Eroding brick wall
all that remains
refracted, fading
fishermen shadow
red dawn’s early light

brackish still water
shocked violent green
seeps from the desert
to be subsumed
by an unrelenting sea

restless dreamers rise
muscle sturdy pangas
into the churning tide
seeking quicksilver
at the continental edges

returning boats ride low
the shrinking horizon
race to safe harbor
cold beer on ice
under palm palapas

in the restaurant
a young man
shows off tuna
half as tall as he is
to admiring tourists

like me, seeking
the deep, slow burn
salt, jalapeno, lime
a fitting end to this
unraveling dream

Pueblo Mágico
of “no bad days”
walls of contention
in a fractured land
will never separate us

one margarita, two
another raised in defiance
of those who would try
to confine and define
free-range spirits

the Pacific touches
this contiguous shore
from equator to pole
we could catch
a clockwise current

follow Polaris up North
arrive transformed
magnetically charged
disparate souls fused
together bound

At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

Black gravel and slime
soaked
in sallow streetlight
Rap music wedges through
the crack in a broken hinge
The dishwasher in the kitchen
swears
and drops a hot pan
A rich man in a rich car
cruises by, smothering my darkness
in headlights
highlighting the grime
on the toes of my Chucks
My break is up
But I will just
stay here,
toss my cigarette stub
in the greasy pepper can
and have
another
smoke

Playing laser tag on canopy beds In
Trailblazing *** kitten style;
Blue eyes staring down upon.
Tanning In the graveyard
With butterfly kin and
Spent time In swimming pools
Of aquamarine,
Shaped like a leopard spot.

Finally it is done.

For months I have been
collecting ingredients
for the magical elixir -
home grown ginger and rosemary,
fresh organic garlic, onions and lemon,
finely chopped jalapeno pepper,
powdered turmeric,
Ceylon cinnamon,
tulsi, kelp and black pepper.

What eluded me was the
pungent, fresh horseradish,
unexpectedly absent in our stores
and farmers markets,
until a birthday trip to New York,
when we found the massive roots
in a Russian market.

And, once properly chopped
and shredded and zested,
all is covered and bathed
in organic apple cider vinegar,
a superfood in itself,
where it will draw out the
healing constituents
of each vital ingredient,
creating a powerhouse of wellness.

And now we wait.

Four to eight weeks
of shaking the jars every day
before we drain the lot,
run the pulp through a juice extractor
and add the final touch ...
local honey, raw and unfiltered,
adding sweetness and
its own preserving power,
along with a strong boost to health.

A long time to wait
for this Nectar of the Gods,
but so very worth it:
a shot of this each day
and colds and flu stand no chance -
bacteria and virus alike
overwhelmed -
say goodbye to illness.

Let us now give thanks
to our grandmothers
and all the lay herbalists
of generations long past,
for through their efforts,
our own knowledge
is greatly enriched.

We stand on the shoulders of giants.

5July2015

I spent Easter at Denny's.
It was 11 at night.
It was crowded and noisy, a baby was screaming.
There was a fly in my water, it tasted metallic.
I drank half of it.
Across from me was a table filled with adolescent boys and girls,
they were laughing at their own faces.
Next to me was a pair of kids, one of whom was freaking out.
"I can't sit here! I need to move! I don't feel safe here!"
They moved.
A pair of rugged, poorly dressed Mexicans took their place.
One sipped ten single serving creamer cups before his decaf
coffee arrived, where he added three more.
The other kept looking at me, and shaking his head.
I got the jalapeno Grand Slam.
There was nothing Grand about it.
The eggs were cold and the taste of jalapeno gave me a headache.
The whole place smelled like loneliness.
The whole place felt smelly.
I haven't been back since.

Never forget
there is poetry in dirt
in greens, in beets,
especially in rutabagas.
Three-dollar-a-bag spinach,
you are a symphony of compost
with which an old man’s teeth are smitten;
Rosemary sprig, beneath all your flavor
you are the staff-lines of a madrigal written
in loving anticipation of the mason jars, weighed down with water
where you will grow and swell and bud and spread out strong purple flowers which elate
that you are part of a song
which sings every year
a little louder.

My beautiful, daredevil vegetables,
This coming September, I will miss you dearly.
I will be days of travel away from your world of roots, of mist,
of six-in-the-morning-before-classes tonic of rain
which saturates my skin so good I’m surprised when I shake the dirt from the leeks
all over my bare feet, that you don’t crop up green & white from between my toes,
that my arms don’t grow heavy with peppers
after they cake with jalapeno & bell seeds from all the half-rotten miracles
to whom I have given baptism in shallow plastic tubs of water
floating like elations of fire
in the grayness of the morning.

Know how to tell if a pepper’s rotten? Wash it & shake it
& if you can hear the water swishing inside,
if you can make a maraca of its innards,
then give it back to the dirt.

This is the wisdom of peppers:
when you grow soft
when you have been chosen
& plucked,
& washed
& thoroughly loved
& shaken,

when you have called out like fire
beside your brothers in a basin,

lay down in the compost
the kindly compost,
& listen, just listen,
(there will be nothing left to do
but listen)

to the poetry of dirt.

If laughter is the best medicine
then this explains why there are so many unhealthy people.
Too many people got the SAD's Condition;
                 It arrives usually within 2-4 weeks of compromising one's inner child after crushing up      
                 some sparkly dreams and flushing them in the *******.
                                        Symptoms include:
                1) A black-hole bitter disposition
                 2) Snapping at little things like having to wait 5 in a checkout line
                    or making dramatic sighs after repeating a question a few times.
               3) Reminiscing about terrible things and never forgiving and  
                   letting  go, like having your mom sign your life away to a cult or  
                   being told that your dear sweet Aunt who helped raise you kept
                   looking for you in the hospital every time your name was called
                   even though you never saw her because your family thought it  
                   best you kept your distance or hearing the morose silence of a
                   stillborn newborn.
                4) Finding your serenity at the bottom of a bar room floor inside a
                   gin bottle.
                5) Finding your solace in a married woman who eats all kinds
                    of colorful shaped pills for breakfast.  
                                      


And if a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,
how much can you add before the medicine loses its flavor?

They say truth is bitter,
yet I find that hard to believe
considering it feels so good to say.
It's like a cinnamon peppermint flavor on the tongue
with an aftertaste of jalapeno tears.

Maybe I'm so used to the processed hydrogenated extra sugar kind
that's why I go right for the pure hard stuff,
and maybe that's why a laugh so much.  
Maybe that's why people consider me a cuckoo fool....

I feel like Godzilla in a frilly party dress
Wearing ribbons and flounces while causing distress
Or a jalapeno pepper in a pumpkin pie,
Dangerously spicy and living a lie
spiky and snarly like a cat in a cage,
yet trussed up in garlands that tighten with age
I'm sweet on the outside, I'm feeling quite witchy,
If you've read my poem, you'll say I'm just ******.

Gurgle**
I think I just found out that yesterdays
Tex-mex just found it's way into my throat,
That and mixed with a side of burning hot
Jalapeno mixed with a peachy fruity overload.

Circles and circles...
My head is buzzing...
I can't even think straight...
It's that time again, my friend!
Such a spicy sweet morning treat!

YUMMY YUMMY IN MY TATTOOED TUMMY
I like eating very much, call it a passion coz obsession sounds too mad.                                                            
Give me a sandwich tuna mayo one sliced tomato on bread times two.                                                        
Not enough!
Time for chicken donner on nan with everything on: hot sauce, salad cream with salad, peppers too, Jalapeno style. Add an order for onion barges, samosas and chips in pita bread with mild sauce on.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Half an hour later, an Italian beckons. His pizza looks cool! I say three types of meat, sliced, on top. Extra cheese, deep pan and two types of olives. Munchy time and yes, I enjoy this meal.
Later… What next? English fish and chips with salt and vinegar and a drop of gravy. No mushy peas, I hate them! I’ll take two fish cakes on the side. Traditional English grub down the hatch. Then meat and potato pie on a muffin. Careful not to burn my mouth! Did that before.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Time for some American influence, supersize me! Huge portion of fries, mega big burger and a litre of strawberry milkshake.
I’m multicultural in my diet. Foreign people are cool when it comes to their cuisine. I love Norwegian apple juice, as I need a drink after eating their goats’ cheese on rough white bread.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Chinese crispy duck is desirable, just like egg fried rice and prawn crackers. All available food is welcome, I’ll eat your left over’s on my trip of eating.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!

there is still jalapeno under my nails,
                                                            i know because i bite them.


i feel microcosmic
i feel macrocosmic
i feel that the night i knew you were > all the deadend wannabe artists with groomed hair and a knack for saying the wrong things at the right times

the moon was full as a curvy woman's hips
and i sleeplessly felt its caress through the sky the roof my heart
it carried me pieces of you
and they fit

people ask me if i'm madly in love with a smirk
people ask me what happens when it goes wrong
first loves die hard, they say
i don't know what happened to make everyone assume that
love is destined to be a ship lost at sea

my mom raised me to be tenacious
and darling,
                              you know it's true

Just when I think I've seen it
All throughout this  land
They went and upped the anti
On the classic can of Spam

Those with the higher power
The ones that run the show
The Spam men of the hour
In a bunker buried way down low

Have added different flavors
To this meat of mystery
From Teriyaki to Tocino
That's bacon to those who don't speak Philippine

They heat it up with Jalapeno
Helps to liven up the slime
Those bunker boys as they're fondly known
Have really out done themselves this time

Aloha from Hawaii?
Imagine Spam in a Hula skirt
As they pull out the Leis and go all the way
Adding pineapple to those Spam burps

Exciting rumors have it
They're in talks with Oreo
There's no place in this universe
That a good slice of spam won't go

The only thing they need to work on
Is the dipping in the milk
They have yet to solve the problem
Of the massive oil spill

Yes they've taken what the rest of us
Never thought could be improved
Just goes to show what ingenuity
And a touch of crazy genius can do

You all started
as just tiny seeds
In a plain, white packet,
Waiting to live.

I plopped you right into
a little seedling starter.
Once you started growing well
and getting real cozy in there,
I wanted you
to have more room
to get even bigger.

So I moved you
In with all the rest,
into the vegetable garden.

And everyday
I watered you,
hoping you would be good
to me in return.

Each morning,
dew covered my bare feet
as I rushed to see
what you had accomplished
overnight.

It never seemed to be much
of a growth spurt, but
just enough
for vigilant eyes to take notice.

You seemed to like to
make me wait
even after all the time
I spent spoiling you.

Little green monsters you have been,
But finally
After weeks and months
of tedious tending,

After all the other vegetables
have almost gone,
You finally open
your teeny, white flowers
And give me

some ****
jalapeno peppers.

this is how i die an array of colours flashed
hippy's tie die shirt glamourized before me
a 60s hendrix tripping vibe
too much deception, not enough communication
silence was the biggest killer...

after all most deaths are silent
and the dead don't speak

but who says they're not listening

a record collection of conversations stored in heathe ledger's memory files , the frontal lobe archives

just like the front side of the incoming car
just like the front side of the quickly approaching cliff ledge
just like the frontal assault i planted on myself,
but my pain is temporary...it is everyone else i know who must bear it  for a lifetime if they discontinue this domino effect

(i'm not talking about domino's pizza)...pizza hut OBVIOUSLY

I ordered the extra large cheese with a side of jalapeno's because this one if going to burn with a cheesy ending

how could you miss it.... i wrote it in my death note.

Tongue scalded by coffee I am finally
awake today. When the sun’s kisses burn my skin,
and I am finding a new threshold for this. This flint
spark where it outshines the moon at the dead
of night. Lost in the forest, trudging thoughts through
woods where luminescence is nonexistent. A gas tank
explodes in the middle of the city. See now how my mind
trudge thoughts of light? Heat?          Pain?
Thundering through my cranium like mad dogs barking,
this is summer. Summer, where heat dilutes my vision.
I am awakened. The sands crept to our feet as it replicates
each of its curves, took their body heat and turned
everything to Mexico. Jalapeno lips, I make them quiver.
Quiver like tasting a spoonful of wasabi. Quiver your name
to the sound of the hottest song on air. Pretending
it was some ice to cool off my scalded tongue.

See how I am trudging? Because this had to be
enough to make my mind a rustle piece of abstract, visions
flint spark, when you near me, pressed
your palm against my shoulder. And I swear
that was when

I felt warmth
for the very first
time.

Where do you see yourself in five years?
Wollowing in my self depravity while stumbling through my preconceived notions of adulthood.

Although an astronaut eating bagels somewhere near Jupiter sounds pretty wicked.

P.S They'd be New York bagels the only real bagels. Or the jalapeno cheese ones from "insert chain store here" because the west coast rots your taste buds clean off.

P.P.S It's in the water or so I'm told, NYC bagels that is.

Post Post Post Script this is why I get nowhere in life.

Going
once
Hey
Buster!
1-desperately
Never want
The New Jersey
Wife-bra
That drops down
Actress Fakes
Going firm up
Hollywoods
 La Femme
Frenchie
Her Roast beans
cup
2- twins bark
pup
Bra me=
I'm +Robin Birdie
Told me
((Never Ha Me))

2-Bustiers
equally
Tara twice La
Him musketeers
- duh Harrah

Sara Smile- Huh
Santa's trainer-Shy Spanish fly
blush Fly Robin Disco pry

Twirled together
Behind the
curtain
Dorothy & Toto bra click my red slippers home-
Girl scout brownies
The bra course
boom!!
Never bust room!!
Mystic
Falls Vamp-hire
[.
[.
Trump-her
Naughty
Tara La Bra-ly
Hybrid
Which one
Is the  
Witch
wizardly bra?
The good
Linda witch
Jinx
Jalapeno
Never a
Prince
She's allergic
Like Tied- ankle
slipper

Cozy Curry
Bra Chicken
Terror Terry
Bra trader

Villalobos
Snackerro's
"La Bra land"

"One Chosen Bra"
Sultry\ steampunk
Bra- link

Blonde
niche
Patriotic
Red- blood- white
The King Elvis

 Being Launched
Queen Priscilla
size
  Tara La
"Historical" Aint nothing but a hound dog*

The girl has rocks in her head
gone stupid in bed
she couldn't lift
her underarms

Scarlett has gone-----
with her friends' lover
Never a bra
with firearms
((Never B-B Tara La))

Her
long
neck_
Vampire Diaries
Disease VD
Pour bra Scotch

"0" outcasting
Tomato Pie
Lace box
"Robin
Redbreast
take-off
wizardly
Ozfully-set

She was
born
like
that
bra
Lady
GaGa
Singer
Robin-Hood me
blood bra orders
Where's your Bra?
High Dalmatian
demand
bone-fish bra

So many Men
Gondola Tara La
Venice
Chinese
Cat-talk
Siamese bra
takeout
Catstick_
faceoff be quick
Bra \off
this is
Taras turf

I told you,
You despaired but
Delighted in the idea.
A new secret, a new world.
A new language to converse,
To defeat mediocrity. Now
We are a fairytale.
From fourth
To seventh.
Or now, twelfth.
Turn it around then deny.
Live in the best parts of my problem to escape.
Clone stamped houses.
AP classes.

Then I told you,
But I was already crying, a shaking,
Said,
your hearts a beating way to fast.
Breathe, Breathe, Keep going.
You held me and held me. you wiped my tears.
Put my pants back on.
It was flooding and Jalapeno chips.
I still love you
I'm not angry
in any way
If I kept track of time,
Id apologize for how long I kept this from you

But you, the next day.

I saw it today. Stark aberration in my periphery. Flaccid and pale it was, like wan chicken fat under plucked skin. It blotted everything in the rear view mirror, jolting my reverie of quiet snow dancing across the road, resting on quilted cover lawns and frosting happy trees with dollops of white on spruce. So many distractions in the metal box, the meandered chatter punctuated with hiccup sighs and upended sentences. Now this…my neck in all its grisly middle aged wattling display. Like roadkill on a scenic Sunday drive. I’m mortified.
Wrenched from my tenure of “office know it all” or at least “figure it on the fly” chick in the high desert to this lakeside time warp, this place of gravy and pitched roofs, I’m totally off my jalapeno. Gone are the adobes and red or green breakfast plates to be replaced by the Sunday tradition of one hour with the silvers and breakfast with Bob " Bob Evans that is. Amazing how rote runs a brain. An epistle, the gospel, a homily and polite pew sharing with communion wrap up " it took a full minute for anyone to register  that one of our seasoned pieces of lumber was not slumbering but without breath altogether… and still so many went forward for the cup and the wafer in routine obedience.
Margaret asked me later “is he still gurglin’?” as though slumped over parishoners in a diabetic episode are commonplace, and sometimes a body leaves with an EMT escort. (He’s ok. At least that’s what we were told)
I keep looking out the bedroom window, the cascading sugary stuff glazing the scene framed by mauve curtains and punctuated by the few stoic sparrows too resolute or stupid to fly south to green paradise. I’m grooveless unpressed vinyl still waiting for the imprint of music. A rhythm above the chatter both inside my head and outside.
I’m a quiet creature - at least I crave the solitude and peace and I am diametrically opposed therefore to the queen of this house who savors light and movement and the noise of constant conversation. She’s been more than kind to open her home to us and I’m sure it’s difficult to have scuttling creatures in your home who prefer the sunless corners, the basement, the predawn holy places where nothing moves except the snow before the plow to the endless drone of voices. She’s flown solo in this house for nine years. Now it’s full of people who make no noise, no decibel print and it must be irksome to her.
I try to compromise, to curb my urge to run from the meal table and **** the myriad things that wait in my personal life. The bills, the bank issues " who knew our financial institution was unrepresented in this chile-less place? Who knew everything cost twice as much as it does way out west? Who knew unemployment insurance does not ensure a survivable wage?  All the tiny things I hold at bay until I can sit no longer. Patience. I lack it. I can learn to compromise, but I cannot quell completely who I am. It has been that attempt over the last decade to stifle what is inside that has made me itchy and twitchy and ****** now. That and that damnable wattling neck.  Yes, I’m stripped of all I was when I was what I was in the middle of the high desert and now the only thing left is the stuff simmering in my head…
Peace.

She was in the Villa

Wearing her fine long

Chinchilla writing for the good fellow
Highlight bright me yellow
The Fairytale Fae
Dunaway, I wouldn't
Bonnie and Clyde this
runaway
poem

The death to be book part she

noticed a sliding door
A- heart
B- Smart
C- Part
D- Dart
E- Eventually until the writing
Do us heart


Be smart inside the secret door

Her Long petticoat laced

Got caught in his picture frame

His eyes were thick to book her
Writing match game

Oh! Sir Do us heart

The stock exchange of books
to be laid she took yours

English Tudor book house
of maid's took hers
Writing so many books
But not getting paid

Then she heard a knock
at her door

A distinguished gentleman
she raised

her brow and heard a shout
her tea whistled

So wary he looked bristled
and she was

book disheveled the wall
opened itself whoa!!

Until the
magician

The reaction eternal love_
Nocturnal flying dove


The white snowed in gloves
Wolf blew in gas jet stoves
Strong heart to fire blow
Writing game of the
Gulf of Mexico

The Golf clubs
The chosen book fall inside her
victorian tub
He drove right in
Rub a dub tub

But her book was not
completed
He was beside himself
Until the Gin

Life so unsuspected,

did you really expect it


Until death do us part

Inside the painting,
the book moved

  She stared like she got shoved
the key locked
Both hearts

Could play like objects an
"Operetta"

A literary write until the death do

us part be heart she was flushed

Old spirited La Gazette her name

is Suzette exercising her words

So Owl like but the ghostly writer

of crimes took over distressed

Digging on ten commandments

She only wanted compliments

She pulled the lever but she

felt hotter with his fever

There were all books
in a vault

Who is the mystery writer
at fault?

Ownership of books

more than there wifes



Their life's bonded together
like love to the end
those bookends.

Moving Mass Einstein
She is so vain Carly Simon
The song and book is
about her


So purrfect that all depends

Like two trenchcoat's

with author suits on a hook

Religiously Zen, but with
ulterior motives

books arrived in ten

Her home interior
so bright eyes

so enthusiastic but he
was inferior

with the ballpoint pen,
he pressed her

Like a Depp actor mind
way ahead

So for long such sadness,

I'll be ****** Scarlets
Dark flowers death
her scar fits

North to South
The writer moved to
Charlotte come to me my
writer's suspense me

Goth book #13 never
on a Friday
The 6 day of the month
she took 6 books out
she turned to the side 6 men
mesmerized conked out
They got hooked 666
books


Heavy necklace weighed her down

That chain reaction her
writers' block

She was stuck in his room by his

hands of the clock

Her long life pause her
short book clause

And he's her spouse?
Like a bookmark,

her tongue traveled but

to notice another
sliding door

"Out of life"

"Not One life"

(Born to die)

Give something

A book to die for

But who do we live for?

Like a Jalapeno hell
of reading so blunt

Fashionably late Mr.Valentino
book hunt

So fitting lifestyle
  Florence her Coffee
(Nightingale)
table for two
(light-in-Male)

"BeBook" holder

Two in the nook
Writing our hearts
2B perfectly lined
Writing  became the
crime
Drinking Lime with
the Kooks
of coconuts

2 death be us part
Words were spreading
Because I am nearer
Anderson window sill
Seeing Bill

conquering and
masquerading
his words
hummingbirds
stronger than his real
heart

"The love camera
"Writing new start

Tarantino
Near the Islands of
Portofino

more book wiser

What holds to her grace of
"Florentino"

books are like flavors

The wine and book taste like
Gallo Hello___Heart

The gorgeous smell of pecans roasting,
mixed with the sweetness of coconut toasting,
chicken breast pounded into paillards,
the grill is smoking in the yard.

Garlic minced and onion chopped,
jalapeno sliced and thrown on top,
sizzling sounds as chicken meets grill,
this is going to be a tastebud thrill.

Baby bok choy goes down now
smells better than should be allowed,
a touch of brown sugar and of soy,
this will be something to enjoy.

Sticky rice bubbles and steams,
the makings of culinary dreams,
pecans and coconut stirred right in,
the rice the base to this foodga-sm.

Jalapeno herbed chicken hot and ready,
salty sweet bok choy, hold it steady,
finish it off with ice cold beer,
don't you wish you were right here?

Ladybug lovesongs, shorts, longs, Genghis Khans
It's raining outside, warm and gentle
Fresh lentil soup, rearrange, regroup the thinking piece
Find peace part in parcel, gray zone embargo, let's go
Swing the *** down the row, break your back for it
No ****, take a hit and pass it along, left or wrong
The Khan is coming out now, stomping through the mud
A cow chews her cud, the sky turns ice eyeball blue, Bailey
Hate me, I deserve it, tell me, I've probably heard it
Spit, throw your salt over your shoulder, shift that boulder
Mold over the wet bread slice, kimchi and rice
Sugar, spice, and everything spicy, like me, jalapeno tattoo'd on my arm
Does good, some harm, sound the alarm
Break the strong arm and be free
Self conscious in me, oh say can you see
By the setting of the sun, ants, plants, trails
Quails in flight, saying poison out of spite
Change your thoughts and change your life
Ladybug love songs, sing to me in your silence
Try this, I want your voice lifted to it
A note to hit, high point, max ordinate, advocates
Words of hate, washed clean with bar soap
Some hope, at this point, concise and contradictory
Dissect the diction, resurrect the dialect
Stand ***** in the face of flooding flashes
To make it in this country you need cash, kid.
Smoke a **** Winston down to the filter

I like my beans,
             maybe a bit hotter than
others..

Mine with jalapeno peppers,
           scattered like snow..
melting it on the taste buds
              oh so delicately...

Then a layer of cheese,
  like soft footprints..
    never touched.


Before my mouth consumes it,
                  What was whole now

          chunks missing..

like a where's wally of the food
                                             variety..

I'll tell you where in my belly..

Beans, beans they'll make you full,
         on what ever you want.

but for me it the saucy kind,
         cos that's where my beany


                                       boat floats.. saucy

Affecting inner senses partial to pleasant ,seeking new ways to change  the now neutral palette
Separating  perceptions with even greater lucidity ,unknown to many while delving deeply into others
Fractional feelings while faint help to form strong bonds, temperatures  rising ,possibly burning only to stimulate
Bases are building blocks, solid but receptive to adding on for further employing frameworks forming futures

Acclimation is leading to a  degradation ,instead of frolicking in the flexibility of our  changing taste
Manners and motions becoming redundant , left feeling flippant and unfocused ,never noticing a cause or effect
simple mannerisms becoming so pale , worlds revolving while we get stale ,losing the appreciation in the haste
Basic known as bland ,begging for release to uplift and simply please ,waiting with something new to detect

Attractions don't have to be delusions ,needing to mix our sensations in order to define further conclusions
Variety is the spice of life, but often we block or stand blind, never allowing life to simply function or flow
Becoming connoisseurs or simply following recipes of others ,making adjustments ,trying to be not caught in illusions
Minor matters require sprinkles,simply a subtle hint ,long stewing or tougher cuts more & deeper flavor for a better show

Lifes plot becoming a larger *** ,attracting scents ,sights,temperatures, bounty is ever present if we take the time to realize
Do they say he was savoring the sodium when referring to the "Old salt" is she a jalapeno? while a seductress
Favored reactions gradually being based on past actions ,flavored so with sentiments, or helping hands of others we that may idealize
Pleasures as piquant ,good taste is not without savour , making the way from tasteless, new life's vitality can be brought by a waitress :) R.C.

With the thought of you
In my mind, do you think of me?
In my dreams, to have you
So strong like a hurricane
You know I was there
In your dream palace
I reached your hand with care
In gentle way with no malice
As I look in your face
Adoring, how pretty you are
With nice cheeks to pinch
You're like a movie star
Defenseless as you are maybe
I steal a moment from you
Ah...a wrong move, you slapped me
Not once but times two
You get away, unreachable now
You're so near, yet so far
You don't talk to me in anyway
Now like an unreachable star
Thus the window shut
For the desire for your heart
Stupid me, I won't forget
For it fell apart, and I am not smart
But my feelings for you are still hot
Like a jalapeno chili
I took another shot
But the door still closed
And you disappeared from my eyes
Like a video, had paused
Thus my dream will say goodbye
Can you open it again?
As I think of you
Do you think of me?

Just when I think I've seen it
All throughout this  land
They went and upped the anti
On the classic can of Spam

Those with the higher power
The ones that run the show
The Spam men of the hour
In a bunker buried way down low

Have added different flavors
To this meat of mystery
From Teriyaki to Tocino
That's bacon to those who don't speak Philippine

They heat it up with Jalapeno
Helps to liven up the slime
Those bunker boys as they're fondly known
Have really out done themselves this time

Aloha from Hawaii?
Imagine Spam in a Hula skirt
As they pull out the Leis and go all the way
Adding pineapple to those Spam burps

Wait a minute!

Now they have pumpkin in the can of Spam
To spice up the feeling of Fall
Those that don't see Spam as a delicacy
Might be at a loss

Exciting rumors even have it
They're in talks with Oreo
There's no place in this universe
That a good slice of spam won't go

The only thing they need to work on
Is the dipping in the milk
They have yet to solve the problem
Of the massive oil spill

Yes they've taken what the rest of us
Never thought could be improved
Just goes to show what ingenuity
And a touch of crazy genius can do

So don't knock it till you try it
And try it if you must
But remember my friend always save the lid
For afterwards scraping of the tongue