, issued
jagged lance like mandibles "hi
there unknown weekly reader,” I

pray for super leftist
write hand man/woman to extricate
(via whipping up literary poetic fabrication),
then joining me to sing jai
(let victory prevail against killer odds)
perhaps summoning division
of British shiver rights phalanx,
hood reply with Hackneyed "oh kai"

springing surprise rescue,
sans swooping inside
mine hermetically faux invisible prison,
where this troubadour doth reside,
yet realistic to accept my
demise without putting up
a good fight well nigh
against inevitable mortality

(out maws of death)
gleefully depriving grim reaper
death his domain and
eventual unavoidable claim,
but if such kind unaccustomed soul
can cushion the blow of penury...
vis a vis philanthropic treatment
manifested as deliverance  

courtesy anonymous altruistic benefactor
plucking one bard
off downward slippery
precipice of homelessness,
ye will be rewarded with apple pie
ala mode enjoying a Quai,
yet moment with
Holden Caulfield doppelganger
made famous qua Catcher in the Rye.

We purchased 2020 Hyundai Elantra
at Enterprise Car Rental
1207 West Ridge Pike
Conshohocken, Pennsylvania 19428
April thirteenth two thousand twenty three
witnessed greatest amount of money
I spent at one time.

The following day April 14th, 2023
(after my automotive troubles
seemed so far away),
when important business concluded at:
Pennsylvania Department of Transportation -
Photo License Center,
1700 Markley Street,
Norristown, Pennsylvania 19401.

Before somnolent vestige
completely vanished, and vanquished
post retentive grogginess dissipated
ipso facto after awakening
from dream state come true
and opening eyelids
Delilah gifted with melanin
swiftly tailored uber vestil ******
hit with hair brained scheme
to generate goldenlocks

worth gobs of green
freshly minted legal tender
despite fallout being upbraided
bald brazenness occurred
to emasculate Johnny comb lately
he experienced brush with immortality
until he almost got scalped
saved by skin of his teeth
unbeknownst to lass (see) how keen

her intended prey nicknamed Samson
worthwhile fitness expense
disciplined, coaxed, and buffed physique
to chisel, mold sculpt, et cetera
his body to become lean
said kingly chess mate pledged troth
to ebony queen,
she wedded near likeness of the boss
(doppelganger) Bruce Springsteen.

Additionally while slumbering,
I experienced close encounters
of the third kind
manifested as following visitation
linkedin and included chance encounter
with a rock-ribbed mountain of a man
(whose shaved noggin glistened)
simply known as thee ebullient B.T.,
one strapping muscular dynamic
colorful preacher

of health and positive welfare,
who strongly encouraged me
(combination aging long haired
pencil necked geek, harried styled
white tarnished knight,
teenage mutant ninja turtle,
and wunderkind wily wordsmith)
to pay him a visit
at the following LA Fitness site
2961 Swede Road,
East Norriton, Pennsylvania 19401.

Aforementioned stranger in a strange land
athletic built endowed fellow
with smooth glistening ebony skin
talked (courtesy booming inspirational voice)
an evangelical blue streak regarding
the merits of communication
heavily peppered with brotherly/sisterly love
with powerful salted spiritual undertones.

Impossible mission during wakeful state
to recreate, rehabilitate, rejuvenate,
rekindle, and resuscitate a likeness
courtesy figment of my imagination
said boisterous, gregarious, illustrious,
and rambunctious well sculpted
specimen of **** sapiens
as hinted at above.

Though no Hercules
(in fact just the antonym),
mine alter ego exaggerated,
intimated, and outlined,
a mollified Genie could blithely wave
magic wand abracadabra
spellbinding mine fate, aye
would rejoice beholding,
an African Queen to quash
celibacy, cuz declaration of consummation

stemming premature *******
more precious then
fine spun gold (for Josephine) to buy
time against tortured Golgotha kepi
mein kampf wracking fate, thence pave
ving a stairway to heaven
after this ivory pawn doth die
cleansing, exorcising, and flushing
infidelity kindling lover,
which prurient waywardness

found me to misbehave
ah bon Jove vee errant fellow
(wanted dead or alive),  
I das scribe many blue moons ago,
when verboten fruit
yours truly didst deaf fie
temptation no amount
renouncing, repenting, rerouting
travesty, mockery, and effrontery
regarding egregious transgression
excising emotional affliction

spent kneeling on wounded knee,
this besotted knave
scrutinizing indelible engravure
etched with blessed
"Jesus, bare naked Amazon Mary
and Joseph" motif guy
interweaved by pointed
finger of Goddess Sheba almighty
beckoned deft fiat halting joist
lowered nondescript plain rigid casket

swallowed by grave
temporally ushered whirled wide
webbed rebirth where I
received life anew breathless composure
dousing errant fellow
guilt honestly iterated, jackanapes
kneaded licentious maligned narcissistic
opprobrious philandering questing re: deprave
transgressions, whereat
this gentile Jew did lie
unclothed satisfying prurient flava flave

vitiating marital covenant, now my
soul asylum anointed,
via misdirected, misguided, and misjudged
sedulous, poisonous, opprobrious,
nevertheless glorious, and fabulous
Nubian enchantress deign nigh
ying celibacy decreeing
expurgating ****** crave
ving, hence thy status as Zen eternal
****** (corny punster) mocker

as acceptable punishment bequeathed
by said deliquescent, iridescent,
and opalescent dreamt up
"FAKE" pitch black
kickstarting Negroid hallucination
from over active imagination
me didst truly ply
avariciousness as Holden Caulfield
protagonist catcher in the rye.