****** affliction of a lack of affection companion
Hand and hand strolling greater than syrupy plunging
and even sometimes buddy shrugging over wooden noisemakers
We whistle with their metal strings
and through the pasta soft ones in our throats
but no nest colored mares seem to hear
our flamboyant feather calls for future fondling
So I scribe slight implied short letters
invites to drink joints and nature jaunts
All too well thought out
hoping your advanced technology cannot trace
the time I spent to type
The overanalysis of our psych: her and I’s
wondering why she doesn’t have an inkling
for a cute fall date where we attempt to bake apple pies
It’s all too contrived, I know
I’ll strive for delusion
Accept a useful interpretation for our chemical inflammation
and let sparks pass it by
Like itsy bitsy flies laying eggs in a wound
for stagnant water maggots
They’ll eat away the thought well
where all my cranial zaps seem to dwell.

Magical cauldron apomixes connoisseur              
Cephalic phantasmagoria entity obliquitous        
Mystical conjurous conjugal entrepreneur                        
Fantasia fantastication phantasm obsequious
Amorously arduous ardent raconteur
Ephemeral translucent opulence ubiquitous            
Vanity sanctimonium temerities saboteur
Intrepid verve’s intriguingly iniquitous
Sorcerous sabbatical apothegms chauffeur
Endemic veracities fortuitous elicitous

Futurity fatidics fornication kithe                        
Ephemeral metaphor semantics flaunts
Empirical emulation scenarios blithe
Subjunctive subliminal nostalgias haunts
Agile articulation acuities lithe                          
Analogizing corroborative prolificacy daunts
Alacritous tactile manipulations writhe
Numinous syntactical paradigm *****                  
Emanate imminent perdition tithe
Orotund jaded seal ordinand jaunts
                                                          ­                                        
Overt convection coercions chiaroscuro tempestuous                                                  
Ape­x crux axis ****** matrix torrid                        
Manifest objectified enamorous interstice lecherous
Spurt binge spree ***** protuberance squalid
  
endearingly engendering amore

Magical cauldron apomixes connoisseur              
Cephalic phantasmagoria entity obliquitous        
Mystical conjurous conjugal entrepreneur                        
Fantasia fantastication phantasm obsequious
Amorously arduous ardent raconteur
Ephemeral translucent opulence ubiquitous            
Vanity sanctimonium temerities saboteur
Intrepid verve’s intriguingly iniquitous
Sorcerous sabbatness apothegms chauffeur
Endemic veracities fortuitous elicitous

Futurity fatidic's fornication kithe                        
Ephemeral metaphor semantics flaunts
Empirical emulation scenarios blithe
Subjunctive subliminal nostalgias haunts
Agile articulation acuities lithe                          
Analogizing corroborative prolificacy daunts
Alacritous tactile manipulations writhe
Numinous syntactical paradigm *****                  
Emanate imminent perdition tithe
Orotund jaded seal ordinand jaunts
                                                          ­­                                        
Overt convection coercions chiaroscuro tempestuous                                                  
Ape­­x crux axis ****** matrix torrid                        
Manifest objectified enamorous interstice lecherous
Spurt binge spree ***** protuberance squalid
  
endearingly engendering amore

"Decision Points" is already atop Amazon's bestseller list. Number two is "Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Ugly Truth," by Jeff Kinney. If you think we're going to mine that for cheap humor, you're wrong - anyone with pre-teen children knows that Mr.  So many "self-help" books preach, ramble, and simply leave us with a sense of having wasted our time. For men, books of similar titles are simply read as penance for having failed to mow the www.facebook.com toms shoes outlet lawn before the game was over and the rain came. Often they are simply dog-eared to give our partners the impression that we are indeed trying.

To figure out how many things you can plug into an outlet before it will catch fire, first we need to get to the heart of how electricity works. At any given moment, the average American house has 120 volts of electricity flowing though it. Somewhere in your house, you'll find a wall-mounted box, toms outlet store containing either circuit breakers or fuses (found in older homes)..

A bespoke suit is an absolute must. Bespoke, of course means made for you specifically and that means that you have to say exactly what you want the tailor to make. If it an existing style then it is in fact a custom suit. We may view in a big way as well. Let get an insight into behaviour of Georgia in foreign affairs (Georgia is a country in the Caucasus region of Eurasia. Situated at the juncture of Western Asia and Eastern Europe, it is bounded to the west by the Black Sea, to the north by Russia ?note of translator).

The Beggar does not think like an ordinary man. The point is in absolutely other scheme of thinking that differs from mind of decent people. Resemblance between common worker and the Beggar is outward only, in other words it is biological, because both of them are human beings.

By the early 1970s INTERCO's apparel and general merchandise subsidiaries were generating approximately 56 percent of sales and 47 percent of profit. The apparel manufacturing group consisted of 11 apparel companies, with 62 manufacturing plants and 13 distribution centers. The general retail merchandising group operated 856--owned or leased--retail locations in 29 states.

Every fashionable guy knows how to pull off a suit in casual situations. Those post-work cocktails and early evening jaunts to the mall are child's play if you have a navy suit to throw on. The color that's just a wee bit lighter than black helps keep the suit itself from looking too sombre and businesslike..

"We are very excited to introduce Disney Store to outlet customers, who are extremely brand-conscious and passionate about shopping," said Mario Ciampi, president of Disney Store. "Our outlet stores will offer a magical, Disney-themed (babyandyUSA-March-11) retail environment complementary to our mall-based Disney Stores. Given the power of the Disney brand and The Children's Place experience in this channel, we believe the outlet venue will be an effective way to grow the business.".

Or you can choose for the like tweed, corduroy, or houndstooth. And now, Toms even makes wet-weather ready botas, which have a fleece collar and lining and a treated coating to protect her feet from the winter weather. Whatever her style or the weather conditions in which she lives, you will be able to find her something from Toms..  2013-03-15.

I said
i like the smell of whiskey
and the whole cabin was filled
with puerto ricans and chile pepper
seeds scattered on the floor, a hundred
pots lined up on the stove with rouxs
and sweet syrups, masa mixed with
pork broth, shortening and garlic
the men lining the porch in
sunglasses and blue wranglers
going on about the rig or Virginia
or Hurricane Matthew--

what is it?
about running away?

I thought;
time passes so fast
I've clipped pieces from the past, snapshots i've unknowingly gathered
Uncle Dude three sheets out, standing in the kitchen
after you'd been drinking all day, your mom reminiscing in the corner
with tired eyes and stained fingers from wine,raisins, condensed milk,
consoling a drunk neighbor, (Florida State won earlier)
through the screen while you reclined in the sun or
the rotating image of your heels crunching through the
long morning grass.


I'd been sustained on quiche that needed no seasoning,
coffee creamer, cherry pie and the feeling of slipping bare
feet into boots, on quiet, on  
dark forearms and white biceps
the print of a little bird ring,
dark, brittle nights that smelled like cigars and Coors--


I've been trying to talk to God
all weekend but I think he's gone.
I think I'm alone.
I think I've run away.

I'm home, but there's nobody here.

December 1899

I

She sits in the tawny vapour
That the Thames-side lanes have uprolled,
Behind whose webby fold-on-fold
Like a waning taper
The street-lamp glimmers cold.

A messenger’s knock cracks smartly,
Flashed news in her hand
Of meaning it dazes to understand
Though shaped so shortly:
He—he has fallen—in the far South Land…

II

’Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker,
The postman nears and goes:
A letter is brought whose lines disclose
By the firelight flicker
His hand, whom the worm now knows:

Fresh—firm—penned in highest feather—
Page-full of his hoped return,
And of home-planned jaunts of brake and burn
In the summer weather,
And of new love that they would learn.

I felt like a backpacker that night.
I think it was the katydids.
At home it’s the frogs,
all shouting over each other, but somehow
finding a rhythm.

But here,
a pulse presses into me in my sleep
and I roll over to face the seething embers.
I know I’ve drawn things out with X,
but this is what narcissism means to me:
stoking the embers each time.

Tonight I am a backpacker
on the west side of a mountain.
Having slept through the sunset,
now I’m lying awake—
sleepless and small—
as ants find their way across my skin.

If they’re not sleeping, they must be working—
long jaunts between brief naps—
while the queen sleeps.

When I’m home,
I’ll close my windows and,
drown these embers in dry reds—
shiraz and merlot—
and sleep like the queen for once.

I just bought a turkey
In dire need of tenderize
Also a quick summer thaw
As this chick's as cold as ice

Must have froze it in the tundra as
I dive deep into the internet
Where it's got me wondering
Why I myself didn't think of this

It says to tie up both its legs
With a nylon stringy thingy
Hey! Get that out your head!
This ain't nothing *****!

Hook the turkey to the bumper
And take it for a ride
I watched it from my rear view
And mirror on the side

I watched it twirl and tumble
I watched it twist and shout
I watched it as it changed its shape
From inside into out

I thought I heard it gobble
As it bounced itself along
Checking progress at every red light
Tenderized...yes, but not yet thawed

The roads must be colder this year
Then at first, I thought
I hop back into my jalopy
For a few more jaunts around the block

I make it back to my place
Thinking all is perfect all is well
Untie the turkey, if that's what it is
It's a little hard to tell

Now with that part of the preparation done
With the turkey and I safe back home
I plop it into the waiting oven
And gently turn it on

Here we are a few hours later
As the conversations and good times begin
Sitting around the dinner table
My guests all marvel at my hen

There's only one slight question
And they asked me if I knew
I reply...why yes that is white meat
It's just a tad bit bruised

(There’s something that I keep in my pocket, a piece of dental floss, flavourless now, chewed to a white nothing by my own mouth to wring out every strand of his DNA, but now it just tastes of me and nothing else.)

My sister was wearing a black dress made of crepe. I remember it so well, the way it scrunched up in my fingers like paper, my knuckles juxtaposed against the colour, white with tension, against a bottomless backdrop of black. I held onto that dress like a terrified child. For that moment, it was the only thing that existed for me.

gotta sit here, gotta stay, gotta sit here.

(Memories of bumblebees with their innards hanging out,
“make it start mama, make it start!” it’s a common reaction amongst children so I’m told.)

I did not feel his soul sliding past me. I didn’t feel a thing, not a single thing.
Is it the same as turning off a TV? Energy dispersing into the ether? A kettle boiling, bubbles stilling? How can he have just…stopped?

He stopped.

I have felt many things in my life. The whole spectrum, from dizzing highs to drug doped ecstasies, suicidal jaunts to white-edged nothingnesses. But I had never felt abandoned before. Not truly, sincerely, abandoned. Marooned. Bitter. Desperately bitter. Terribly, terribly frightened and deeply alone.

There’s nothing like the smell of flowers to jolt the senses.

I let go of my sister’s dress and walked – not ran -  but walked out into the daylight.
I remember that I had my head held high - I could have just been going for a smoke, going to make a phone call, going to check that the sky was still up in the air and not down on the floor like a carpet of bluebells , but when I reached the door of the church I started to run.
I ran right in front of cars – **** it! – across the road to a half deserted carpark, winding through the cars like a ******, and slunk down to the floor in front of a parked white van. I thumped my head against the cool metal of the bumper and started to shake. I remember my body feeling somehow too big and too small all at once, I remember laughing at one point because it seemed like the right thing to do. My shaved head hit my knees with a thwack.
I’m not here, I’m not real, I’m a black and white thing, I’m just a black and white thing...
But I was real, and there was no escaping it. All of it was real. The carpark was real. The flowers were real. The only thing that was not real was the thing that mattered the most.
“You ****.”
I got up. I started to kick the van, kick the wall behind me, and kick the air.
You read about it in stories and you see it in films, people losing their marbles and hitting out, heroically bleeding from the knuckles, stinging, saying ‘ah, ah.’ None of that happened for me. I hit so hard I thought I’d broken my hand, but my bones are ******* stubborn. The world is ******* stubborn. My mouth felt like it was bleeding, but it was just laced in a cobweb of spit.
“You ****! You ****! You ****!”
I took off my suit jacket and draped it over my head, pulling it tight; a black ghost in a carpark in the countryside.
I felt an arm wind its way around my waist, and the rustle of crepe.
I sobbed up my grief like catarrh, the lining of my jacket wet with spit and the inevitable chawing tempest of tears that caved in my stomach like a perfect punch.
“I’m losing my mind.”
My sister grabbed onto my hand and squeezed, hard.
“No you’re not, Arthur.” She said to me, with certainty.
“No you’re not.”

As we wander through the dunes rhythm,
The blistering sun jaunts across,
Exhibiting the elegance of the sanguine sands,
A ravishing roots of colours,
Whirling on the Sahara,
The beautiful blue skies,
Their true reflection,

With delight we trail from audaghust to the inlands,
In a waddling gait,
The heavy luggages on humps,
Are the loads of luxury bade by kumbi saleh,
The camels and jockeys pride themselves in it flamboyant environs,
And our thobes and keffiyeh makes merry,
In the breeze of sacred grove trees,
Mesmerizing the aesthetics of Arab architecture,

Treking through the routes of Tjilmasa to Tehrent,
In the comfort of the oases,
Replenishing our thirst and fatigue,
With benevolent breeze from palms and peaches,
Glancing at the magnificent mirages pearls,
We sight the atlas mountains,
And its Maghreb,

Caravan
A Poem Written By,
Historian E.Lexano
©March 8,2015

In the coastal forest at Odiorne Point
Paths meander under and over
Bramble so odious as to create an impenetrable wall
And distant sound of swell and surge
My nose recoils from the endless spoor of sea
Where upon a rustling of leaves drew my attention
To the vain wanderings of a scant grey squirrel
If I were a meager rodent of the furry tail persuasion
I would have purpose, direction, and courage against the iron horse
However, I am just a man of no resolve, course, or valor
Therein lies the rub
And coastal jaunts should never be made by depressed men

Mostly after seven, she trudges back from work,
like a ship badly wrecked, towed in to the dock,
"Perhaps dismantling is the only option left"
she bitterly muses, waiting for him with a glass of wine.

"Getting out of the office" he laments over the phone,
"is crossing a wire fence with electrical charge"
work never ceases, nor day and night, clearly demarcated,
avarice of the corporate is  sticky dark tar of night,
spreading beyond the borders; like workdays it extends.
Become difficult to keep head above the waters,
swelling every moment.
One works like mad, as if there is no tomorrow worth the wait,
and it goes on till the moment one arrives at the dead end.
The more one works like a dog, the faster ends up
as a dog in the manger, but who cares?

Yen to make profit touches the sky,it's demands insane,
the urge to  **** comes, when pressure mounts
and deadline comes close; during a presentation late night,
he watches with insatiable urge, two ***** eyes
go down and ****  his tender erogenous spots
that's when mind in slumber shakes the body to its roots,
"She'll be at the end of her tether" a thought goes home and recoils.

Life is a flashy party, jaunts to strange lands are the ***** high,
children, not even in thoughts, the time to count ***** are far,
when the latest model car arrives, the neighbors are in awe,
but soon, the vacations become a pain in the ***,
conversation with her becomes labored, mostly nods and grunts
"What's wrong with you?"both shout at each other at once,
that makes them laugh out loud, child like they are in fact,
what a predicament is this, laughter and sob are no different!

A dangerously close shave life is; full of nicks and cuts,
quick fix ***** and walks on the brink are routine.

When he gets in the room she sleeps alone,
she tells someone over the phone aloud:
"I am badly ******, again and again, literally I mean"
life of a nerd and a techie, celebrated pair, envied by others
has this as the foot note, after rows and rows of success.
"Why me?" they both in their lonely beds in adjacent rooms
Yell to the Gods at the top seats, staring at the white ceiling.

Jewels
Just joking
the jankiest of jaunts
Juxtaposing justice
Jails and
Jealousy
A jingling jackpot
Joyfully
Jostling
Jawboned jewels

Trump sure knows how to
share the sacrifices,
spread that butter a little thin
on his own toast,
as say ...
when he weekends
at Mar-a-Lago,

that opulent palace-like estate
with its Flemish tapestries,
lavish oriental rugs,
& a Louis XIV-style ballroom,
with $7 million in gold leaf
on the walls,

one-more-time ...
$7 million in gold-leaf
on the walls,

& it is here that he relaxes
every weekend
this Sun-King of ours,
this Oriental Potentate,
this Pasha in crushed velvet,

the cost of these jolly
jaunts is $4 million
each weekend,
oh … & there’s $4
million a month for
Melania & Barron too,

poor young Barron,
who one does
feel for
in a way.

So … at the risk
of sounding like
an early 20th century
Bolshevik & drawing
attention to inequalities
& injustices & wealth
& rank luxury at the
very time when hungry
& lonesome old folks
are to be deprived
of basic nourishment,

I'll say:
"The revolution is not
an apple that falls
when it is ripe.
You have to make
it fall."

Another
****** up morning
Gray light transforming
The walls
Arcing displays
Of my never ending failures
Souls connected
And ripped apart like bailing twine
Remains burned
Put out with sacrilegious wine
Trampled and ground into misery
I eat the misery
My daily bread
Needs, wants, fated jaunts
Blatant disregards
Constant circling carrion birds
Salivating over my stumbles
I mumble, and cite
The glorious night
But I have failed yet again.
A Joker laughs
A Riddler giggles
I stumble and fall into the pit
At least there is no bottom.

Nerves pulled taute at an alarming rate,
Sitting on the edge of too many choices, a spate,
Leading to indecision and dizziness, changed
From horizontal, too vertical, too fast, deranged

To be awake at such an hour,
As the body tries to tap into power,
But hears this " take warning early morning"
Ahead, and a head still fuzzy while scorning,

Is there really a reason to get out of bed
at 5:19?

There are chores,
There are meals to prepare,
There is reading and meditation,
There is the routine of a morning constitutional!

There is full time employ...ment.

But all of these wait in line,
As care of a friend o'mine

Comes first,
We burst,

Into the morning,
Despite weather warnings,

And on good days too,
In the early morning,

We walk the same route,
And the same distance,

We have our pace, for instance,
My two legs keep up with her four,

She is never more excited then before
We go out the door, this is not a chore,

She pulls, she stops and drop to ***,
She is content and relaxed beside me,

She repeats as often as is necessary,
It all belongs, it is her territory,

In the early morning, I will, we will
Continue to walk, each and everyday,

We will arrive at three hundred and sixty five,
Morning jaunts
Again this year, it is a joy to move and be so alive,

With her, in the early morning,
We think not on, the mornings past,
               nor, that the mornings won't last
forever,
We only think on the present, the one we share,
In the moments found only in the early morning.

While the world around us revs its engine to a roar,
All we hear are birds,  paws with toenails on pavement or
Raindrops falling and wind calling us to stay longer, and more

Where there are no cares to wear on us,
We have each other, and it is early morning.

I.

He’s
put on
the ****’s watch,
a peaked tower
who stands at far reach
to throw shadows with square
limbs. Loose-draped in rough
skins, he’s wary
of Dawn’s creep,
its lies.
He
sips fire
to fillip
flagged spirits, fix
the one-hundred eyes
rung monstrously about
his uncrowned head. Sleep
comes as well-timed
jaunts, its blinks
rolling
round
in thin-
lid cascades;
these hoodless winks
non-stop projecting
scenes from green grazing fields
where he keeps a girl-
beast, the jealous
prop of fast-
fading
robes.

II.

She’s
ill-changed
by blind rage,
a punishment
brought down for baring
another’s intentions—
his wont of too much,
never sought for
or seeking.
Her sleek
nymph’s
lines were
well-drawn till
smudged and pulled wide
they broke open, spilled
a dark spotted bulk, she
awkwardly carries
on spindly legs.
A mind’s led
circling
back
to gnarled
trunks that clutched
at blackened soil.
The tether’s chain, forged
silver with heavy links,
stretches taut to cut
circumscribed arcs
through bitter,
dying
blades.

III.

He’s
foggy
as he spies
morning ride in
rosy on the curled
back of low-rising mist.
Its errand breezes
were sent to spell
a lyric’s
deceit—
blow-
whispers
to drowse him
with wedded tunes.
Needle-sharp leaves spin,
making olives hum, while
their twigs clatter-knock
dull drums and lull
fifty pairs
to close.
What
was kept
is loosed with
thunder-less flash—
the quickening catch
that foils Argus by writ
mischief and wraps him
in its coiled tale
of never
slipping
free.

IV.**

She’s
twisted
and drags clanked
metal tangles
behind, while ahead
lie the first halting steps
of her re-formed path-
ways. They spoke out
a blurred wheel
beyond
the
sentry’s
fallen bulk,
but malodor
beckons to its sky-
enthroned mistress who tasks
cloud-effacing pests
to descend and
buzz-beat words,
erstwhile
known,
to non-
sense. The winged
confusion goads
Io, who released
from cowed thoughts will make mad-
apparent wanders.
She’ll chase earthbound
love and birth
mortal
time.

Comments to cut in,to but in and blank empty spaces where faces should be
and what does it mean?
**** all to me.

Say what you want and do what you will
but until you have walked in my shoes,
just lose yourself in the crowd,
choose the words to use and if you can't use them wisely,don't use them,
and what are they worth?
**** all.

And if you don't say it clear,say it loud,come out from the shadows and put faces to names,
then it's all games.
A run around,a turn about to disappear into the space you seem to fear,
and me,
well
I'm not here,I'm just some
writing on a wall
worth less than ****** all,
should I care to worry or to fret?
my bet is no.

It will go on until it stops, until my ears pop and my heart implodes and my eyes end up at the end of my nose,
but then I'll see
and I'll see what it all meant to me
which is not much,
a touch of ink,a link to a site,a waiting through night 'til the morning flies in,a pain in the ****,a bit of a farce
but continue I will.

And time can do handstands or stay still, I don't really care because it's not me that's there,
I'm off on my jaunts to old places,new haunts and I couldn't give a fiddlers elbow whether you come or you decide to go,
whether you read me or not.
But
this is me
this is what I've got,
which is a *** to **** in and an ear to listen,
get used to it
or not.

you will be able to say
once in a while
during the brief
jaunts in our underwear
the glimpses of green lace
under a white cotton shirt
that moved across my shoulders
on the hardwood floors, our heels
stomp and slide, and my thighs
quiver under weight and laughter
you caught me and I turned
turn to hold your neck


but I pause to bring you close
to hold you, as if you were
a vase of baby's breath and ferns
to look you over and wonder how
one moment I was sitting here writing
this on the couch on a september evening
and how you are here now,
with a strange familiarity
and the watch on your wrist
softly clicks forward
but I can hear it from
inside the glass, atop the second hand
sweeping over the ticked surface
reflecting the sweet blue daylight,
the warmth of your body and
the gentle harmony of two people
who have found eachother.

A rose for her grave
notoriety he crave
hunger for fame his slave

Notes to police
written to tease
chase me please
cryptic theories

Wants to be caught
but just not, yet
still pleasure to be got
from being sought

A villages fear
knowing he’s near
stalking them like deer
laughing at his peers

Visits his old haunts
his crime he flaunts
with joy he taunts
his evil nightly jaunts

Captured by a twist of fate
this ending he hates
his escape too late
waiting at his warders gate

They turn the key
he’ll never be free
no access to library
to reminisce on his spree

The **** on the steeple
Proclaimed and denied to
Four corners, looked down,
And twisted.
Old men in green suits with crow's eyes
And alabaster covered bones push open doors
With wooden feet.
The postman, empty-kneed, rides his Deere
Over green fields with rabbits,
Laughing to himself.
Rentals in drives plan the day's jaunts
To ****** or Kenmare.
Shops carry faded signs:
Donovan, O'Sullivan, Finnegan.

The crow drops on the roof of Holy Cross
Which doubles as a retirement home;
Its clients plaint palms skyward with the wind.

Five hundred leave each week:
          "Ireland's best... so fresh it's famous."

The laggers serve tea and scones,
Or ply in shops they may someday own.
There are no slow boats here.
The green suits leave naturally,
Others by air.
This is no country for the young
With their hillside tilting windmills of power.

Below, a young woman eats, holding
Her knife like her father, eating,
Silent, staring.
Crow and rabbit inhabit,
Stones tumble and lay for a hundred years.

Each day a new apocalypse offering
One opening. No wrappings,
No ointments, no fresh water.
No throne to approach, no voice calling
Them home.
No seventh son to dip his finger in the well
And soothe.

You're the best simile,
                                      You're like the nile,
            That jaunts elegantly through the                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     .                                                          Valleys,
                                     Into the great lakes,
                                           And breaths life
                       To the horn and the basins,

                                  For even your anger,
                     Is like the exuberant floods,
                                   That leaves rich~silt,
                       In the hearts of the gullies,


                                            Your resilence
                                      Is like the seedling
              That blossoms beautifully in the                                                          .                                                   Harmattan,
       And shy away the dusty trade winds,

                       For your throne is patience,
             And your feet rests on tolerance,
                   Out of your words is the light
That illuminates the mind and thoughts
                                                         Of kings,

                                               Like the eagle,
                                        You've flown high
                       And higher above the skies,
And your compatriots perches on trees
                                                    And leaves,                                                                           .                  Mesmerized at your prowess,
  Panting cowdardly impuissant to catch                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      .                                                                  up,

                 You're like the mystery victory
                  That has failed all replications,
                                    Through out history,

                                 You're the best simile,

                                     A Poem Written by,
                                  ©Historian E.Lexano

I just bought a turkey
In dire need of tenderize
Also a quick summer thaw
As this chick's as cold as ice

Must have froze it in the tundra as
I dive deep into the internet
Where it's got me wondering
Why I myself didn't think of this

It says to tie up both it's legs
With a nylon stringy thingy
Hey! Get that out your head!
This ain't nothing *****!

Hook the turkey to the bumper
And take it for a ride
I watched it from my rear view
And mirror on the side

I watched it twirl and tumble
I watched it twist and shout
I watched it as it changed its shape
From inside into out

I thought I heard it gobble
As it bounced itself along
Checking progress at every red light
Tenderized...yes, but not yet thawed

The roads must be colder this year
Than at first I thought
I hop back into my jalopy
For a few more jaunts around the block

I make it back to my place
Thinking all is perfect all is well
Untie the turkey, if that's what it is
It's a little hard to tell

Now with that part of the preparation done
With the turkey and I safe back home
I plop it into the waiting oven
And gently turn it on

Here we are a few hours later
As the conversations and good times begin
Sitting around the dinner table
My guests all marvel at my hen

There's only one slight question
And they asked me if I knew
I reply...why yes that is white meat
It's just a tad bit bruised

He wants her to clutch his fingers when they are walking in the vernal jaunts,
He wants her to clung him in the thundering nights and let the heat of the body pass through their breaths...
and let the breaths breeze around the necks,
He wants her to snuggle his visage to her ***** when he is in low spirits,
He wants her to speak through osculation.
He wants her to listen to his copious conversations caricaturing his life..
He wants her to be in the spree silences to experience the existence.
He wants her to run after him in the rainy raptures and let the drops of the rain strew between them...
He wants her to plop her ear upon his chest so that the reverberations of his throbbing induce the dormant to her.
He wants her to know that she is the messenger of the seraphim,
Her existence is to acknowledge her creation and her beauty and her source..
He wants her to be the spur to his work..
He wants her to embody his life...
He wants her to be the afflatus of his life.
He wants her to know that his life is to her...
He wants her to attain the freedom from the cycles of life and death with him.
That's all he wants from her but for him it is vital..

is it too much of an onomatopoeic dissonance that this is synonymous to
   regret dubbed as slouched nirvana. Across the bonfire, there’s volition
   as glare, light as judgment. Why they call her
Luningning, I know not.
      Take excess for jaunts and flesh, and pay no heed to illusions. The mirage
  on the wall is but fire-dance on the bitten lip of true company.
                    heady static pierces pinecone. Soon the moon will sink like **** to ****. Or felled star as tripled glaze of salted lip. Or the ****** of the butterfly.
     Are we here to metamorphose these tiny susurrations into a commune?
                     Dank and stale as ****-laced pavement, the whole world now
    spires in uneven strobes. The last song on the karaoke as memory. The knead
      of temperamental air on the scalp. Take pork rind for bread, intemperance
    as tribute. The night dons its silken robe and shows her pair: two moony eyes
               piercing the noise.

Today, I’m well.
Yes.
Good.
I’m good,
I should say.
God?
God, no!
Good God!
Good.
Up-welling of wellness.
Bow tied:
A bow-tie-kind-of-day day.

Sun furtive.
Won’t be long.
Shouldn’t expect she’ll be long.
Yes, she.
Ephemeral.  
Resplendent.
Sheer she-ness.
Just a Walkers crisp of a bit longer.

It is possible, I might add,
She’ll appear a fraction different
To what one can reasonably be expected to remember.

Good!
I’m good.
That is how it is said, in these parts, isn’t it?
Are you good?
Are you…
Competent?
Up to the task, I mean.
Fit to fly.
Work-ready.
Which sort?  
Wearing odd socks, again.
Accentuate the good.
Try to.
Left and right; or the other way around:
Right and left.  
Or could be both… fancy that!
Cream and chocolate, hey, superb!


Today is a wooly-hat-kind-of-a-day day, is it not?
Prepare for the worst and hope for the best.
Lest there be gales.
What? No! Disaster!
Now, wouldn’t that be…
Wouldn’t that scupper things?  Do you think not?

I love my wooly hat.  
He’s got a name, you know.
Ru-pert.
Stitched with love.
Pompom-topped.
So warm, it is.
Ready for jaunts.
With Rupert.
Up Horsenden Hill.
Too hot, soon.
Best to toss it in the bushes.

                        -------


Perhaps I am under-dressed?
Am I?
Hard to know.
I’ll wear my bow tie again.
Yes, I’ll wear my bow tie when, that is to say, Assuming
The rules permit it.

God permits us
To revel a bit. Kick back.
Do you think God likes to laugh?
God, grant me the gift to laugh.  

                        -------

Oh,
Now,
Did you hear that?
Heating broken,
Not a peep.
Closed valve cylinder, limited warranty,
Manual unfathomable.

But,
No viable option.
‘Northfields Community Library Welcomes You.’
The toilets better be warm!

Lives are funny things,
They’re held together by shoe strings.
By where we go and who we meet.
Marked by muddy boot prints of leisurely jaunts,
Straining climbs, and high adventure.
Where tongues wag in thoughtful reminiscence of sunny days and rainy nights,
Of puddles and delight;
Worn leather speaks of distance,
Endurance,
And the importance of taking things in stride.
Though less outspoken and often underfoot,
The sole is planted firmly in the heart of discovery.

I just bought a turkey
In dire need of tenderize
Also a quick summer thaw
As this chick's as cold as ice

Must have froze it in the tundra as
I dive deep into the internet
Where it's got me wondering
Why I myself didn't think of this

It says to tie up both it's legs
With a nylon stringy thingy
Hey! Get that out your head!
This ain't nothing *****!

Hook the turkey to the bumper
And take it for a ride
I watched it from my rear view
And mirror on the side

I watched it twirl and tumble
I watched it twist and shout
I watched it as it changed its shape
From inside into out

I thought I heard it gobble
As it bounced itself along
Checking progress at every red light
Tenderized...yes, but not yet thawed

The roads must be colder this year
Than at first I thought
I hop back into my jalopy
For a few more jaunts around the block

I make it back to my place
Thinking all is perfect all is well
Untie the turkey, if that's what it is
It's now a little hard to tell

Now with that part of the preparation done
With the turkey and I safe back home
I plop it into the waiting oven
And gently turn it on

Here we are a few hours later
As the conversations and good times begin
Sitting around the dinner table
My guests all marvel at my hen

There's only one slight question
And they asked me if I knew
I reply...why yes that is white meat
It's just a tad bit bruised

I just bought a turkey
In dire need of tenderize
Also a quick summer thaw
As this chick's as cold as ice

Must have froze it in the tundra as
I dive deep into the internet
Where it's got me wondering
Why I myself didn't think of this

It says to tie up both it's legs
With a nylon stringy thingy
Hey! Get that out your head!
This ain't nothing *****!

Hook the turkey to the bumper
And take it for a ride
I watched it from my rear view
And mirror on the side

I watched it twirl and tumble
I watched it twist and shout
I watched it as it changed its shape
From inside into out

I thought I heard it gobble
As it bounced itself along
Checking progress at every red light
Tenderized...yes, but not yet thawed

The roads must be colder this year
Than at first I thought
I hop back into my jalopy
For a few more jaunts around the block

I make it back to my place
Thinking all is perfect all is well
Untie the turkey, if that's what it is
It's a little hard to tell

Now with that part of the preparation done
With the turkey and I safe back home
I plop it into the waiting oven
And gently turn it on

Here we are a few hours later
As the conversations and good times begin
Sitting around the dinner table
My guests all marvel at my hen

There's only one slight question
And they asked me if I knew
I reply...why yes that is white meat
It's just a tad bit bruised

Let me tell you a story, of the time I made her smile
I hope you've some time, because, this might take a while.

It all started on a whim and a dare
that I could make it to her
to her, for her, there!

So as a working adult, so responsible am I,
I got my leave approved, with a twinkle in my eye!
Perhaps that's not the right word, but it sure could have been
especially now I've a chance, to score another win.

So days flew by and with what little money to be had
I bought for her gifts and things, and boy my heart was glad!
I said to myself Now she isn't one for fancy things, nothing to pricey especially a ring!
Now before you holler at me, and pitch a fit or drone,
keep in mind, dear friend, that this one I had barely known!

So a few days before the day that she was to graduate from the University of her home,
I set off on the road to a new adventure, my heart so glad to be free to roam.
But along the way I began having doubts, as all strangers do,
what if she doesn't like these gifts?
Even worse, what if she felt uncomfortable, next to a person she barely knew?

See we met overseas, teaching together as it were,
the days were long, but there was still an adventure out there, but now but a blur.
So we've little time to tell each others, our deepest fears and our passions of wants,
but we made time for each other in our smiles and our jaunts.

So back to the road, and it was already too late to turn back now
through the many hours of driving, the sun had truly beaten my brow.
And as came closer to town where she stay
It dawned upon me, I've yet to come with a plan to approach this play.

So being the improviser that I am, bought some (overpriced) flowers
and delivered it to her house that day.
Unfortunately, it was, cold, raining, and miserable all the more,
what else that was slightly embarrassing was that she did not answer her door.

Of course, I never told her I would be coming down at all,
I simply decided to go to her town, without so much as a call!
So I laid the bouquet of assorted colored flowers down
on a pillow soft and plush on the front porch to the door, and proceeded back to town.

FAST FORWARDING

The next day had come, I am slightly concerned if I smell of my night in my car
but waste no time getting properly dressed for the occasion,
I of course triple check myself, because, this was her graduation!

FAST FORWARDING
The ceremony had commenced! And I spot her from the far side of the stadium!
My, what a sight she was, if only the others could have seen her then...

She finally stands in line, as the many predecessors has done before
and soon enough, she's walking across the stage floor!

Her family and friends, scream and cry their delight!
And I give a long awaited bellow of satisfaction, much to the crowd's unpleasant fright.
Congratulations are then tossed around, like the caps which were far flung
and off I was in a dash, from the bottom rung.

I could not find her initially,
but never fear, and not to worry.
God and his sense of timing and humor,
led me right back to her.

I drove back to her house, thinking I'll lay the gift and disappear
but it would not be so, as I pull up and with her back turned
I see her.

I pull up, like it was just another day
and like the dork I am, here is what I say
"Hey little lady, going some where?"

The look on her face was priceless. Beyond all compare!
Moments like those are what I live for, just to be there.

She turned around astounded! Confused but happy all the same
and then I heard it, the one thing that made it worth it
when she cried out my name.

I parked the car, but not fast enough and burst through my door to meet her once more, on the parking lot floor.
A moment seared forever, the back burners of my mind
of moment to be remembered, because we don't leave friends behind.

So the day went on, and we celebrated together on her victory
and it was all worth it, just to see her happy.

These are the moments I live for.

Knowing I'm afraid to go to sleep
Nerves on end and rooted deep
It Creep's up on Me, this Denizen

Of Misery, This most foul Dream
Trapped within a Nightmare...
The fear becomes beyond compare.

In Longing Dark, I walk the Park
One step follows another and another
The Pain of the memories still Haunt

A little farther goes these Jaunts
Closer to the Rivers Edge and Bridge
Till steps Fall upon the Concrete
As the Sound echo's beneath my feet

Silently I climb the Rail praying I don't Fail
There upon the ledge, seeking for the Light
Whispering Silently I fall into the Night.....


All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack

On a soft reflection
on a moment sunset pink
and teeming with memory
I consider your smile
(the cliché not withstanding)
and I find that my fascination
is indeed in your gait
(a metric lifetime from expectation)
and your echoing distance laugh
(falling closer to thought)
or your room cross gaze
floating on the professional
where stairwell jaunts
yield unexpected adventures
in smoky silver rooms
on a bridge of glittering lights
or in a quiet heated room
with beard whisker scratches
and a familiar squeezing hand

She walked in the dreamworld,
A still meditation,
Head down, daren't look up,
Years of jaunts,
Taught her not to look up,
A tortured soul,
Craving serene solitude,
Amidst the chaos,
It seduced her every time.