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Whoever has no house now will never have one.
    Whoever is alone will stay alone
    Will sit, read, write long letters through the evening
    And wander on the boulevards, up and down...

  - from Autumn Day, Rainer Maria Rilke


Its stain is everywhere.
The sharpening air
of late afternoon
is now the colour of tea.
Once-glycerined green leaves
burned by a summer sun
are brittle and ochre.
Night enters day like a thief.
And children fear that the beautiful daylight has gone.
Whoever has no house now will never have one.

It is the best and the worst time.
Around a fire, everyone laughing,
brocaded curtains drawn,
nowhere-anywhere-is more safe than here.
The whole world is a cup
one could hold in one's hand like a stone
warmed by that same summer sun.
But the dead or the near dead
are now all knucklebone.
Whoever is alone will stay alone.

Nothing to do. Nothing to really do.
Toast and tea are nothing.
Kettle boils dry.
Shut the night out or let it in,
it is a cat on the wrong side of the door
whichever side it is on. A black thing
with its implacable face.
To avoid it you
will tell yourself you are something,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening.

Even though there is bounty, a full harvest
that sharp sweetness in the tea-stained air
is reserved for those who have made a straw
fine as a hair to **** it through-
fine as a golden hair.
Wearing a smile or a frown
God's face is always there.
It is up to you
if you take your wintry restlessness into the town
and wander on the boulevards, up and down.
Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead tide alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men **** for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in their stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
i do as a ritual
or sometimes
have lost a wedding ring
intended for Blanca
but
yo soy
enchanter

1
2
3
4
5
6

each is part of a knucklebone
a divination of entrails
and all games
eternally
are fated to decide
nothing
!rtd
or
other commands
might invoke a virtual attempt
to decide destiny
to divine fate
but there is only one world
and we are in the only of all possible its
Less any objection with the missus,
versus never experiencing living alone
well...yes during that rough patch,
(sans during early adolescence),
I existed in a bone

huff fied impenetrable cocoon,
and just maybe before
yours truly dies, a clone
can be created from
stem cells of this doggone

melon collie, whimpering
beastie boy finally revelling,
where destiny does enthrone
me rendering unfettered
with round the cluck nymph fone

mani yolk hen pecking, nagging,
and leaching... from blood *******
vampire spouse foregone
as a "bad" dream worse
than getting Rhode

Island sized gallstone
removed subsequently
saving said as gemstone
whiling away hours, days, weeks...
chiseling away at my gravestone,

no matter yours truly will get cremated
ashes scattered, liberated, and dispersed
finally exempt from grindstone,
where thee spirit
of Math Hew Homophone

Scott Harris appeased
as powdery gray flecks
similar to limestone,
that swirl reintegrating with Earth,

this quirky I poetically intone,
and soundlessly utter from jawbone,
perhaps communicating more
clearly by knucklebone.
Doth strongly waft, sting,
and nauseate about me
olfactory nose flying zone
bombarding cilia of
nasal passageway analogous
to displeasure wrought by

crashing, deafening, exploding,
ear splitting xylophone,
also synonymous isolated like
barenaked lady within
remote location of Lake Woebegone,
voluntarily forced to bathe

in brutally cold
mountain waters oxbow lake
vaguely resembling out
size topographical wishbone
rescue unlikely since
bajillion miles from radio tower,

thus state of the art
electronically sophisticated videophone
good as worthless resignation,
sans fate linkedin tubby
mother nature's cryogenic specimen
more'n murmuring undertone,

where huge Arctic glacier overshadows
infinitesimally microscopic human,
one speck kin zee ditched
**** sapien subsumed
under superfluous tombstone
as frozen fountain head,

where Atlas shrugged,
nonetheless incongruous yen
to purge mine offensive odor,
where civilization footprint
sole lee mine alone in wilderness
thus farcical reason (without rhyme),

atypical, farcical, and poetical title,
yours truly didst stirrup and spur
inexplicable search for soapstone,
yet prospect to don measly frame
without gay apparel

(beastie boy bit figurative bullet,
and buttressed body in buff)
immediately augmented primal scream
to trumpet heebeegeebees
(teeth chattering yodeling
rendition re: stayin alive)

from this Rhinestone
survivalist cowboy wannabe,
began feeling comfortably numb,
and immediately prone
to become human popsicle,
especially when sub zero temperature

immediately froze water splashed skin
(like glassy sheet of ice)
glancing viz albedo effect
as blindingly white
snow capped mountains outshone
albino crags, offering

absolute zero, yes none
reassurance with insulated moonstone
sleeping bag useful
as yolked with lodestone
around neck - slow death by
freezing this knucklebone,

who sought cleanliness,
(and panacea to immortality)
joining exclusive polar bear club
(Ursus Maritimus very selective,
and only chose me) even
at expense of more'n

just frozen jawbone
plus Jack frost bitten cockles turned
deep purple as inkstone
used to write re: scrawl epitaph
on icicle glommed headstone.

— The End —