i. "Why did the number of parking tickets spike
when Persephone was carried off to the underworld?
Demeter wasn't working."
She liked greek mythology puns.
It was a good thing I was creative.

ii. Truth or Dare, I asked her what
was the best decision she's ever made.
she answered with, "In 7th grade I named my puppy Achilles,
so when I saw him I could say, 'Achilles, heel!'"

iii. It took me two weeks to realise that
when we held hands, I wasn't really
holding her hand, but a chainsaw,
ready to slash through anything that stood in our way like
Hercules chopping off the Hydra's head.
I was immortal.

iv. August eleventh; 9 PM
we watched for the meteor shower.
I connected the freckles splayed upon her knee,
told her they looked like the constellation of Cassiopeia.
"Be Sirius" she jested.

v. She had a bad habit
of smoking at the beach and I
Wondered if she knew that with
every single flick of ash into the water,
Poseidon was cursing her to the River Styx.

vi. Headaches visited her often, I joked that
maybe she was getting ready to birth
a Goddess from her cranium. She
did not find it clever.

vii. You could say we became like Aphrodite and
Hephaestus. I, longing for her. She,
lusting after another. A synonym for her
headaches would be me.

viii. Apparently if you hack off a Hydra head, two
would grow to replace it. Knowing this sooner
probably would have saved me from numerous
amounts of Kleenex and chocolate.

ix. She left me a note on the dresser,
"Fun fact: Medusa's favourite cheese was
Gorgon-zola. PS - you remind me
of Medusa, please remember to brush your hair."
She reminds of Medusa as well, I do not doubt that if we
meet again, her eyes would still turn me into
stone.

The groove, the rut, and the cut
were walking down the street.

As good friends do oft,
Cousin in name and in shape,
They strode sided, but said not a word.
Still understood that three
So different, nonetheless, one design.

The cut was old yet still bled
From time to time.
The groove and the rut, always in touch,
T'issued spear-carriers, armed and
Loving, dabbed and blotted the cut clotted.
For that is what the friends are 'the for,'
For the clotting, the knitting and the closing.

The bleeding came when it came,
They jested that they could never leave him,
For tho he bled regular, there was no schedule,
No knowing the when, but the why, that they
Understood. They would not have left him anyway
Exception of course now and then, but leave
Their man, their cuz, was not to be conceived.

The rut was long, thin, you had to look down
To see his full length, for he grew bottom-down,
Every day another ring, another inch, on the soles
Notched, they dared not, count them, so many days
Rutted in the tedium of a blood count of unable,
Incapable of being broken, his enemy, arch, was his friend.
Tedium his companion, his drug dealer,
When groove and cut were at work, failing to supervise.

Rut could only sigh. Sole solitary sound, except for the
Quiet ringing only he could hear, rings forming,
Day after day, and he could not count that high,
So instead each rut was given a name,
For blessed endless the world of words that say
I am a daily existence, nothing more, nothing but less.

The groove, hero to the cut and the rut,
Had his moments.
But he had secrets he did not share with them,
But as an outside-looker-in, I was privy to the
Privy of everything.

The groove was oval, wiry, snakey shaped,
But prone when prone to twisty turns when
Objects like objectives met, in counter ed.
But when groove was grooving,
There was full blown full mo, the world observed.

Strict silence for the poems that
Shook lose from his frame,
Bad his eyes, wept he,
Lines of ones and twosies,
Fat and wide his fame,
For when the groove was
Cooing and cooling,
Life infused him and sips of tea,
Each transformed into the heat of ooh and the ahh,
When the cup was empty, he had his finished 'aha,'
Of a new parting, gift giving in his heart.
For he she see saw the angle of simple, and thus could
Groove on grooving.

The rut and the cut were happy for him,
Watch with incredible incredulity and an itty bitty
Jealousy of which they never rudely spoke.
But they would board his poetry-train sled,
Down they rode, the white snow
Of being a a lookalike groovy kid,
Even if and but, for just a few minutes.

Everyone loved groovy, and watch his every movie,
Licked the whiskey wooden snowball words from his lips,
but would not admit they kept them hid,
So they could be reread when they were at home
In the closet with flashlight, and the weeping was easy.

The three cuz went to the carnival.
Fun house with mirrors that made you look like
Who You really were.

But not them, for "the for" was different,
For when they strode sided before those mirrors,
They could plainly see that the
Groove, the rut the cut
Looked exactly alike,
Exactly alike,
All looked
Like
me.

...for love.
(sonnet #MMMMMDXXXIX)


He jested that he'd write a book whose tale
Was "I forgot to cry" as twas mine thence
For his love drying the endless tears' vain sense
Oer losing Mum, my best friend, and prevail
As bashert where I've never known to hail
Aught soulmate; loved me more than life, to fence
The twinkling hours with him in sheer defense,
And aye, eclipsed my grief oer her, t'avail.
Thus where Death called his lease, or ours as twere,
His last speech mine, he prayed another'd do
That for his Baby.  Yet aught else is poor.
I weep sans comfort, maddened while I rue
Whatever sin brought our demise, or fer
What took his life.  Cuz I'll e'er love him too.

22Mar16b
He said in closing [giving his full name]that he is mine affectionately forever in love for eternity.

When I was dead, my spirit turned
  To seek the much-frequented house
I passed the door, and saw my friends
  Feasting beneath green orange-boughs;
From hand to hand they pushed the wine,
  They ****** the pulp of plum and peach;
They sang, they jested, and they laughed,
  For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat:
  Said one: "To-morrow we shall be
Plod plod along the featureless sands,
  And coasting miles and miles of sea."
Said one: "Before the turn of tide
  We will achieve the eyrie-seat."
Said one: "To-morrow shall be like
  To-day, but much more sweet."

"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,
  And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
"To-morrow," cried they, one and all,
  While no one spoke of yesterday.
Their life stood full at blessed noon;
  I, only I, had passed away:
"To-morrow and to-day," they cried;
  I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast
  No chill across the table-cloth;
I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad
  To stay, and yet to part how loth:
I passed from the familiar room,
  I who from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
  That tarrieth but a day.

I'm addicted to knowledge,
and so helpless to absorbing it
that falsities and mistaken truths
will make their home in memory,
only to be brought out
to make me the jested.
All can serve on a jury,
judge my errors, spread more
into the world, to abhor
and be abhorred
by the bullies and the bored.
Save me from this world of waste,
this constant copy and paste
of information with haste.

Social media stories with pictures and lies to enthrall,
The Digital Age will make false prophets of us all.

Melissa: I've still rever'd your Order [she is responding to a Parson] as Divine;
And when I see unblemish'd Virtue shine,
When solid Learning, and substantial Sense,
Are joyn'd with unaffected Eloquence;
When Lives and Doctrices of a Piece are made,
And holy Truths with humble Zeal convey'd;
When free from Passion, Bigottry, and Pride,
Not sway'd by Int'rest, nor to Parties ty'd,
Contemning Riches, and abhorring strife,
And shunning all the noisy Pomps of Life,
You live the aweful Wonders of your time,
Without the least Suspicion of a Crime:
I shall with Joy the highest Deference pay,
and heedfully attend to all you say.
From such, Reproofs shall always welcome prove,
As being th' Effects of Piety and Love.
But those from me can challenge no Respect,
Who on us all without just Cause reflect:
Who without Mercy all the *** decry,
And into open Defamations fly:
Who think us Creatures for Derision made,
And the Creator with his Works upbraid:
What he call'd good, they proudly think not so,
And with their Malice, their Prophaneness show.
'Tis hard we shou'd be by the Men despis'd,
Yet kept from knowing what wou'd make us priz'd:
Debarr'd from Knowledge, banish'd from the Schools,
And with the utmost Industry bred Fools.
Laugh'd out of Reason, jested out of Sense,
And nothing left but Native Innocence:
Then told we are incapable of Wit,
And only for the meanest Drudgeries fit:
Made Slaves to serve their Luxury and Pride,
And with innumerable Hardships try'd,
'Till Pitying Heav'n release us from our Pain,
Kind Heav'n to whom alone we dare complain.
Th' ill-natur'd World will no Compassion show;
Such as are wretched, it wou'd still have so:
It gratifies its Envy and its Spight;
The most in others Miseries take Delight.
While we are present they some Pity spare,
And feast us on a thin Repast of Air:
Look Grave and Sigh, when we our Wrongs relate,
An in a Compliment accuse our Fate:
Blame those to whom we our Misfortunes owe,
And all the Signs of real Friendship show.
But when we're absent, we their Sport are made,
They fan the Flame, and our Oppressors aid;
Joyn with the Stronger, the Victorious Side,
And all our Suff'ring, all our griefs deride.
Those gen'rous few, whom kinder Thoughts inspire,
And who the Happiness of all desire;
Who wish we were from barb'rous Usage free,
Exempt from Toils, and shameful Slavery,
Yet let us, unreprov'd, mis. spend our Hours,
And to mean Purposes employ our nobler Pow'rs.
They think, if we our Thoughts can but express,
And know but how to Work, to Dance and Dress,
It is enough, as much as we shou'd mind,
As if we were for nothing else design'd,
But made, like Puppets, to divert Mankind.
O that my *** wou'd all such Toys despise;
And only study to be Good, and Wise;
Inspect themselves, and every Blemish find,
Search all the close Recesses of the Mind,
And leave no vice, no ruling Passion there,
Nothing to raise a Blush, or cause a Fear:
Their Memories with solid Notions fill,
And let their Reason dictate to their Will,
Instead of Novels, Histories peruse,
And for their Guides the wiser Ancients chuse,
Thro' all the Labyrinths of Learning go,
And grow more humble, as they more do know.
By doing this, they will Respect procure,
Silence the Men, and lasting Fame secure;
And to themselves the best Companions prove,
And neither fear their Malice, nor desire their Love.

I want to set you on fire. Take heed;
Don't play with desire
Life could be on the wire
With time growing tired,
and your love not invested.
But I digressed and just jested
at the idea of investment.
As if I haven't stressed this:
Take your love and your time
and invest it,
before time and desire
arrest it.

I could not imagine
The way you jested me
I guessed
I would be the game to play, to laugh
When you were boring
When you had no one beside
But I did not fathom you were bad like this.

I wait and wait
For the one who just fights for his joys              
Do take no interest in other feelings                        
Which make noise in my thinking                    
"You are no good"
My mind struggles
Between what you have done and what you haven't done
To me, to others          
Just feel disappeared more than ever.
You are false.

I was fooled once,
By the crystal hopes,
Of love and happiness,
I've decided now,
To close shop,
Lest my heart be jested again.
Once had been shame on him,
But fortune had not my favour,
Fooled again, twice it seems,
And I only have myself to shame.

Woven in tears of collected misgivings
for his voice never to be heard in the halls
of man, just echoes of nothingness.

For he was a fiction of man, fed through mouths
never one his own, for courts jested verses of
there needing not those repeated and reversed.

Words are power in anyone's hand, the tonged syllables
are hypnotic in a wrong mans purse. Listen to knowledge
and fact, falsehood is a serpent biting back.

He first notice Elaine
as she waited
for the school bus
standing there

in the pouring rain
with her younger sister
and other kids
from the village

he noticed
how drowned she looked
her spectacles so wet
she couldn’t see out

her dark hair
hanging limp
about her face
and she looked down

not up
as she climbed
aboard the bus
making her way

down the aisle
of the bus
like some female Crucified
and sat in the seat

by the window
and peered out
her sister sat
next to her

equally as wet
yet unperturbed
laughing at another
who jested

at her state
but Elaine's
was a separate state
a lesser one's fate

knowing other eyes
gazed and sniggered
and whispered
into their hands

but not John
he saw her through  
his own eyes
pushed away

the sneers
and sighs
and sniggering japes
and saw a deeper soul

within peering out
through the window glass
that showed
the falling rain

he looked away
taking note of her hair
and eyes
and glasses smeared

and how she pushed
her wet hands
between the caresses
of her knees

and dampened skirt
how by the look
of her face
revealed

her inner hurt
and as the bus
moved off and on
the radio blaring

some Mike Sarne song
the voices of children
competing for the space
and John half listening

to Trevor talk
some such of fishing
with a friend
at pond or river

he did not discern
or Trevor’s sister
across the aisle
chatting of some dress

her mother bought
not the fashion
she complained
but John held close

the image of the girl
who sat behind
across the aisle
whose dampened

state of dress
and soul
had moved his mind
and touched his heart

but said nothing
to either Trevor
with talk of fish
and rod

or Monica's dress
or clothes whatever
it had been
unfashionable or such

as undesired
he looked out
at the passing scene
as the bus raced by

thinking of Elaine
sitting a little way
behind
wiping the raindrops

from glasses
so she could see
and not be
half blind.

Modulated essence of vocalization
does not escape my seized lips.
Motionless they are without movement,
a corpse of inactivity are my verbs.

But when stain white sheets are lingering
in front of my eyes, I'm jested to use movement
of wording to express the convulsions that
expire from my mind to that below.

Seismic episodes expel and what was a land
of undiscovered wealth ruptures forth.
My expression is unformulated but even though
whispers aren't heard, ever syllable is understood.

Even though my vocalization is versed in silence,
every word is throw into the words understanding.
Hear me through muted words of expression that
vocalize from your eyes on my versed words.

"**** stupid raccoons!"
An angry man, ****** at everything in the moment
fiercely kicked his dumped-over trash can into the street, as he stared enraged at the mess of thrown out crap that laid open
for all to see.
A neighbor seeing his crazy fit of rage jested,
"You know, trash cans have feelings too."

To which the angry man replied,
"Yeah!  And they should feel like garbage!"

Aspen of Appalachia, away,
Bereft from bleating, brooding bovine.
Clay County contrives conspiracy
Doomed, darkened, deceitful. Directed
Eastward at Eastaboga’s emp’ror
Full of most fitting flight, fleeing from
God. Those good graces known given up,
Heartily, exchanged happenstance his
Immortal soul for idolatry.
Jeered at Jehovah, jested Jesus,
Kingdom keeping the kicked knaves knowing
Lowly that the Lord lash little at
Men who make ****** and mudwork made
Nightly. Nefarious no-goods now,
Open but not ostracized. Oh, old
People praise the past per penchant but
Quickly they quit; queerly quell their quest,
Running from redemption and rambling
So he stopped searching, got set soulless,  
Turned to the tantric, tuned to the tumult,
Unburdened with useless unknowns. Up
Verily and vivaciously, vet  
Words which will warrant wonder. Why not
*******, excellent, exuberant?
Yet, ye of yellow faith, yon Yahweh
Zeros the zest of zig-zagged zetas.

In this never ending tunnel darker than night
Is where I found myself after taking flight
Those gruesome looking creatures with sulphuric smell
Have forced their way into my wishing well
Should I call it forced snuck or stolen
Fact is I didn't notice the wound till it was swollen
Swollen itchy and overflowing with pus
That's when I started to make a fuss
Or at least I made an attempt
For of healing that wound I could only have dreamt
The beings teased, chortled and jested
If I fussed too much, true colors manifested
I couldn't think of an escape plan
These were beings and I was just human
Their brains are superior and I'm not smart
Knowing this left me downcast

Any boy can dance 

even for girls harbouring 

ill jested kabuki livery 



men never opt pretty

quintessent revelry 

spending time under vague 



worldly xanadic yearning zeugma.

Words are the most wonderful things that would have existed in this world,
but now words are poison.
Even the world is rotting with liars, deceivers and flatterers.
Now words are merely dropped down, like candy wrappers.

Now I figure why no one desires the truth,
when words that would have been worth diamonds,
were merely said as if they were just soil in the ground.
when precious words that would've been treasured were just foolishly given away.

How many words of admiration have been wasted?
How many words of affection have been jested?
How many terms of endearment were truly heartfelt?
How many confessions were ever truly meant?

Words come and go as a craft of our tongues,
rather than a masterpiece of our hearts.
Words slip carelessly like unwanted wastes,
rather than carefully thought endeavors.

Now I am the boy who cried wolf,
whose words are mere garbage.
When I learned to truly tell you I love you, I adore you, I revere you, I need you,
'Twas too late, for the sugar has lost its taste.

Now then how can I tell you the sincerest words,
when the honey has already numbed your tongue?
Now how can I tell the sweetest affections I have for you,
when the words I've already wasted were as good as gone?

Now these words I offer, to your ear they may never sound new.
But know this, from now til the end of my days, all these words shall only be for you.

I jested,
           then you showed
           me your point.

Bleeding sarcasm,
               I died with a smile
on your face.