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Already the month
     of August 2018,
     May never become
     a je June'm
     (Forget-me-not)
     time of year,
especially for nouveau
     homeless and,

     penniless residents,
     (now more like worrier),
     who reside in the
     (burnt to a crisp)
     Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
     wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,

     physical, and spiritual
     oye vey iz mare (to
     the bajillion power
     of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
     and trappings of
     das kapital lifestyle
     went up in smoke,

     which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
     but also the air)
     looms with toxic
     particulate matter,
     though concerned former
     propertied owners
     (now ashen faced)

     as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
     yet the onset of Autumn,
     (and the main
purport of this poem)
     (oh my dog, that twill be
     in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church

     denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
     annum mull house
     for straight or queer
(these times opening
     doors to LGBT, or GLBT
     (an initialism that
     stands for lesbian,
     gay, bisexual, and transgender),

     nonetheless history
     replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
     September (Latin septem,
     "seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
     pagan glory of antiquity.

Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,

later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.

Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars

September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire

of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.

The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Dec 2021
We spend all our lives at Circus Maximus.
We are preoccupied by the external,
forsaking the locus of our sacred worth
that is our hearts and souls. Rather,
we gaze transfixed by ludi of clowns
who make us laugh, at inspiring athletes,
at plays and recitals, at celebrations
of our victorious battles, at gladiators
who thrill us by killing other gladiators
and lions and Christians, even at
public executions. Politicians sometimes
come to orate. But never do we hear
a word about love and being loved.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Pitala sam je da mi pokaze koliko me ne voli

Rasirila je ruke najvise sto je mogla

I tako sam se nasla u njenom zagrljaju


Eh, kakvi ludi snovi pod temperaturom

mh okt. 2017
Lomim eter
teškim slogovima
brišući suze nikad isplakane
rubom tvog  blještavog korzeta
dok se naš gnjev rađa iznova
kao trnovita ruža klizi iz pepela
...
dok ti trgam podsuknje podstavljene lažima,skupljane stoljećima
grizem ti grudi očajom beskučnika,žedan strasti spram života koji
nas neumutno mimoilazi i kao zvijezda repatica proleće bez osvrtanja
...ja udaram u tvoja stegna poput ratnog bubnjara a ti zagrizaš jako i
bez milosti moje rame kao krvnik bez poveza ,sjekutićima prekidaš tanku
liniju koja spaja dva oprećna svijeta,ja svijetlost a ti tama , ja cio svemir a
ti sama...  I dok ioni dobivaju sve moguće predznake, na površini tvoje skliske
kože skuplja se sva energija prvobitnog...trenje prozvodi silu jaču od
bezvrijednih riječi,uzaludnih misli,nepotrebnih stremljenja...
i razlivam se u tvoju nutruinu  poput pastorale u duginim bojama,
razlivam se po praiskononskoj iskri kozmosa a ludi sjaj u kutu oka bljedi
i padam nićice,čekajuči topli cijelov iznad luka mojih obrva...
otapaju se polovi, gore šume i igraju se djeca negdje lovice, potresi se gube
ispod tvojih stopala dok odlaziš nazad u svoj mrak... gavran kljuca
na vrhu vješala..ja tonem nazad u san..prizivajući feniksa
trava je narasla još milimetar,more miriše na proliveni merlot,
u znojnoj ruci držim tvoj poderani grudnjak
zureći u pravilne redove spiralne čipke
nestajem i ja...sa prvim zrakama odnosi me sunce što se rađa
a  mjesec se gubi postajući neželjenim svjedokom...

Prometej sam
donosim vatru
u tvoju postelju
i okrijepu
nadu
da možda jednom
neće umrijeti dan
samo će se izgubiti
u labirintu naših udova
još jedan maleni san...

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