Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."

Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,
I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?

Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.

even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.

canto 1
I call her daddy my own. He felt nothing for her when the time had come for him to do something he fell and she felt nothing at all, nothing whatsoever. It is a cruel world, mateys, and the best thing you can do is curse God and die. Hard to ditch the pity act. Ditching is denying and there is much truth to the lie.

canto 2
Their eyes bubble in the open air, they fill to bursting and scrub until they scratch. **** drips. It's a sound that I will never forget. A sight that should be reserved for the dream world...a stench unrivaled.

canto 3
The Chinese bomber is persistent. One has to wonder why he bothers at all, seeing that his attempts have been futile up until the present moment. It's shoe week, so I guess he has his reasons. But this has gone on for far too long. If there were a way for me to stop him I guess it wouldn't hurt to try.

canto 4
Random parking lots and good God what have they done? I thought it was all over, these thoughts were through, these voices are mad. Usually it's not as upsetting. Your car door gets stuck, you know, it happens all the time. It happens every day, still you never get used to it, do you? You're always stuck inside that ugly mirror.

canto 5 (the "missing canto")

canto 6
I want to tell the world how good you are. Amazing and incredible. **** and *******. Talented and unrestrained. Honey nut Cheerios. You give it but I have a sneaky feeling you would rather be lost in a dream. A banal night vision. Comparably

canto 7
I want to make it better. I want to see you smile. What can I do? You are my own heart ripped from my chest and given wings to fly. Your smile is a lost treasure I would do anything to get it back to give it back to you, I didn't mean to take it away from you. You push me up against a stone wall and you don't even realize you're doing it. That my soul cries and prays for something real, for some kind of explanation or even an excuse would be fine right now. Instead I float. Not the way I like to float. I drift and crash, a dizzying spiral out of control, confused and dumbfounded by the realization that none of it means a ******* thing. What I thought was love turned out to be a jester's game, a joker's trick. You don't need me anymore.

canto 8
I hide myself behind a blanket of stone where you cannot spit fireballs at me without cracking an egg. Cold breeze tickles my news. It's not too chilly in this room. But the fireballs warm things up. "Blanket of stone"...what a stupid expression. Why do you have to be so hateful to me? How many times can a man say I'm Sorry without losing an eyeball?

canto 9
I have no right to feel the way I do. I don't think I can control it, though. This is one of the ****** up idiosyncrasies of my confused existence. Vanish without a trace and look for clues in the alphabet soup.

canto 10
Weariness is like a slug, a giant slug, a parasite infesting my body, hanging on and hanging out. A fire down below that waits for my imagination. My sleep patterns are getting ****** up but I'm not sure if I was sleeping or just dreaming I was awake. Under the impression that it doesn't matter? Well, you are a stone fool for thinking that way. You've never experienced the life-changer. Else you would know. But all I want to know is this: Why am I afraid of sleep?

canto 11
Things get slow. Patience is required, but I don't have any. Why does it have to be that way, o cruel dictator? You get a kick out of this ****, don't you?

canto 12
Spill your guts, maties, it's the only way you'll ever come out of this situation with even a shard of dignity intact. I know it's early and you haven't had time to adjust your eyes and your wrists for this delicate task. Go! Do it now before you lose confidence.

canto 13
We took a holiday and it was so nice. She stood there on that stage without a stitch of clothing on her voluptuous body. Baby, don't you let your hairdresser down

canto 14
Who doesn't love breakfast? Me, actually.

canto 15
I can't help it if I'm changing every day. Ask the question later, maybe my answer will be suitable. I don't think I can help you because I'm not like anyone you've ever known or will ever know or can ever know or would ever want to know and why do you keep wanting to know where I've been? I've been right here. Right where I've always been. Haven't moved a muscle.

canto 16
This is the 16th and I should be proud but the apathy seeps from my very pours. That little ******* was about to take a **** in the corner. When I picked him up to take him to the paper he dropped a couple of turds on the floor beneath me. I guess he couldn't wait.

canto 17
Sometimes things change so much that it's hard to tell if they're for the best or the worst. It is at these times that I enjoy a good evening on the water, enjoying my yacht and eating peanuts from another man's sack. Salted peanuts with pickled eggs and deviled ham with a side order of angel food crack.

canto 18
My wrist hurts and I've lost the will to **** socks.

canto 19
The lawn chair has been placed under extreme scrutiny. It's rocking motion is being scientifically tested and arranged for packaging. The physics of this miracle are in the process of logistical infiltration. You'd be surprised at how useful a rocking lawn chair can be in a world tangled in war. It's a good place to relax. For paranoids, that is.

canto 20
Bird feathers of a different post, it has never made a lick of sense and the promises made were broken. Who was that man in the bird suit? Why was he making all those funny noises? I'll have to investigate. Lawd have mercy I do believe I've **** my pants.

canto 21
Don't come crying to me if you feel misunderstood. I can read right through you and I know that all you're doing is fishing for a compliment. You will not receive one from me, Salty Dog, not because you don't deserve one. You probably do. But not from me. Perhaps you should take up your case with Hoda Kotbe. Who knows but that you might look really, really good on television. Just remember to feed the dog before you leave. He gets hungry. But he doesn't miss you. I don't mean to break your heart, but the rational man within me is very convincing when he tells me you are a real pickle.

canto 22
Those comments are found particularly offensive in light of the situation in the Gulf. You need to regulate your interest in beans. One day you'll fly to the Middle East looking for peace and all you will find are demons like the ones who raised so much hell in "The Exorcist". You don't want that, do you? Settle for Ranch Style and leave the diplomacy to the masters.

canto 23 (the "lost" canto)
I wouldn't wish this on a barrel full of monkeys. They say that time heals all wounds and I suppose it does. No "if"s, "and"s or "but"s. Don't believe me? Listen to 'em snarl. They're hungry for blood and sandwiches. I owe you nothing, so perhaps I'll send you a good time from New York. You gotta love a trapeze artist.

canto 24
I'm trying my best to change the world but the fact remains that the human race does not deserve the kind of tender loving care that I'm well known for. This holiday event will not include high temperatures or the kind of crap the weather people try to sell you.

canto 25
******* Valhalla. This is how it always seems to wind up, isn't it, Pinnochio? Just when you think things are getting better, BAM, ****** up again.

canto 26
You know you've reached a severe point of boredom when you switch to the Daystar Network and find yourself singing along to the bogus faith healers. Pecans on that one, please.

canto 27
Plug away, Sailor. Keep plugging away. When you get there you can say you plugged away with as much vim and vigor as a much larger man. Slough it off, O Great one. Keep sloughing it off. When you get there you can say you sloughed it off with as much skill and empathy as one might expect from a lizard. Or a monster frog.

canto 28 (the "twenty-eighth canto")
Come, look at my incredible collection of dice. Right next to my collection of mice. Next to that bowl of rice. Sugar and spice, everything nice. My head's full of lice. Don't think twice, just break the ice. Pup your puppy dog in the freezer.

canto 29
My toes are cold and so is my nose. I should be concerned with this situation but, strangely, I could care less. There are so many other, more important things to worry about. Like how many frosted flakes are in that box over there. And is there any milk left? And is it the real deal or that phony 2%? 1%? Skim milk is even worse. If it gets down to that point I'll save the money and use tap water. Don't think for a moment that I won't.

canto 30
Colored pencils expect risque answers to tame pencils. Unfortunately the quality of superior eggs is relative to the ice cream that has dripped down your shirt. You're starting to smell bad and I would highly recommend soaking in vinegar for an hour or six.

canto 31
There are times when I wish the planet would implode and **** every living thing into a void. I don't wanna die, but if I'm gonna I want everyone else to come with me. I'm tired of hearing about God's word. But even more so John Hagee's special gift for your love offering of any amount, the super duper Bible verse audio player, with selected passages read by the man himself. You can leave him behind.

canto 32 (the "same as the 31st" canto)
There are times when I wish the planet would implode and **** every living thing into a void. I don't wanna die, but if I'm gonna I want everyone else to come with me. I'm tired of hearing about God's word. But even more so John Hagee's special gift for your love offering of any amount, the super duper Bible verse audio player, with selected passages read by the man himself. You can leave him behind.

canto 33
Yazaa, yazaa, yazaa I told you I was gonna steal that car. You didn't think I had the guts, did you? But look who's laughing now! That guy with the big flower in his pocket must really feel like **** right now, realizing that his awesome vehicle is no longer in his possession. Maybe get an ice cream cone, maybe feel better.

canto 34
Come out of your hidey-hole, scurvy dog. Rat scabies be breathing down your neck and it's cold and old and you'll do as you're told. Pinch back that stray lock of hair, O Queen of Sheba. You shall spend the rest of your days parked on a green chariot overlooking Lake Erie

canto 35
You could have given me a reason for the season. Instead you had nothing to offer but a huge chunk of pepperoni that had mold growing all over it. Admittedly it was delicious but surely you could have come up with something a bit more expressive of the tender emotions I inspired within your fluttering heart.

canto 36
The prospect of a news reporter calling you a crack head based on information gleamed from your Internet social network profiles is quite terrifying, but when you tie the noose you might as well make sure it was time well spent. It's a shame you shaved your head because the painful truth is that now you bear a striking resemblance to Telly Savalas.

canto 37
Energy. That's what is required. And not just the kind of energy you can get from sugar, caffeine and butter. If it were that easy you could be **** sure that the Catholic Church would be the first in line to canonize it. They have a burning desire to fall off the wagon. "Which wagon?" you may ask. The one with the ice cream, of course. Don't be a fool.

canto 38 (a "short" canto)
If boredom is a sea in which one can easily sink into and drown in, I must be swimming the Atlantic.

canto 39
When the dog barks like that it's a sure bet that he's been neutered in the last few days. It's a sad and sorrowful sound that is only recognized by **** knockers in the deep woods.

canto 40
I could stare at the bars of this prison for the rest of my life. Okay, that's *******.

canto 41
Who was it that once said time is the only reliable concept in the universe? Oh, wait. That was me

canto 42
They tell you to wait. That's what it's all about. Wait, wait, wait, wait until I can almost feel my hair turning gray. The estimated time is currently number 7 the estimated hold time is 4 minutes, thank you for your patience. Well, you're welcome, comrade.

canto 42
I've only to surrender you to the world, lie down and wait for it to crush me.

canto 43
If I can only keep it together...if I can only hold it together this one time, I know the gravy train will come my way. Would it do any good to pray? This isn't the first time that enlightenment and illumination have reared their blessed heads. Would that I could live within them this time.

canto 44
Have I told you lately how much I hate to wait? Thinketh not that the Chair has lost it's financial imbalance, the very thread of chocolate that brought you here. It is still a very important and, some would say, a hot topic regardless of the amount of grime, sweat, blood and V8 juice is spilled on it's ivory shaped pear seat.

canto 45
The shadows turn into cloaks, dark itchy woolen capes that enfold the nothingness beneath them, the nothingness of being. You could have worked a little longer and a little harder on that one, amigo.

canto 46
It's been awhile but my wrist still hurts and I've written the word "moon" on the back of my hand with a Sharpie.

canto 47
I'm movin' this **** to WordPress. No I'm not. **** WordPress. Press WordFuck. Word FuckPress. On and on and on and on and not the least bit clever or entertaining. But I do like steaks.

canto 48
I swear to God I wish I had never taken that first hit of ****. Look what it's done to me. After so many years, I guess I was only fooling myself. Or maybe I was so dumbed down that it didn't seem to matter. But now things have changed. And I can do nothing about it. Dump a can of Campbell's Chunky Soup into a bowl, throw it into the microwave, let 'er go for three minutes, let 'er cool down in the oven for a couple more, stir in a quarter cup of Tabasco sauce, let 'er cool down for a little while longer, mix in a ****-load of Cheez-It reduced fat crackers and then go to ******* town. Go to ******* town, I say, **** the stoner days.

There is no justice on ****-stained floors
which carry the burden of every broken
body-broken-mind-broken-hash-pipe and halo dust
atop a thin mattress soaked with God-knows-what.
Cross our toes and mutter until the next
nurse with the next Thorazine trip in a post-nasal
dripping whine stabs us in the *** again.  (Oh, baby!)
Not allowed to watch the television today
all for flipping off the government cameras
embedded behind the screens
while Barney sings “I Love You, You Love Me”
over and over and over will it ever end?
We know Barney is the Anti-Christ.  And a purple *******.

Let’s pretend to be Batman again, flapping
our hospital gowns and shrieking for no reason.
That needle might seek us out again.
We aren’t getting better days-months-years later
still on every med imaginable and some not even
scientifified yet—or whatever you Docs do
in your spare time.  Roll in money, mix more
chemical compounds that we turn into more defiance
just to get more scientifified dope.  Oops—
Big Bro knows our sullied secret now, but it’s still time for another dose.
Please pass the spoon for—umm—safe keeping.

Sure, rehab works for quitters.  None of the “we” are.
So we sit in group session and talk about Mickey Mouse,
atom bombs, flashback nightmares and melting walls.
Oh, the pretty colors.  Who said LSD wasn’t a beautiful thing?
We say we want to be Mickey Mouse, mousing through dissolving hidey-holes
in bricks of the basement while some ****-freak *******
builds another bomb.  What a nightmare!
Ha, ha: got more Thorazine from that ***** with a beard.
Maybe it’s a moustache, but we can’t tell—too blurry
anymore.  In a minute, she might blink her lips.

Ah, piece and quiet.  Piece of *** while ball-gagged qualifies.
Maybe we can play ping pong tomorrow,
tell more lies for the effect we desire, tap-a-pat-tap
our veins for.  Getting cranky is slow without Speed, but
give us a minute and we can accommodate those mood swings.
Just watch.  No, not the TV because Batman (“The Man”) says so.  Stupid cameras.
We’ll be on that see-saw roller coaster of binge and purge
and pills and withdrawal and manic and depression
and obsessing about the lightbulb blinking in the bathroom
since we know it’s Morse code for something.

Riding highs and lows with every-dose-every-needle-every-body
busted before we ever played ping-pong or swing set steeple chase
to see just who’s the real crazy here—us or “The Man”.
Ten Kool-Aid packages on the guy who invented pills
to “cure” addiction.  Any takers?  We didn’t think so.
Snort the sugar lines and move it along so that we can
have our turn at medical benediction:

to receive the body-of-Christ-in-a-gel-cap across our tongues and rock
side-to-downside in the ******-babble homeostasis chamber
while Doc-the-Man counts his blessing of bills in the collection basket
labeled Incoming and stamped with eagles.  We’ve seen it.

No justice and **** again.  ****** again.  And still, no checkmark on the chart
of getting better.  Maybe Doc and Ratchet-with-******-hair
are close enough to see us for what we are: hopeless/helpless.
But we can play OCD once more if we all hum along.
Why?  We forgot the **** words.  Oh, crap—no,
don’t make us leave.  Doorways are frozen places to ferment in
and it’s awfully hard to keep the candle burning
long enough to make everything right. To fix it all away.

Just for me; that’s all the “we” there ever was.

I am a borrower
collecting things that shine
all stashed in cracks and hidey-holes
where the rafters meet the roof
in the basement floorboards
lift one and you'll see
the treasures I've collected
two gorgeous glassy eyes
seven gilded antique buttons
a bouquet of sweetly fragrant lilies
a gleaming jar of pixie dust
three noble barristers
an Irishman netting butterfly dreams
a sorceress of the endless prairie
windmills like soldiers all in a line
the saddest porcelain doll
a small brown bear
trains screaming by on underground rails
a sprinkling of desert blooms
six jack-in-the-boxes so I'm always surprised
the hairless stuffed dog that bit me as a child
a Rickenbacker bass softly riffing the blues
a farmer's Ovation to accompany my woes
seashells that sing the ocean breeze
a merman from the Northern seas
tucked away in every space
packed within each sweet hollow
these simple pleasures I have borrowed

We ran to them.
Achievements GLEAMING.
But the words,
that came back
HURT.

So we found clever ways
to hide what we
really meant.

Keeping quiet in this blanket of loop holes while groups of snoopers mill round and try to fathom me out,
I've scooped the jackpot in here where I've got my solitude and sanity,please leave me be,let me alone because I have the home I desire,
I require nothing from you and you need nothing from me,but you're determined to uncover and see for yourself what it is,that makes me tick,you make me want to pick up my bed and do the biblical walk,
I am silent not sick,you cut me to the quick with your questions so blunt,it feels like I'm being hunted,pursued,cant lose that feeling that somehow you're stealing a part of me,
I want to be,
alone in my loophole, nursing my lost soul finding my own way,and in my own way I'm happy,I jangle along and even though I can't sing I know the words to the song,
I have a freedom of sorts and my dreams teleport me from those who would try to see and uncover,
unlock the real me.
let me be.

a group who has a cult following
sings about hiding for
solitude
they dedicate nothing to the poet
who did, as they know it
in hiding
but it was inspired by the same CB
I must say a big wowski to
Charles Bukowski
don't think it would happen here
no chance without distraction
little peace, much action
guessing if I became an angry man
ranted, raved and demanded
this type of peace
that would be a living conundrum
or a poet raging as an oxymoron
please leave the ***** alone
and
give
peace
and
quiet
a
chance
meeting
with words that escape
at the first sign of distress
as they undress my day
and see vicariously the
disrepair, oh you don't care...
Okay
I'll go.

To my hidey hole,
to write my pre-verse
in hyperbole ,
"how to get lost"
         and what it cost me,
let the silence be
deafening,
no man may be a
poet unto himself
(forgive me I forget myself)



©DWE102013

The blushing barn barks
With bleeded hues
Gutted girders
The once held the strict structure
Now hold hollow hidey holes
For all the remaining vermin
While the festering flesh
Of the butchered beasts
Burn the sinuses of strangers
Who walk through the burnt broken building

Aberration’s child is born as foetus in a man
Thoughts of where and why and when corrupted in the plan,
These aberrations manifest behaviourally where
Normality’s parameters are stretched beyond the tear.
Stretched beyond acceptable, stretched beyond belief
Like when the golden Altar boy becomes a rabid thief!
Like how that fool in North Korea with militarists in synch
With postulated threats has brought us all to nuclear brink.
Like when that freak in Batman gear let loose with deadly aim
To shoot the kids at movie time then claimed he was insane.
Like when the Barons grow the coke to corrupt all our youth
And bribe and cheat and **** and bash, yet call our laws uncouth.
What makes my brothers lie and steal, what makes them want to hurt?
What aberration wields the knife to shred the nubile’s skirt?
Why are financiers predatory, what gearing in their mind
Enables them, with conscience clear, to plot to fleece us blind?
When does this change occur in growth, at what stage does it switch?
How do angelic six year olds at fifteen turn to *****?
Amazing that the blue eyed boy who smiled with curly locks
With age became infatuated with a lust for *****?
Indecent that good working men who slave to build a stake
Can lose it all to those who use legality to take.
And what of those who plan to ****, what trigger in the brain
Determines that they chose this path?
IT’S ALL NOW QUITE INSANE!*

Marshalg
Viewed from my (relatively) safe hidey-hole, Down Under.
Pukehana. NZ
6 April 2013

"people are afraid to merge"
there's shadows on the walls,
stuck like glue
I've never seen anybody cling
so hard
the way shadows cling to walls
the way lovers might do

with significant others and
away from the crowds;
you're my hidey hole, my safety
my excuse
not to linger round
"come over," they say
not today, not today

they're loyal to these bricks
we made vows with anxiety
paint cracks and wallpaper
rips
but nothing will rip us
from these walls.
shadows, I see them clinging
for dear life
and not living

life on the freeway,
bet that's a fast one.
"people are afraid to merge"
standing out the top of a convertible
arms in the air
yelling, "I'm alive, I'm alive!"
and seconds away from tumbling
over the edge.
when his head hit the concrete
I bet his last thought was "finally"

The Riddle

One of you has seen my face.
One of you knows where I live.
Stuff. Important stuff,
like the locale of
my hidey-holes.

My email and my
cell disclosed
soon to be
on sale on eBay
for a trifling sum.

So now I must
disburse to parts
more remote,
reappear in a
nouveau identity.

Just a necessary precaution.

Moreover, methinks
you have grown
tired of my waning voice,
waxing ineloquently,
opining too frequently.

feel like a
thick wooly straw
welcome mat,
edges unravelling,
grown raggedy,
roundabout the edges,
or like a
paperback book,
tho well thumbed,
nonetheless,
consigned to the
bye-bye
discard box.

riddle me,
me be the riddle,
when I scribe
under a new
Nom de Plume.

will you recognize,
my signature
hid amidst the
restless words that
still need a home?

are my poems
worthy of a
second glance,
do you predispose
your attentions on
your favorites only,
the newbies squeaking
ignored and unattended,
whose ranks I have
now rejoined?

did you ever meet
a poem
you did not like?
did you ever greet
a poet
with palms
outwardly raised,
saying, no mas,
had enough,
no time for you
and your
clouded clarifications?

need you.
need you to judge me,
without the saddlebags of
predisposition and imposition.

if you need me
just give me a
loud holler
in my sleepy hollow.

tho sadly my
country road,
has listening posts
on the telephone wires,
I will know, when.
you call,
your voice,
I will come,
if you ask,
always.

I'll be riddling
in plain sight,
if you have the taste
for and of me,
you will find me
soon enough.

HOWEVER,
in emergencies
all you need dial,
my digital signature,
911 and
ask for the
Poetry Hotline.

for you, of you: you’ve been between my ears

close enough to being on my mind,
almost the same thing,
though that’s unfairly inequitable, we both agree,
for when in an ear one opines, too oft it escapes
out the other side, only a tree ring mark left,
someone was here, present

as for the Confucius confusion in

ok, who’s writing this poem to whom,

cause it’s never clear between us
who is
asking the questions,
since the answers come
demanded and undemanding,
fomenting newer questions and follow through,
before, as well as,
‘please sir, may I have some more?’

the mutualizing game tasking begin-began-begun,
for this, our lovely crazy teasing of our-thing, ago began,
don’t recall who or how intimated-initiated
this oil drilling exploration,
who is the annointer and who is the annointed,
who seeds the plants, picks the fruit, and who
gets paid with cloves of poems, by the bushel

you say I’ve been on your mind,
which we now have both pointed out
is somewhat extraordinary since,
the sight lines are drawn through
long distance cloudscapes that travel
through underground cables,
making everything said,
fallow and rich-ending, deeply frustrating,
impossible to see the outcome

clouds usually imaginary, (not like now),
making visibility normative poor,
unlike the real ones I’m flying at the moment through,
ensconced in front row seat 1F, heading northwest passage,
passing by so ridiculously close to where
you are minding the soil,
as I am
mining your soul’s soil, tilling it between the ears,
of you, by me, for us, and the excited sadness
makes me happy and yes, inequitably, again,
hopping-mad

because your breadcrumbs and dark Swiss chocolate bars are
scattered and defaced, bitten and chewed, lovingly licked melting,
we who cover our tracks too well;
but what I do have, makes me ravenous,
having read all your poems,
in random order and then one more time,
sequentially

I see your history, near escapes and resurrections,
in fine grained moody minutiae punctuated by huge gaps in between,
that we must cream fill with clouds of wondrous loving curiosity,
a torture so exquisite, only the gods could have invented it like
Sunday Night Football,
and crazy sayings,
like I love you too...

been on my mind and I imagine you
hot and sweaty,
bent over, aching tired, from
picking weeds (gotcha),
when sudden one of us stands up straight, back aching,
screaming out loud
this is crazy, and follows up with
a *** Darius type proclamation,
who’s writing this poem to whom
issued to the upwards-skywards,
but addressed to ourselves,
the poets

as we search clouds by the thousands,
is that you in that cloud, in that poem,
I look down thinking that, that must be,
the plot of green and dusted light brown ground
where she has gone into hidey-hole hiding,
disappearing for months at a time,
before arising for the sticking of me
in the sticking place,
wounding me fresh with brand new poems
scandalous and imaginous,
and our imaginations are both
too skilled

so here I close, overwritten, overridden, too long,
overshot my imaginary bounds, so one
pulls down the shade over the oval window
through which too many great stories have commenced,
and ended

the thick cumulus shouting
as we look up
as we look down,
saying “enough, you crazy people,
your poems tell too much,”

perhaps, find me in that
next bite of herbs buttered,
and then ask (of course)

who’s writing this poem to whom?

then breathe out, exhaling me a
breath-poem up above, to where I’m hiding
just as I, am sending one to you,
earth falling from thirty thousand feet,
coming to rest on your mind,
in between your ears,
friend

<>

8-6-19
somewhere in the sky, clueless, heading north by northwest

I feel as though i had a soul mate
and i forgot them

Whoever it is, i miss our fun times; adventures, games, autumn leaves and hidey holes out of the wind, projects, enthusiasms, unexpected visits, your wacky plans, a sense of possibility in every moment, as though we could cross oceans

The days before i feared my own freedom,
before my clothes stopped making sense.

Some days I can’t decide whether to be a modern day poet or not. Sometimes I wake up thinking “butterflies.”, And I decide that maybe I’d like to be an accountant instead, forcing number after number into some poor overstuffed calculator all day. I’d be the talk of the office, “Have you seen that ****** over in cell #2?”, “The one who just sits there looking at her calculator all day?”, “Yes! She just sits around muttering ‘When’s it going to explode? When’s it going to explode’?”
Then some other poor sucker’s calculator would explode and he’d be horribly scarred, and they’d all realize that I was sane after all. But of course by then I’d be off in some horrible asylum by then, having my frontal lobe chopped off.  So maybe I wouldn’t make a good accountant. There’s no money in poetry though, that’s my problem, you see? If I could sit around typing lyrical nonsense all day and actually be paid for it, well that’d be cool. However if that ever did happen, chances are I’d be off in some distance land universe writing the holy bible for a bunch of seven fingered goats or something.  I don’t like goats. Back to butterflies? No… I have nothing to say about those either. The truth is, although I’d love to be one of the inspiring people who goes around raving about the evils of money, im more liky to be the one chasing after the guy giving that lecture yelling, “WELL IF YOU DON’T WANT IT, THEN GIVE IT TO ME!”
And then I’d store it in some dark corner in my bedroom as I lay on my bed and wrote until I passed out from some disease called life that you can’t put off living just to write in that little hidey-hole in your mind.

A whisper in the silence,
It's the grass having some fun,
Rustling in the sunshine,
It's only just begun,
So long it's getting tangled ,
In many tongues it's twisted,
For on the breeze it's playing,
Her lies she spreads mischievously,
She tells them to the tree,

Through the green a mismatch of fairy folk creep,
Weaving magic through their hidey holes,
The place in which they sleep,
The toadstools all have frogs on,
They're catching butterflies for tea,
In the midday sun they feed,
Dragon flies are blowing fire,
illuminating summer skies,
While the grass still stands up messy,
Telling all it's lies,
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

He languished in the stocks but never was hunger
A problem. For he caught apples between his yappers,
Playing catch with each bite, it flew through the air
And once again a pinching of it till a stalk was left.
The crowd stood around in awe of his culinary
Performance, then they threw once again.

Released his time of languishing ended and returning
To his ship, "never slap the mayors wife's ****, he
Thought but who was he kidding he would do it
Again but next time not in front of him. She was where
He had left her, pride on his bearded features.
Daddies home, as his hands caressed her wooden features.

He went to his abode, lingering views of a picture
Of the oceans essence of high pitched waves. He pressed
Upon a singular spot and a secret revealed itself on his views.
A small casket, others would have seen it as a trinket box
Of lessened value. My precious thing of beauty that I hold,
I'll let you free when from port we discard the solid land.

The crew were pleased as the waves graced the ships bow
and the captain discarded his weavings of land lubbers
threads that clung to tight. Raise our flag my mates of
what is our nature true. Captain Black Heart Bart,
"Yes I know its a mouthful, but its my pirate #tag,
The chest came forth and with an even hand opened up.

The wisps clung to the captain as if a loving embrace,
my love, soul of the ship, lend us your breath to move
to our destination where the tides are silent and the
wind is death, motionless and soundless where ships
linger in a graveyard of wood and bones of the lost.
With a gesture the mists encircle the sails migrating forward.

Her breath kept motion where there would have been neither,
they stared at the wrecks of those lost in time. Were those
of white washed echoes, moving dead eyes following or
was it but the motionless reflection of the static seas grasp.
"Sir we see the place that her breath has taken us too,
"Thank you my love, you can now slumber, rest your breathe,

Upon the shores or blackened sand, they were called the
Remnant Tears, old lore said it was the tears of a lonely
god as he watched the sunset of his life, and these are all
that is left the residue of a time long past. They were sharp
as well, like jagged torn metal. We wore hadderned leather in
layers to save the blood from tearing from us as his did long ago.

We were home a shelter from those that would hunt us upon
ocean waves never did we take souls we just took material
things of value to sell, we melted precious metals, released
gems of equal sizes from their clasps, and in bowls they gleamed
of the suns rays ravishing the walls with a kaleidoscope of
colours that's changed with even shards of light gleaming through.


He sat on the crows nest of a ship, of older design than known,
made from not wood or metal another of majestic times long
faded into obscurity glance. Gathering thoughts on the mirrored
façade that never moved just like a reflection of above, one could
Be sent crazy in thought of which was land or sea, below or above.
He liked this illusion on his senses that was art to his perception.

Breezes of sea air rustled his beard and it was relaxing him
to slumber. but only when the waves graced him descending
into its eternal grasp would he rest these sea legged bones.
But now was the time to inspire the charmers below, with
a voice he greeted ears below. "Ya lazy dogs, move them bones,
And like mice they scurried to there hidey holes.

Nodding his head he discarded gravity as he plummeted to the
waiting deck below. Right or was that left no he was facing the
wrong way, she was playing tricks with her breath.  He burst in
to laughter and they nervously laughed with him, come on
my woman and men of the sea lets do some gentle persuading
that other relinquish there cluttered possessions to our ship.

With heart felt cheers they, sang their song to the stale winds,

"We're not pirates we be releasers of others greed,
"Possessions are who ever holds them be in cargo hold free,
"We'll never hurt you, we'll just gently nudge till you agree,

"Pirates that's a name we be called who we be,
"We be good looking, folks don't listen to history,
"We walked many a walk way plank to you and me,
"Yes I said we not above but that between you and me,

"Get done with the cutlass, respect the captains beard,
"We sail the high seas cos low ones make me sick,
"Trend setters of the ocean that's what we be,
"My flag is named skully, black & white he be,

"Pirates that's a name we be called who we be,
"We be good looking, folks don't listen to history,
"We walked many a walk way plank to you and me,
"Yes I said we not above but that between you and me,

Repeat and rinse sing what you feel, that's when I call upon
my beauty, "Awaken from slumber, breath to the wind,
And in to the great blue we sail, never a life have we took
never shall there be. For we are the new version of the old
but we will always win with her breath in front of me.

See you soon if to plunder I do mean, sail happy if your
not of greed and wealth or we will set our sights on thee.
The waves splash upon our bow, spray invigorate the souls
of all upon our beauty "The Wind Of The Sea, now ill
wish you good travels its time for us to earn our keep and
to visit those who need to lightened to heavy on the sea.

The willow tree with buds of green,
Doves busy building a nest in her branches.
Early in the morning now, the birdsong awakens me.
I think there is a change that will soon be seen.

Newly green blades of grass are trying to grow in the yard.
The lilac bush in the corner there has tiny buds pushing hard.
Wasps, those evil stinging things, have awoken from their stupor,
It’s time to find their hidey hole and get them while it’s cooler.

Soon, everything will be back in bloom,
Mother Nature will don her robe of newly minted colors.
It is time to awaken from our winter blahs,
Spring is replacing winters cold and gloom.

Warm, sunny days and cool, spring nights,
Gentle rains bring forth petal’d delights.
The hills change from brown to green,
Oh, I am so happy that it is Spring!



3/20/2011,  Peggy Montgomery

The powerless gods
Whose names I have not counted worthy of remembrance
March like high school bullies
Neither I nor they
Understand the reason for their swagger
Some dumb determination to enlighten me, may be?
A cause, a campaign
A small favor
Willingly performed for the Conjurer

Who steals from the Dream World
Who makes enemies in the Real World
Because he will not share his loot
He labels and tags and stores the treasure
Describes it all to anyone with ears to hear
Quite eloquently
With an air of pomp and mystery

Listen. He brags that his coffers are full
So much more than he needs
So much more than he wants
Still he hoards

He's convinced the dogs
That he has more to give them
Than flowery words
(As words he worships)
They believe him
Though it was not his intent to convert
As it is not his intent to keep his word
So more fool them
They look like bunglers, trolls, monsters
Rounded up into a posse
I would laugh at them if not for the fact
That I'm the one they are coming for

Before the next five minutes are over
They will have twisted my arm behind my back
Spat in my face
Kicked my legs out from under me
Held my head in their hands
Pinched my nose shut
Stuck their fingers in my mouth
Pulled it, stretched it, as far as it goes
Then, when my screams cease
They will speak to me for the very first time

"FEAR HIM."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"He will laugh to watch you
Sink into his vat of language
The jewels he's plundered."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"He will confuse you
He will dig forks in the road
To throw you from your cherished path.
He will brand you
With pentagrams
He will tattoo a goat's head on your back
Worst of all, he will convince you
That they mean something."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"He desires to pick your brain
Hoping to pluck
A slither of flattery to fuel his narcissism
He will become very angry when he finds out
That you've never heard of him
Perhaps you have never heard of him
But you know him

"You know him well
You've even seen him
Though it was not his true face you beheld
He roams the land
Behind a smiling cartoon clown mask
That hides a blank stare of greed
Derision, scorn, contempt, lies, pettiness,
Dishonesty, depravity, perversity
And the insatiable lust he has for validation
Respect and Recognition
They have twisted his visage
Into stone and ***** crystal
Ugly diamond
The sight from which even he recoils
A reflection that pulls at his intestines
And pours ice cold fear down his naked back
So we say FEAR HIM."

"Why should I fear the Conjurer?"

"Because he knows you're looking for an enemy

"He is possessed of demons
One in particular
But he willingly let it in
Shared communion with it
Offered it a bed for rest
A home, a host
Gave it a book of Crowley and said, 'Occupy yourself'."

"A demon?"

"Yes, and a powerful one
It is a testament to the Conjurer's will and power
That the demon dwells complacent
Content to let the Conjurer study it
To take notice of it's wickedness
(For he delights in wickedness)
To search for ****** in it's black heart
(For he knows that there is a murderer in his own)
To dig through the egg shell surface
Hoping to find a germ, a genesis, or just a reason for it's evil
(As he is convinced he has many legitimate reasons
For the evil embedded into his soul)
The demon understands death, toys with it
Laughs at it, wishes it on all people
The Conjuror laughs with the demon
And this makes the demon laugh even harder
For it knows that the Conjuror has no understanding
Of death
Past the idea
All he has done is flirt
With an ugly girl at the prom
Made it the realm of heroes, his role models
Idols that don't talk back
Held high it's banner
Dreamed of mausoleums and tombs
'At last, something I can embrace'
Fool

"He let this demon be his teacher
And learned much
About
The powers of darkness
The father of lies
The hierarchy of celestial beings
All the arcane symbolism (tossed out the window by science)
Esoterica
Black-robed men carrying candles in the dark
Their teachings ancient, their lessons unheeded, unwanted
Diluted through millenniums
Cracked and drained of any power or
Purpose they might have one day possessed
Robbed of relevance
Outdated curiousities
A good scary movie to watch on Sunday afternoons after church
Morbid fascinations
Spooky dry-ice rituals
That once scared the **** out of him

"His demon goads and teases him
'You can resurrect it", the demon croaks
'You can close your eyes
Make believe it's all real
And just as long as you stay in your hidey-hole
With eyes closed you can call it your own
Posess it
Give it power in your own mind
But keep this thought nestled in the back of your mind:
It's all YOURS.
No one else wants it.'"

There is logic, I think, in what these giants say.

"The Conjurer will drag you into his heart core
And there he will take back the book of Crowley
From his demon familiar
And together they will beat you down with it
Pulverize your skull
Crack open your head
The book of Crowley
Is a very heavy book
Good for pummeling
If not for much else."

And with these words
Power given to brute gods
Transferred to the meek
They will soon learn wisdom
To see the Conjurer as he really is
To realize he has nothing they need or
Want
Prepare themselves
To rip out his soul
To cast out his demon
And to burn that ******* book of Crowley

they took my hidey-hole
the ******* *******.
rolling up bass
thumpin to the groove
of a blunt rap.
h'rghroth's testament
to summer tours
and turnin up till four.
the land I love
the most
(....well,
maybe not quite that,
but something.)

ben,
you make me wonder.

i wonder about your ex wife
and how you used to say ***** things to me
before you saw my face
and the innocence in it
you make me think about your kids
and how much you care about them
despite hiding behind a computer screen:
an important man on an unimportant online game

and after you stepped down from your role
when you realized online games are like real life only worse
you sat on facebook and played icon games
for three days

ben
i worry about you
i don't even ******* know you
but i hope you're ok.
it looks like all you did is transfer hidey-holes
...you've beat the icon game finally
what will you do now
why do you have to win everything
and is that why your divorce is killing you

numb
i live here
a hidey-hole
all my own.
i pull out the blankets
over my scars.
immerse my mind
in fake realities.
saturate my pain
in vicarious compassion.
pull the curtains,
so i cannot see.
the jagged holes you ripped from me.

I just want to hide away
To crawl under a rock
Pretend the world was slipping
Apart
Through my fingers
Fists and jaw
From the shock
Of living as us puppets do
From our stings and strands
Our tufts of hair getting in the way
Blocking the Puppet master from the stand
So instead we tune our notes and look
Below
To the hiding space we might crawl
Away from harm
And cold, frozen snow
In hibernation, we turn a cold cheek
To destruction, flame and sorrow
Curl up into safety pins
And ***** those who come too close
Hidey holes are not for sharing
Or so the story goes
But the truth is we’re needles too,
Wrapped up in our thread
We look to mend
Tie knots
And break off loose ends.

One day,
it will be that other day,
the day when clams play tag before
they're collected in a bag,cooked inside
the cooking *** in the sauce of dreams,
and such a lot of sauce there'll be.

Even on the beach where sand runs free and
tides run low there is always someone who
wants to go and **** something,to bring the
dinner home into the cooking zone.

Clams are such sweet cutie pies as blind as bats,
and do they have eyes at all? but
they fall into the tender trap of
thinking thin when in actual fact
they're someone's fat.
That
is such a shame,
perhaps if they played hide and seek
no one could peek into their hidey holes and
they'd become the saviour of their souls.

Do clams have souls or does this question
open up a can of worms and why are worms in cans?

There is a certain charm attached to being a clam
and man would do well to understand
that each and everything's but a grain of sand
upon the beach,
sometimes we overreach ourselves
and shellfish are the things we take to
break upon the rocks of life.

smoke it on the daily
i do
and
i left the last batch near the window.
the only thing these days waiting on me to come home.

i have an addiction
and it all started
with
you
.

it is thursday today and
for reasons i don't remember
the exterminator is
coming

but i've been hiding out
in my hidey hole
under the patio
playing with needles
all day
and it seems like i have already missed him

he left a note on my door
telling me that there are
bombs in the house
but
i guess
it won't make a difference.

it's already a chemical warfare in these veins
and
nothing i'm not use too

closed into this skin
i won't let myself
out to see the world
too much restraint
the handcuffs are too tight
and i know i'm killing myself
but i also know they won't miss me

grown accustomed
to
this muggy air
and the lack
of
love in my lungs
i have

you can't
phase
the unphaseable.  

i open
the door and wait on the porch
for someone to invite me in
even though this is my home
and chivalry is dead.
sometimes
i expect my love
to great me at the door
but
we play a constant game of hide and seek and i haven't been able to
find her for ages.

the rain has stopped and
my vampire hands
have ceased to shake..
by the time
i
step inside.

the freshly lacquered linoleum floor
hits me in the face with a waft of lemon scented chemicals.
and i know now that
someone has been cleaning
but i purposely don't take off my shoes
and
this smell
of orchard lemon trees
is the false pretense of safety that
dances around my nostrils and tucks me into bed at night

this is home.
for now.
and
i
  guess
    it

  will
have
to
do
    .


i walk in a circle
as to not upset the balance of things
turn on the record player
and
find myself a chair in the kitchen.
only
to witness a symphony of
spiders
fall to the floor
and crumble up into
themselves
with  one
single
crescendo
.

everything is dying
and the air
is barely breathable
but i find comfort
in the thought of you
still loving me through it all.

i'll be sure to call this exterminator again
he really did do a swell job.
even took care of all the cobwebs  
on my bookshelf
which i haven't used in years
because its
where i keep our cardboard box full of memories  
hidden
behind the great gatsby and the
apocalyptic books
i tried to make you read
in hopes of you maybe seeing the beauty in such darkness
but you never liked them anyways
and you stopped reading my poetry
a long time ago
so who was i really kidding
other then myself?

it's newly November
and i hope it snows this year
i don't need a scarf
or mittens
because
i can feel your warmth even though you're not welcome in my house anymore  
and i can feel your lips on my neck
and your hot breath
whispering
***** little secrets to my skin

your hickeys we're love notes written in flesh
but of course bruises were your signature trade mark.

the thought of you calling my name
kills me
even quicker
then
this poison that enters in through my pores
and kisses my bloodstream like
an old family friend

i am not scared
of it
though

in fact i don't even flinch

after my experience with you
i am now an expert at dancing with the devil

i am brave
not fearless
no,

merely

immune to things that try to **** me
whilst loving me to pieces.

so i ask you, sage,
in all sincerity

sage - one who has made mistakes, and would share
the fragrance of his lesson plan, his historic failures and the knowing that fear can never be defeated but it can be
                                   deferred and differed until lessened

and asks,
how to put aside
a ridiculous pride...a palpable fear

this I know -
and you yourself have answered:
when necessary, I have made my self an object of
Ridiculous -
and endured the ridicule
and loved
the laughter of the fools,
and harmonized both
for this trite
is the best they have,
know that sages have
                                    bested fear, but never can it be defeated

to let fly
the asking?

start with a looking glass,
perforce speaks the truth,
and the answering machine image, undeniably,
                                              is you.

easy?
no.
i have found no easy thing worth doing
or loving.
   i don't want ease
i want l o v e

love - the rush of trust, the release of the unconditional sharing    Can never happen till you
trust yourself to say,
                                I am afraid


that i would burn bridges for
a struggle of understanding
that will keep me alive and whole
a sickening rush
worth every sacrifice.

paralyzing terror
because nothing is due me...
nothing should be expected
so nothing can be misplaced
    misguided

EVERYTHING IS DUE YOU,
ROAR WITH ANGERED FRUSTRATION,
      AT YOUR FRUSTRATED REFUSAL
TO BE ANGRY AT YOURSELF.
      BEAUTY INSIDE OUT AND OUTSIDE IN,
EVERYTHING IS EXPECTED, AND GIVEN
       THERE IS NO HIDEY HOLE FOR YOU TO BE MISPLACED ~
BURN BRIDGES THOSE BRIDGES OF REFRAIN AND RESTRAINT!

COME OUT COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE!

restraint,
restraint!!!
yes?!
   yes.
that must be the answer.

for if not restraint,
  then earth shaking love.
and if the earth shakes
  people might get hurt.

and i might be one of them.

              restraint, restraint,
this is your refrain?
                 retrain, retrain,
I believe, can you not too?
                  believe in you,
can you not too?
                  hard knocks endured, loveless years, disgrace
and more to come, yes love soothes and coos
                  but who can love but those brave enough to
love themselves first?
                  but my refrain will never be restrain,
only
                  unbowed undefeated asking for
the more
                  you deserve

I drop the BASS on you in your own words:

cast out fear and man up.
or at the very least
pretend to do those things.
then you might
have something to talk about.

Those corners that you turned did not learn you anything at all,
the walls that got bust through,did not open up a whole new world for you,they just created lots of rubble.
It was just another bubble burst,an unquenched thirst and you were left there high and dry.
Have you ever wondered why,the door was always shut,
or the hinges on the garden gate always seemed to make you cringe at night and keep you wide awake?
Was it that you feared the knock
did you hide underneath the bed, because the monsters there were something that you'd rather bear, instead of something that you did not know?
and did you never want to go out and explore or understand those new ideas,or were your fears the boundary fence you would not go beyond to seek,nor speak to passing strangers aware that dangers lurk in buttoned greatcoats and in flowing sleeves?

Life and the struggle to keep alive and why strive at all to stay in darkness,never knowing or going beyond the limits set by limited imaginations which were not at all the creations we we were meant to be.

I see an empty space,a place prepared for those who dared and dare to venture forth to find,
an open mind,two opened eyes and therein lies that great surprise of finding things you never new
and never new you didn't know,
will you go with me to see the dawning of the day or will you stay and play hidey with the spiders and the scuttlebutt that freeze you to the floor behind the door that's always shut?

One more time,
will you come and watch the sunset,get a feeling of the vastness where the deserts here seem much less than the desert in your soul or are you trapped inside the wall where the bricks will never fall in place,where you wait when you can't find a face to face another day?

Your rage
your fears
coalesce into crystalline form.
Wrapped like a chrysalis around a timid heart.
Bruised and Battered
Emotion shuttered away
batten it down again looming threats.

Peering in I ask
won't you come out to play
to live?

The only reply a hollowness of echoes.
Your wounds
your misgivings a hardened shell.
Hidey hole.

I search for a trace of you
the soul that left kisses of blue skies smeared along my breast.
Shouting to you
we were made of stardust
you and I.
Created to dance along clouds of silver linings.

Silence
heavy and dripping.

Humans were never meant to be turtles.
My statement.
My affirmation.

But the only reply I receive are echoes
memories of blue skies.
You are too deep in the shell to hear
perhaps you never cared to.

we all have them
hidden in tiny shoe-boxes
in the back of our closets

occasionally we seek them out
hoping for the ***** pleasure
of relishing in the past

the good hurt
as it would seem
but we’re all
ashamed if caught
in the act

in my shoe-box there are many things
women, men,
experiences,
actions

things seemingly innocent in the moment
but warped by the ravages of time

my hands shake as I leaf through the pictures
the bleeding hearts,
the burning tears,
the stupid acts,
the stupid thoughts

ah
but these are only memories
without any true place
here in the present

I put the cover back on my
shoe-box and slide it back
into its little hidey-hole
behind some other boxes
and containers and I turn
off the light as I leave

one deep sigh
the only thing
I’ll give that shoe-box
ever again

prickly little thoughts
rudely address me
in the quiet
of the air conditioned
hidey-hole
i've spent my summer in.

thoughts like:
you're a *******
you're going to die here
they think you're joking
you should tell the truth, sometime
maybe it'd
be nice
why can't my face be
the way i want it
why can't my
stomach
be flatter
why can't
mom just
spontaneously combust
so i can have
my family back
why
why
why
you are
you are
you are

.
..
...
....
...
..
.

i talk a lot about
flying

i like the idea
of it

it doesn't even bother me
that those that fly, fall

i'll cheat the system
i'll have a rope

catch
me

The red fox in China
Red Pine rodeo
I climbed Yangmingshan
The river told me so

Just a little poetry
Before my time to go
God bless Alex
Hidey Hidey Hidey **!

             Whoa!

softer than the rain
hidden as in Spain
Upon the Tucson Train

        riding, riding

Taos, New Mexico
Alex - souls we grow
2 men to Overthrow

      confiding, confiding

basketball to play
Hidey Hidey Hidey Hey
gracias xie xie

         igniting, igniting


             Blue Flame!

The Catholic Church continues to decay
I watch Star Trek, take good notes
Hidey hidey hidey hey!
Mekong River boats

George Hunt SJ
Ludwig Wittgenstein
UB 40
Red red wine

     Naked dread divine

Little boy of urges hid, birthed in his mothers
Blood of stagnant death, behold the urges bathed
Him now in. Little one grew with morality taught
Only the Bad must bleed the good must be saved
With the cutting of a sterilised blade.

Blood became his urge as he worked with that
Loved, cherished so much. Oozing off objects
Trajectory of A-, From the exiting wound.
A sawn off shoot gun mouth fed then words
Became thought on everything but his mind.

Night earned my respect for deeds done, in
Silence, like a wasp did it sting then awoken
Upon pictures displayed, and then I spoke.

"Do you recognise those now never to utter words,

"I used to let them talk, but they mostly screamed,
"Swore, told me they'd **** me, really??
"Did they contemplate that they were about be silenced.

All was surrounded, sealed upon plastic and duck
Tape to keep that which spilled, kept in. As the blade
Fell, breath, life drained away. My urge fulfilled and
The bad gone permanently away but death is a clock
And tomorrows a brand new day.

My little playmates in their playground of death
At the bottom of the sea, now others have joined
Living breathing taken them away from me. I keep
Them in essence a blood droplet of final breath, in
My walls how Norman Bates of me.

"Come on son just do the right thing,

"Not now dad were having a meeting,
""He pops up at the most annoying times,

I have killed family, friends, lovers have even
Crossed the path that meets the edge of a blade
That makes lies still and fulfils my urges, they
were good I thought but paths were crossed so
They were ended another droplet spilled.

I love my hobby, who can say they love to ****,
Its only the bad that need to worry for when my
Fever peaks, and so many bad people to ****.

"I look at you, and see a part of me,
"But when you turn silent, I'm nothing like you,

I get a call, close up shop. All neat and tidy, like
No one had been here before. Slowly under the
Seat sealed delivered to my playmates  new
Hidey hole. Now back to work and see what splatter
Awaits that I didn't cause.

"Mmm yep I'd say their dead, as I don't think?
"Don't worry I found their head behind the sofa,

God I love my job, cant get any better than this.

Boo rustles the lace curtains.  
They sometimes move to the slightest¬¬ dance of the wind.
The white shade slides them gently some nights
A moonlit soft skritching of plastic O-rings
On the brass bar as he peeks out.
The outside drowns his words.
A blank eye longs for the day while his
Shuttered windows whisper a breathy wail.
A hail of silent words secreted in trained night-clown smiles.
The streets deny it.

He hears the truth tap at his walls,
It drives a pince-nez melody in his darkened cell,
A rhythm wailing in noon darkness.
His darkling thoughts push the delete button,
Push them away like buzzing flies
Where she lies famished in her casket
Sere, sullen creature drained.
Yet another shallow shade of existence.
Emily’s world where did, did not happen—

Behind the nailed-shut doors
Truths pranced once in verdant forests.

Deny them exit, they screamed.
Keep them safe in their hidey-holes.
Wrap them in the black ink of dashed hopes.
With unspoken words –

Not here,
Where spirits, their spirits whimper.

Not here,

Secreted behind the drapes, Boo moans
Caresses his chalky skin,
Behind the windows
And behind the sealed doors
Wrapped in an airless tomb with Emily,
In a secret- secured world beyond their grasp.