for Those who eat ramen by choice, or not.*

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by disillusionment,
lacking egotistical sold, dragging themselves through the hip streets at dawn
looking for a socially self-aggrandizing fix.
Poets, as they sit in desks and discuss discourse
about discourse about discourse about discourse,
who fear that thinking itself was buried with Vonnegut,
who are lost in forests of brick walls,
inviting, because they block the wind of dying fall,
who swim in cesspools filled with academic sewage, yearning for freedom,
for truth, as they always have,
mining their minds for images, and searching for words to describe
-a reality which is virtual at its core and each act, another chore./
-a scene of life which reflects all that is poignant and sacred.
Poets seek musicians while musicians seek poets.
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly

These poets who search aimlessly for the feeling of feeling,
who are overwhelmed with meaning to the point where meaning
has no meaning in itself.
Who claim this poem as their own and continuously write themselves into it.
It is those who suffer in truth that live the poetic.
Those who sit in front of space heaters eating peanut butter sandwiches in winter,
who sweat unknowingly in summer, comforted in each’s odor.
Those who open Macbooks while squatting in empty flats.
Signing up, logging in and zoning out, forever disengaged.
Those who type prophecy on keypads and let keyboards gather dust-
stratification, signs of long nights spent in century-old homes still not renovated,
ceilings sinking at the sides while those above pogo to punk rock long dead,
or grind genitals to old soul, simulating all that is sensual.
Those who play archaeologist to their own layers of makeup, grimed on the sink.
Those who share their food with the roaches and the mooches who all have keys,
who use the books as shelves to hold ceramic mugs, stained with a single drip-drop,
who, with arms crossed, watch bands in basements play noise.
Those who replaced their nu-metal records with folk but kept the unkempt beards.
Those who drink stale beer on stranger’s rooftops.
Those who live with bags under eyes, themselves asleep, lacking a body,
sleeping naked together to stay warm,
sleeping naked together to stay sane,
sleeping naked together to stay touched.

Those who leave coffee in unplugged automatic pots, decaying rapidly.
Those who eat pizza for breakfast, cold or microwaved, as an act of ultimate indulgence.
Those who prance about in un-matching socks
from hardwood floors to vinyl floors to tile floors, all under the same popcorn ceiling,
dancing to the sound of rhythmic silence.
Those who fight with lovers about acts, but never once mention the act of love itself.
Those who don flannel plaid in springtime color, constructing Williamsburg,
who consider gentrification a new form of landed gentry,
who live in poverty as if it were a novelty,
capitalist martyrs sacrificing employment to hide being non-hirable,
who shop in online surplus department stores for unique vintage.
Those who, who, who hoot like the owls framed on their walls, eyes wide but beaks small.
Those who are oppressed by nonexistent kings ruling in imaginary suits.
Those who crave something new, not tired-as the form of this very poem-
something which is not-yet auto-tuned.
Those who, faux-hawked and shredded, rock and bop to Bowie doing Lou
on Sunday Morning from Station to Station shooting ******,
who walk swiftly with denim skin on their legs and refuse socks.
Those who, in their rightest mind, are the wrongest-minded.
Those who can reject privilege only because they are privileged,
who, in their uniform whiteness, denounce racism,
who, in their uniform straightness, claim immune to homophobia
who, with their ***** ***** in a row, claim to be feminists.

And those who search for revolution in a time when rebellion is conformity.
Listening to the  pounding sound of blog-protesters typing n o w.
who, in claiming to accept, don’t accept the unaccepting,
who got veggies tattooed on their sides while snapping bacon in their teeth,
who ironically infiltrated asylums and performed madness until the shocks came
and they were maddened, for good, eaten alive by volts resounding
ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.
Who sleep naked together to be together but end up being alone,
exchanges from lips that move in pretentious drone,
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly.
When the abnormal is normal and the whole structure is inverted and
heaven is here and flames under the soil are no longer hell burning for soles of the
Converse, Adidas, and Nike sneakers on the bicycle pedals of poets who ride at night,
listening to the sound of owls that question:
who?
whoo?
whooo?

Come join the unraveling circus
quite soon to be passing our way,
with the clowns in a clamor to twerk us -
line up as they lead us astray!

Arriving, the elephant trumpets
agendas of aberrant acts
while the donkeys drool, dunking their crumpets
and twirlers spin, twisting the facts.

The big top’s now open to breezes,
so pundits soar spreading their wings
to convince us to tread the trapezes,
for it's they who'll be pulling the strings.

The merry-go-round’s so amazing
(black horses bound, chasing the cart)
as the brass ring of change wanders wildly
till stealing straight back to the start.

The moldy old model of Ptolemy
(at the hub of this three ring domain)
mixes marvels of magic with alchemy
in the bowels of the mastodon’s brain.

Neglecting the gulls who’ll be eating
stale crumbs that have dropped from the plate,
the vain vulture of virtue’s oft tweeting  
of Circus Land once again great.

The tamer, adorned in fine trumpery
(pate garnished with fiery mane)
has endeavored to wall the ring's boundary,
keep millipede migrants in rein.

The dwarves and their antics are funny
while juggling to balance the books,
so the titans laugh, grappling the money
extracted by hook or by crooks.

The sideshows provide a composite
of fails of the frizzed billionaire,
some disclosing the bones in his closet
caught clutched in the arms of the bear.
    
From towers the trumpet is blowing
fake messages, fetid but full,
but as long as the cattle keep lowing,
he’ll hasten to serve them the bull.

The masses, persuaded to follow,
float foolishly into the fog
overwhelmed by the vapors they swallow,
choked up like the ruff-collared dog.

The snap of the whip as it whooshes
maintains the domains of the dupes
so the cats won’t escape to the bushes,
refusing to hop through the hoops.

With the promise to call out the cavalry,
the hearts of the crowds beat athrob
for in spite of their struggles and rivalry
the Don’s still controlling the mob.

Humbled Empress on *******’s hilarious,
parading her ***** and mules,
with her fabulous tales (mostly spurious)
wagging only the naive and fools.

Mounting ponies in circles, she rode 'em
through lobbies where influence crawls
with her claws clinging tight to the totem
while seals on the banks balanced *****.

Yes, the pack’s still pre-paid by the PAC men,
some wolfing their ways through the maze,
while fey fables are hawked by the packmen
who canvass our eyes with a glaze.

The pretender defender of females
is actu'ly one of the hawks;
secrets hidden in spills of her re-mails
means pillory, stuck in the stocks.

The swine in the central arenas
(immersed in the fat of the throne)
begin dancing like wee ballerinas
’fore pitching the proles a bare bone.

Jesters Cruzo and Bozo, while boozin'
(dealt cards which were ******* by the ****),
ruled “not winning the hand would be losin’
and need for an armed Minuteman.”

Well the ray gun's still loaded and toted
(the gall’ry forbidding all bans)
and the NRA gang’s become bloated
shooting **** in the face of the fans.

One day when the mad house has folded
and sawdust’s been wafted aside,
Human Race will be racing, remolded,
surmounting life’s hurdles in stride.

Autumn's eve, tinting leaves, the breeze creates a gentle hiss,
     A sun shining bright, wooded air
     that bites,
     Would meet to kiss, rebirthing night.
A hunter trawled through forest sprawled,
it flowed and rose before him,
     With him came prose he must
     prepose the winter snows that awaited,
     The winter snows, would end his hunt,
     and so off he set with a subtle grunt,
     To complete his latest autumn hunt,
     a stunt raught with err.

A fortnight prior, the hunter slept in a spire, a vision came as he did tire,
     A shimmering gold figure, whose shape
     bent and flickered,
     With haunting words it smiled and
     snickered;
     "On a jaunt to forest haunts, not an
     arrow shall be nocked--
           --lest all effort be for naught."
The hunter gave the lot no thought,
     An archer, he is, a prophet, he is not,
     And so was his steed set off on a trot--
           "--Lest all effort be for naught."

A hare was eyed, time now nigh, prey and predator had arrived,
     Hunter prepping a bow draw, as hare
     gingerly awed and gnawed,
     As hare gnawed, a warning walked, out
     to the hunter's mind,
     Reminding him, to his chagrin--
"Not an arrow shall be nocked," inside his mind it ticked and tocked,
     Words flicking like hands on clocks, the
     ticking clock, he cleared with knocks,
     And so he returned to his stalk, but once
     an arrow then did nock--
           --Alas, all effort was for naught.

The ground caved in, his head spins, as his punishment begins,
     Take from the forest, and the forest
     takes back,
     Our hunter grasped, as he fell to black,
     his dream was no dream, but real life,
     He strifed over omens, regret that stung
     like a knife,
     But descent had already begun, with
     darkness endlessly growing rife.
He had spent his whole life gloating,
     now he felt as though he's floating,
     floating deep to an abyss,--
     Nay, not safety, nay, much darker, nay,
     unnatural-- nay, remiss.

Body meets tension, and blood meets a flood,
     A splash, and a crash, as the hunter fell
     with a thud,
     He had berthed on a river, clothing and
     blood curdled with mud.
Awoken from slumber, skull pounding like thunder, his mind felt asunder,
     Rolling over a flower, he climbed
     from the river,
     Perverse cold forcing a shiver, as he
     looked to the sky, and began to quiver,
Onyx above, with a moon shining three, scouting around, he shan't find many a tree,
     Or any sign that from this hell, he'll be
     freed--
            --Lest he notice the shimmer,
              approaching with speed.

The shimmer approached, the hunter recognized he,
     The shape from the vision, that whom
     warned thee,
"I see that my warning, thou did not heed, now thou must travel, if thou wished to leave,"
     The words strengthened the thunder
     inside the head of our hunter,
     But then he spoke, with an intrigue of
     wonder,
"Where must I go, with my head pounding like thunder, and self so asunder?"
     The shimmer glared, its gilded eyes
     flared, freezing the hunter like snares,
"Voyage to the Druid, speak to thee, ask for relief, and thou shall be free, but when the deal has ended, have not a spare thought--
            --Lest all effort be for naught."

And so the hunter travelled endless night,
     Bulbous purple pods glowing on the
     ground, providing light,
     As giggles from around echoed, causing
     fright.
Our archer saw faeries, goblins and elves, hiding in the shadows, deep they'd delve,
     Child's fairytales, nay, did not match
     the whelm,
     He felt as if in his own mind he'd lost
     the helm,
     In the so unknown, yet familiar realm.
At last up ahead he saw a light, the shine of a lantern, a beacon in the night,

Ahead lie a hut, a small abode, he set for the door and trekked the road,
     He made it to the home, hoping for
     luck,
     He grabbed the doorknocker, adorned
     with a buck, and rapped three times,--
--"My door you've struck, and summoned me, state your name, or propose a plea."
     A frazzled voice from the other side, so
     quickly, the hunter knew he had little
     time,
     His thoughts, a clogged drain, but finally
     became fluid,--
            --"I, the hunter, wish to speak to the
              Druid!"

Inside the shack, the two had talked, after the knocked door was locked,
     The hunter had the holder chalked, the
     Druid she was, and so he hawked,
     Asking, pleading, and begging for help,
     until she finally talked,
"I can read your future, boy, I'll call upon my Tarot, but in exchange, when comes the First of Snows, you must not lie low."
     The hunter was perplexed, reluctantly
     he agreed not to cower,
     The Druid then laid out all three,--
            --The Fool, Eight Swords, The Tower.

"Before I explain the Tarot to you, I must ask a question too,"
     The Druid spoke with wretched ardor,
     But as she hissed, our hunter had to
     listen harder,
"Do you know, the shimmering glow? It's the one who shares your fate,
     But beware its trap, within a snap,--
            --You could both open the gate."

The Tarots meant only one thing each, Naive, Hopeless, Doomed,
     Shocked by landing on The Tower
     locked the hunter into gloom,
     Then the Druid had one last warning,
     a mourning that froze the room,
"You will find that Tower, boy, and you must hold our deal,
     Resort to zeal, and turn your heel,--
            --And The Tower will be your tomb."

The hunter tripped and left the Druid, rushing back on trail,
     His spirit felt as though a fawn, frail,
     and his path like a train, on rails,
     But he knew as the wind did gale, and
     freezing rain began to hail,--
            --Traveling the veil, he mustn't fail.
Then he sauntered off to wander, not a stretch away, he sensed a haunter,
     He saw a damsel, through rain's silky
     curtain,
     Looming, deep within the black, a
     vermin frame which flowed as glass,--
            --To persist, to leave, that which
              he must pass.

A serpent, it slithered, our hunter shivered,
     A feminine side revealed, as it got closer,
     a familiar poseur,
     Our hunter had to steel,
     But as the ghastly creature neared,
     his composure wept with yield.
Half-snake, half-woman, it spoke soft and slow,
     "You're brave to show, you're weak here,
     useless I'd say-- the Tarot told, I heard, I
     know!"
     As it spoke, its tail flickered, eyes alight
     with rosette glimmer,--
            --Our hunter knew, he'd met a
              trickster.

This snake, it claimed it was part of the hunter,
     Part of the hunter, surely a blunder, he
     was no viper,
     But the snake became hyper, its voice
     high like the shrill of a piper,
"I know you and you know me, but your feeble mind, it cannot see!
     I would say to look within, but you're
     powerless, you couldn't even begin!"
     The snake had spoke with a giggle and a
     grin, and quickly turned sour,--
            --"My name is not snake, please, call
              me Flower!"

Flower ended up a consort, nary a slithering foe to thwart,
     They'd walk and they'd chatter,
     The soothing rain's patter, appended by
     small creatures scatter,
     But before long, Flower had stopped,
     with something the matter,
"A mirage, I've sensed, do you feel it, the air ever so dense?"
     The thought forced the hunter to tense,
     he felt the air, ever so dense indeed,
     But Flower he could read, her face
     screamed with plead,

"The Tower, it's here. The one from the Tarot,"
     Flower spoke slow, speech reaching a
     crawl,
     "I can bring the Tower, it will use all of
     my power,
     But you must keep your deal, you
     mustn't cower!
     Within you will always be a friendly
     little Flower,"
Her tail flicked, she smiled, "Close your eyes, archer," and so our hunter did,
     Alas, when he opened his lids, his only
     ally was rid,--
           --A Flower replaced, by a tower.

He took a moment to reflect, upon the roads that he had trekked,
     The warm river, the safest he'd felt,
     before he was shook by a jolting, cold
     shiver,
     The druid, the scholar of fate, the
     friendly mystery from whom he hid,
     Yet Flower, the extension of him, a
     snake he'd judged and wished he'd
     forbid,
All assistance lost, warmth had turned to frost, as he looked to the tower, he did fraught, but he must begin,--
            --Lest all effort be for naught.

He entered the spire, and his soul felt dire,
     As he seeked up to see stairs seemingly
     spun by a spider,
     The climb felt wholly bleak, but he
     summited the peak,
To the top suite he'd sneak, and look in with a peek,
     To see a familiar physique, shimmering
     and sleek,
     As he scouted the room, lost in ornate
     mystique,
     His legs felt swiftly weak, a lavish floor
     creaked,--
            --And this piqued the figure,
              who began to speak.
    
"Thou hast found the Tower, the Druid, and the Flower. Yet the taste, it still seems sour?
     Worry not my hunter, ye need not scour,
     your hunt has reached its final hour."
     As peril did flow, our hunter did know,
     and reached for his sidearm,
     His trusted bow.
"Sheathe thy fury, and do not worry, just enjoy my show,
     Set down thy bow, and peer the window,
     But surely, thou already knows--
             --Thou hast reached the First of
              Snows."

The light had lingered into night, soil stifled by ivory plight,
     As the hunter twisted back, he heard a
     composed crack,
     The figure had snapped, and the walls,
     collapsed,
     Then they were out in the sleet, the
     frigid air a silky sheet,
The indigo sky danced like a marionette
of winter,
     A violet aurora, sliced through like a
     splinter,
     Iris flowers in the wind, shuddering
     with a shiver.

"Thou art getting what thou desired, dear hunter,
     Or doth thou wish to wait and wither?"
     The voice of the shimmer, it spoke with
     a chill,
     As if the snow had forced it to a shrill,
     The hunter felt a thrill, as in a glance,
     the shimmer's intentions would spill
     from its stance,
"Thou knew this would come, I know thou hast great skill,
     Alas, thou art a hunter, now come
     for the k*ll."

The hunter drew his bow, and an arrow he nocked,
     He could feel his heart ticking, counting
     down like a clock,
     The shimmer turned pink and purple,
     with eyes black, like a portal.
"I never craved to hurt thou, yet thou broke thy own law,"
     The shimmer had said, but yet it stood
     still in awe,
     The hunter thought he was ready, he
     locked on, then draw,--
          --Then he felt a pain, a thrash, and
            his heart began to thaw.

He looked down and saw crimson, a **** let loose velvet ribbon,
     He fell back to the snow, and as he
     gazed skyward,
     Up stepped a purple glow, to look at the
     hunter below,
Their eyes met, and at last, true nature would show,
     The hunter's woe, he'd finally know,--
          --Was the furthest thing from a foe.

Behind the figure a gateway, a gateway of silver,
     Then the figure turned grey, his
     shimmering grew dimmer,
     Defeat still boiled in the heart of the
     hunter,
     It was met with ease, and the two
     would melt and simmer,
"Our bond is obvious, certainly, dear hunter, just as our dreams melt in snow,--
           --My heart ignites, infernally."

It was then the hunter noticed the arrow,
     His shot had hit, but the shimmer shook
     it off, unevenly harrowed,
     Then the hunter's vision narrowed,
     and he realized his last arrow, he'd split,
"I didn't want thy death, or mine along with it,"
     It spoke as if for two, and open the gate
     flew,
     "We're connected, me and you, I need
     not be blunt,
     I loathe to see the river dry, alas, there's
     an end to every flow,
     But blood in the snow, under a
     violet glow,--
          --Befit to end our hunt."

Frozen for millennium, looking eternally over its territory
Someplace it's own, hard fought and for which many fallen, his own
A man of stone, gazes, immobile
Part of the mountain, now, to those below

Play in its shadow,
Gaze at its likeness
So similar to man
Large brow, hawked nose
A common man

Moments measured in years
Too unconcerned to bother
Throned high on his mountain
Kept to himself, memories of battles
Friends, brothers for this valley

In the valley, children play
Not concerned with a likeness
Too common to stare
Leave that to tourists
Who come and they go

Eyes shift with a rumble
Grating, smell of granite on stone
He sees soft children, not of stone
Knowing life, not hard
Not like him, of stone

Parents, families tell stories
Of the creature in stone
Eons have past, myths, legends
To scare children, laugh now,
Old widows' tales, all told

Protector of the Valley, his title bestowed
Passed from crown to hand,
From times beyond old, to seek and be told
His memory is not foggy, sharp and bold
He watches for signs, of evils still known

A rumble, earthquake, they know
Not gods of fire, nor devils below
They built houses of stone, solid and uncold
Women skitter, men more bold
Children laugh, cry; depending on delight

Small creatures take wing, a flurry of flight
Soaring through the air, not for those as he
Their moment is ignored, not the threat he seeks
But from whence they come, something astir
A rift in the ground, a creature of Below?

Buildings lean, no great such thing
Prosperity is well, good neighbors to help
A man looks upon his home
His family safe, wife at his side
He is not alone; a sound takes his eyes

The creature was large, an Elder
Beyond language and time, seeking who-knows-what-this-time
They have come and he is here this time
Again, he moves, reaches for weapons
For stone, like his hide; for earth, like his mind

Some monster, some flesh of daemon
A creature, unnatural and bold,
Ripping earth and spewing foul
Springing forth, denying safety for child and wife
In an instant, the man is alone

Unmoving for years, centuries untired, readies for war
Rock flexes like muscles, stone tightens, coiled and then unfolds
From his seat, his throne
He joins battle, swings lethal, heart cold
Elemental, Warrior-King just as old

The man, stuttered by sight, then sound, both unknown
Falls to the ground, some part of him rolls
He looks up to see the mountain
Falling down, then up, and down
Time slows and it falls on down

The King sees the soft, fleshy man
Not unlike his form, but not made of stone
Shaking the Earth, the man is no concern
Only the Nemesis, the creature that came before he was old
He meets it with weapon, violence and scorn

For a moment, the man saw the face of the mountain
Above him and cold, eyes of flint
Recognizing, but disregarding his life
It met the daemon, crushing it's limbs
Epic, fury, a fight to shake bodies of men

The creature was old, even elder to old
It cast spells of fire, brought curse to the land
******* power from life, it's nature to man
The King broke weapon, chipped fist
Losing both ground and tooth

Pulled to his feet, a neighbor drags him away
Between stone foot, and slamming tentacled limb
The great creatures smash earth, livestock as well
Together they clash, first forward then back
The mountain looks down and seems to grin

The King sees the earth and inside
On a grave he does now fight
Clenched in heavy stone fist
Forged in primordial fires
A weapon, fit for a king

The mountain slammed it's fist
Down. Into. The. Ground.
Wrist, then elbow, then shoulder gone
And the other, brought itself together
For the first time since mankind hand seen it

The soft creatures stared at him
The Elder Nemesis gathered itself
Calling its volumes to one spell
The small ones stared, mouths slack
And his fingers, at last, touched it

Half in the motion, of standing
Almost although an action caught in time
Men, and women now, surrounded by children
Who wouldn't know where to flee, stared
The Stoneman rose to his feet, great axe in hand

It was lighter than he had thought
Gripped, tightly in two hands, now
He leveled his gaze, tunneling
A spell of his own, one of fight
He spoke his words of death

The world seemed crushed, smalled to a sound
When the mountain bellowed, erupting noise
A scream, mad and angry, forced, primal
Trickling blood from their eyes, ears
Children, falling and for the frail, death

The Nemesis saw his movement
Was unfinished in either word or deed
Unprepared for violence or tool
Raised suckered limb, protect!
Sheered through, it sunk deep in to its mass

Again and again, the mountain struck
Slamming ax deep, flailing deep; madness
Bone, blood and flesh, raining down like hail
Children were picked, dead and live alike
Carried off far from this site

The creature was dead, Nemesis no more
But still he struck, drunk on action, fluid of motion
Again and again, pulping it beyond
A fury, his crown for this, soon to be spent
A lesson to be made here, Others, he suspect

Hours, the ground still shook
Days, miles from their valley homes
Weeks, they could still feel the powers to the west
No one to believe their stories
Only superstition by day, fear at best

The small ones didn't return
He pondered, again on his throne
No wonder, to witness, such an Evil
Unbridled violence, not for those
His wound would fester, he would not grow old

"Buy a Star!
Own a Star!"

The sales are brisk,
For cross-eyed lovers,
Cross-hearted, lost,
Beneath the spinning constellations
Burning immortal exhalations,
Desiring forever oxytoxic bliss,
Burning ******* and hearts
Yearn longevity of stars....

PT Barnum saw his opportunity:
Sold cotton candy,
Hawked elephants,
Gawked dwarves,
Hid the razors from
Fierce bearded ladies,
Even sold the elephants' dung,
Provender to exotic gardens....

Barnum's packing up
The Pachyderms,
So Hawkers have us
Gazing on the stars....

"Step right up! See the stars!"
Purchase your fire in the sky!
Your lover's name,
Fixed in the firmament  
A million years!

At least the cotton candy
And the elephant dung
Served some earthy, earthly good,
Paid dentists' children's college,
Fertilized the family food.

So now go claim a distant star,
A million, billion miles away,
Its light must make its journey
A thousand years or more
To greet your eyes, and yet,
Your lover's sighs predict
A hundred dollars' better spent
Than on a good Chablis,
Cementing mortal love in
Distant stars so permanent,
Visited through telescopic glass
Atop our rented tenements.

you **** me
Your grin aids
Shards from a heart shaped grenade
Hit me hard
On a green day
I envied you
I invited you to life
Without an end
And you turned down
I turned
Down
You spurned
Would've thought I scorned
The way you burned
Me
Hell hath no fury
Compared to thee
Impaired vision
But I dont need a pair to see
Your vanitys' fair
The fairest of them all

Your beauty was a beast
So strong
It could break through
Any ribe cage
And take a heart
I tried to show the world
You were wild
But can handle something fragile
But you just torn apart
****!
It hurts to be wrong!

You're an animal
Malicious as the quickness
Every time you pray
I ran away
As fast as legs could sway

You're the cheetah
But I got caught
Because
I'm the victim

You hawked me down
Your clause was
Awful
You thought it was awe-some
Too much awe from
Awkward moments
Like
Your pause
When I said "I love you"
...

You responded later
But to someone else
I have no response
But someone helps

Who would know the Beau had bow
And shot to ****
With a heart shaped arrow

Sometimes I hate myself,
when i'm lonely
and no one's around.

When I was younger,
Mommy used to call me a ******,
Daddy used to call me dense
and then punch me harsh as an addict, addicted
me to pain.

I Used to wrap cords around my neck,
take lines to an addled brain:
crazy with masochistic Peter Rabbits,
tangling up their ears,
in mangled mesh wrapping.

Take sleeping pills till
I couldn't sleep ever again, from all the nightmares I was having.

But Mommy still laughed,
Daddy still hawked.

******* cry.
Don't tell your mother I'm drinking.

So no,
I can only love in one way.

rushing mountain stream
grey stones protrude
blackberries hang just above
little splashes cause sparkles
sunshine filters through branches
light dances on the moving promenade
a lonely leaf passes by without fanfare ~
we sit watching
discussing home ownership steps
dropping names of realtors
considering taking the plunge
just over 1050 square feet
spring fed wood and oil heat
tiny cabin off Tree Farm road
future property of Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Lyman Temple ~
bright blue Steller’s Jay
squawks his arrival
***** a mow-hawked head
and considers us for a moment
three quicks hops and one more call
before he flies off into the foothills
nature gifting us a nod of approval /

I walked or sauntered or dashed or stumbled, no...
staggered! or swaggered, or was it stepped, no...
I jogged or, bolted, no stomped or slid no...
hopped! or was it skipped no hop skipped and jumped...
or sauntered! no i said that one, it was swaggered! no....
I stampeded or dogged or shlepped no bounced or was it...
I stamped or ed or rolled? no strolled! haha yes Strolled! no...
I stalked that was it or was it followed no no it was sojourned
sojourned! sojourn? no it was galumphed or marched, no charged...
aha sauntered! no! ******! it was ambled or slogged, trounced? or tromped, no rambled, yes I rambled on! no no thats not right, I plodded, trod no tread! no strided, thats not even a word, sloped, no...
govereetted, or persnicketied, or skreed, or preened, no no no none of that is right....
I sauntered! no no, swaggered! no was it promenade? prowl. no patrolled, parolled, no no thats way off...
I trekked, trudged, no fudged, no dogged! like george! he dogged it all the time, no I said that one, slogged or sashayed no trooped, no perambulated, or moseyed? or hoofed it? no it was definitely sauntered, no no it wasn't sauntered it was a dawdle, no lurched, or hawked, no stopped,
no no it was definitely movement, thats it! it was a movement! no no no that can't be right I paced, yes i paced back and forth and thought about life for a awhile....

no no that wasn't it either it was really more of a strut, or a saunter, yes saunter! no swaggered! no no
**** you words....

I wandered or was it roamed, no limped, gimped! no...

minced.... or no yes! minced... wait.... no it was a hike, yes I hiked up a mountain with  friend of mine, or was it climbed, no no thats not right...
I slandered, no.... pandered! no... I meandered, haha actually no i think  it was a peruse, or no a beat! no.... I cut a rug! or actually i think it was more of a stumble no....

ah yes it was walked, I walked about sixty blocks today

The Gram sir,
polygonal father firefly
stand in Cibatus ...
thread and thread form light.

In the year 1300
miliérnaga great night,
the Lucibatus provoke a detritment an *****
He fell back to Cibatus
And her delicate body broke into two parts...

In the center was in "A";
Her two columns
Stumble down at the head of Mr. Gram.

He in the compartment,
The pulverized seeds scraped
Galloping ice that undermined the Cibatus
The year in 1200,
Oh syllogism much light!
You coordinate the central hole Cibatus basket;
gramineous navel dim oracle
Coming through the middle,
Dodona River as light.


In the center of barley,
Mr. Gram healed their wounds;
Fecracia corpuscles,
Major ***** Susea ...
that ruled with all his power by blizzards.

"Not Cibatus or broken,
traditional custom was broken by wind
and not by Light gram "

In the dark night of San Corinth,
It fell night where Mr. Gram asleep ...
happy told the fierfly
your damage would not alter its sun.

Toward the end of the day,
He said his greatest roar...
Their wings hawked loose
Cibatus noise pain!

Lat night came,
and invisible, transparent body
wanted spring,
Love this protozoan
Cibatus alone.

Farewell  said fierfly in 1300,
when it fell by the protozoan crag ...
Signs metal birds
They said ...; Aaaah ..!
and noise Gram God,
They said! Aaaaah ... Aaah ...!

Nor no hugs or charity,
the rough particle spring circle
flierfly donated the ***** ...
Limestone Road
He loved the feet of ash,
white bodies laughed
and they transmuted his absent body.

Flierfly he opened his eyes...
Cibatus looked at his winged whistling song:
" Fly Fierfly,
stretch your threads;
Mr. Whiskers love Gram ...
buried next to the root of Cibatus "

Farewell Thousand Three Hundred ... !



JOSÉ LUIS  CARREÑO TRONCOSO
10 to 11 July 1995.

you are the hottest summer day

it is your tie that makes you sweat in May

They say it is too hot in here

But for me it’s moderate

You said you love William Blake

But that’s too hard for me to understand

And you could sing me a serenade

But you could never love me back.

His brows spread like hawked in Sierra

His eyes streams like river

He glows like sun in Arizona

Sorry for my poor metaphor

What if I could write for you

The sweetest poems you’ve ever read

It won’t make any big difference

Sorry for my sad attempt

Now that you have made up your mind

You tell me that I’m unteachable

And I could recite you William Blake

But you could never love me back

Across the thin line twixt denial and panic
Stepped a young man whose Depression was manic.
His heart palpitated, threatening to burst
Right there in line, in which he was first.
‘Sir, can I help you,’ had uttered the girl,
‘Are you one of the specters?’ He’d begun to unfurl.

Awoke he bed-bound in some wretched infirmary,
For minutes he struggled to escape this man-burglary
Which would surely result in a suit from his lawyers,
Upon the nurse’s return he declared he’d destroy her,
At which point he made a regrettable choice,
He hawked and he spat, and even rejoiced
After she’d reeled and dropped his impossibly thick file-
Unbeknownst to him, he’d been there quite a while.

Hey dearest Girl friend, you're more than meets the eye.
There's more to you than the world see and only you can feel
You are more than the current moment, may be  stuck, but not for too long

You're fierce and engaging
A lioness in her own den, you are predictive and predetermined
A conquer, you have fought so many battles, Zues would be jealous

Going from house to house, you have served!
Moving from office to office, you have worked!
From one business to the other, you have thrived!
From street to street,  you have hawked!

You move mountains with determination
Your mere presence sets them on fire
You are a woman first,
A sister
Sometimes you're a wife but above all,
You are a mother.

You are the best work of art God created to multitask
A Russian-roulette any man would **** to be victorious for.

You are a reason for inspiring inclusion.
Happy International Women's Day Queen!

Bellah

There was a noise downstairs

Heard it creep into what we read
Whilst in my ears it starts to shout
A sound that slowly sows its seeds
Then in the knees it wins the bout

I hear it growing closer
To the threshold of doors long shut
Before clawing into the room
Through our bodies
And the windows too

Hear it repeatedly speaking of
Mother’s sons born blue
All polluted in utero
Cold water and yellow fog
While others hawked their morals above

Hear holy words said to us
Proverbs two one two three
Do not move our mouths too much
But never mention
That more than holy spirits touch

Hear that change comes
When the North Atlantic
Nears our lungs
But sadness when we only get
To remember him while he was young

Hear it ring out between
What all the emptied pens believe
That parts of us have contravened
When our hearts fester from scene to scene
Betwixt the Romans and the Pharisees

Hear it in words of grace
In the void where your spine should place
When stood between tectonic plates
nor time nor stasis emancipates
The silence of our delegates

Then hear it in atomic air
The souvenirs of yesteryear
That spill and mix into our despair
The thoughts our hammers won’t repair

There is still a noise downstairs

A nocturne sung by the humid air.
Eddies of kitten’s wailing
From the corner’s orange lamplight,
Waiting for the ochre skin
Hawked by black cat’s sinful eyes,
Its ragged tongue dampens the barter’s rites.
Of silhouettes dancing
To the fading innocence at sight.
To a cadence of their own,
Roaches creep to deep cracks of the night.

stillness or stagnance
collection of fragments
which stand,
but not weathered—
they're worn.
happiness staggered,
she hawked herself haggard:
she thinks herself fragile
but she is the thorn.

". . .here
Buckle! AND. . ."



I have( somehow )
escaped( don't ask me how )

the ritual of the head
plunged down the toilet bowl

this the welcome to
secondary school

and flushed
their laughter and their power.

They have bidden their time
well

and although I believe
I have outfoxed them

....they have outfoxed me.

I tremble on my spindly
12 year old legs

surrounded by the sneering
pack.

They hang me from
a coat peg

laughing with great glee
as I try to free

myself
but can't.

I like a living coat
refusing to be clothes.

Then they tear
page by page

my poetry book
to pieces.

Pages like paper bees
crushedcrumpled at my feet.

They make me eat
Hopkins.

I spit him out
gasp for breath.

My tongue rebels AND
I fling Father Hopkins at them.

They recoil in astonished
amazement.

" I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding. . ."

The words sting them
into stunned silence.

This is not
how it should be.

My jacket tears
I fall at their feet

my voice soaring
now above them.

They run from the beauty of the words.

I pick, one by one, up
the fallen pages.

". . . and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and **** gold-vermillion. . ."

The bell rings
for Maths.


*


I was a sickly kid and pretty lousy at school. Told I was not good enough to do the English Higher paper but that didn't stop me reading the stuff. There was a great TV schools programme on that I would tune into and out of this the great Brendan Keneally would walk forth from its tubes and proclaim THE WINDHOVER.
  
With his voice and passion for the poem I was entranced and made a fan of all things Hopkins. Years later I meet him casually at a bar where we happened to be having a pint together. I told him this story and all those years later I had the pleasure of him recite it to me once again in the flesh! It was a magical moment. We batted the lines back and forth to each other and plunged into the beauty of the lines.

The last time before that I had met him and his wife at the Grapevine Arts Centre in Dublin. I was a mere sapling then and just beginning to read poetry aloud. I was a country bumpkin and had to run for a bus and as I ran and as they waved goodbye to me I turned the corner of North Great Georges Street AND....fell on my ****! Oh the shame of it!

I used to belong to a poetry collective that hawked a broadsheet around pubs. My poem CRAZY LONELINESS HIJACKS MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL was the hit of the day and Brendan liked this very much. But my one moment of glory was reciting Hopkins with him in a crowed noisy Dublin poem...I had come full circle.

Entrapment videre licet fiendish
gnarly hustling scheme erector -
sent me to the poor house, where alms
not forthcoming to ease financial affliction,
where yours truly money matters still stymies
ways and means to relocate
to a two bedroom apartment
courtesy low income housing.

Eleven months ago to date,
I fell prey to the wiles of a scam artist,
who initially managed
to hack way into the Macbook Pro
rendering same computer I use now
such that impossible mission
to allow, enable, and provide
any process to be completed.

A gofundme page
once again set up courtesy yours truly,
which honest to goodness attempt
to bolster substantial forsaken funds
(essentially thieving joint
nest egg of mine and the missus)
deftly hawked pack of lies

blindsiding me to surrender
hook, line and sinker
practically snagged and bled out
these lovely bones mine every red cent
squirreled away as a quite paltry
monetary security net.

The spectre and haunting existence
of Harvey Specter
(the alias cyber spatial highway robber)
still riddles the psyche of this joker,
who continues to chide himself,
particularly when realizing
combined lost assets
lock, stock, and barrel meant that though
poor as a Unitarian church mouse,
I can not provide succor

(in the form of American currency)
which penury disallows us
to dole out for our second born
and youngest daughter,
(who at age twenty five
shares an accommodation
in Bend, Oregon -
with another twenty something gal
a bajillion miles
from dear her ole papa and mama -
located in southeastern Pennsylvania)
paternal nor maternal capital to ease
her own woebegone challenged situation.

Said unnamed progeny, and her oldest sister
(by about twenty six months difference)
feel shortchanged by parents,
whose bereft checking and savings accounts,
plus truckload of
mental health issues contributed
to a dysfunctional heartache

living poisoned ten year decade of misery.
I admit unintentional grief
heaped upon the souls of deux innocent lives
which two offspring begat
courtesy a virile birth father and fecund mother,
whose joint home economic pennilessness
(even prior to letting the pang of procreation
run to sow wild oats)
set at least one figurative strike against us
when embarking to journey
(as a super tramping foreigner)
upon the family way.

Utopia for wretched wordsmith
would constitute enough disposable income
to relocate within a place like Lake Wobegon
"Where the women are strong,
the men are good looking,
and all the children are above average."

Its city motto is "Sumus Quod Sumus"
("We are what we are").