Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

slow
Slow think,
make real

re-al-ize
what fighting for life is…
this is the only
try,
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
listen,
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,
CHARGE?

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

Duck'n'cover,no
crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup
poser-power

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Wiles's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
meme,
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
Radioman,
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H three Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
agency,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tanglewood  thicket, catclaw and mesquite,
willow,

wait.
And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
maybe
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Tophet?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Nullify
Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

Loose
those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
triggers,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.
-----

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen

listen

60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
possessing
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?

Ah,
novelty.

Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  
mound

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

pull-tight,
do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
sign
?
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

-----
Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.

A Poem for Three Voices

Setting:  A Maternity Ward and round about

FIRST VOICE:
I am slow as the world.  I am very patient,
Turning through my time, the suns and stars
Regarding me with attention.
The moon's concern is more personal:
She passes and repasses, luminous as a nurse.
Is she sorry for what will happen?  I do not think so.
She is simply astonished at fertility.

When I walk out, I am a great event.
I do not have to think, or even rehearse.
What happens in me will happen without attention.
The pheasant stands on the hill;
He is arranging his brown feathers.
I cannot help smiling at what it is I know.
Leaves and petals attend me.  I am ready.

SECOND VOICE:
When I first saw it, the small red seep, I did not believe it.
I watched the men walk about me in the office.  They were so flat!
There was something about them like cardboard, and now I had caught it,
That flat, flat, flatness from which ideas, destructions,
Bulldozers, guillotines, white chambers of shrieks proceed,
Endlessly proceed--and the cold angels, the abstractions.
I sat at my desk in my stockings, my high heels,

And the man I work for laughed:  'Have you seen something awful?
You are so white, suddenly.'  And I said nothing.
I saw death in the bare trees, a deprivation.
I could not believe it.  Is it so difficult
For the spirit to conceive a face, a mouth?
The letters proceed from these black keys, and these black keys proceed
From my alphabetical fingers, ordering parts,

Parts, bits, cogs, the shining multiples.
I am dying as I sit.  I lose a dimension.
Trains roar in my ears, departures, departures!
The silver track of time empties into the distance,
The white sky empties of its promise, like a cup.
These are my feet, these mechanical echoes.
Tap, tap, tap, steel pegs.  I am found wanting.

This is a disease I carry home, this is a death.
Again, this is a death.  Is it the air,
The particles of destruction I **** up?  Am I a pulse
That wanes and wanes, facing the cold angel?
Is this my lover then?  This death, this death?
As a child I loved a lichen-bitten name.
Is this the one sin then, this old dead love of death?

THIRD VOICE:
I remember the minute when I knew for sure.
The willows were chilling,
The face in the pool was beautiful, but not mine--
It had a consequential look, like everything else,
And all I could see was dangers:  doves and words,
Stars and showers of gold--conceptions, conceptions!
I remember a white, cold wing

And the great swan, with its terrible look,
Coming at me, like a castle, from the top of the river.
There is a snake in swans.
He glided by; his eye had a black meaning.
I saw the world in it--small, mean and black,
Every little word hooked to every little word, and act to act.
A hot blue day had budded into something.

I wasn't ready.  The white clouds rearing
Aside were dragging me in four directions.
I wasn't ready.
I had no reverence.
I thought I could deny the consequence--
But it was too late for that.  It was too late, and the face
Went on shaping itself with love, as if I was ready.

SECOND VOICE:
It is a world of snow now.  I am not at home.
How white these sheets are.  The faces have no features.
They are bald and impossible, like the faces of my children,
Those little sick ones that elude my arms.
Other children do not touch me:  they are terrible.
They have too many colors, too much life.  They are not quiet,
Quiet, like the little emptinesses I carry.

I have had my chances.  I have tried and tried.
I have stitched life into me like a rare *****,
And walked carefully, precariously, like something rare.
I have tried not to think too hard.  I have tried to be natural.
I have tried to be blind in love, like other women,
Blind in my bed, with my dear blind sweet one,
Not looking, through the thick dark, for the face of another.

I did not look.  But still the face was there,
The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,
The face of the dead one that could only be perfect
In its easy peace, could only keep holy so.
And then there were other faces.  The faces of nations,
Governments, parliaments, societies,
The faceless faces of important men.

It is these men I mind:
They are so jealous of anything that is not flat!  They are jealous gods
That would have the whole world flat because they are.
I see the Father conversing with the Son.
Such flatness cannot but be holy.
'Let us make a heaven,' they say.
'Let us flatten and launder the grossness from these souls.'

FIRST VOICE:
I am calm.  I am calm.  It is the calm before something awful:
The yellow minute before the wind walks, when the leaves
Turn up their hands, their pallors.  It is so quiet here.
The sheets, the faces, are white and stopped, like clocks.
Voices stand back and flatten.  Their visible hieroglyphs
Flatten to parchment screens to keep the wind off.
They paint such secrets in Arabic, Chinese!

I am dumb and brown.  I am a seed about to break.
The brownness is my dead self, and it is sullen:
It does not wish to be more, or different.
Dusk hoods me in blue now, like a Mary.
O color of distance and forgetfulness!--
When will it be, the second when Time breaks
And eternity engulfs it, and I drown utterly?

I talk to myself, myself only, set apart--
Swabbed and lurid with disinfectants, sacrificial.
Waiting lies heavy on my lids.  It lies like sleep,
Like a big sea.  Far off, far off, I feel the first wave tug
Its cargo of agony toward me, inescapable, tidal.
And I, a shell, echoing on this white beach
Face the voices that overwhelm, the terrible element.

THIRD VOICE:
I am a mountain now, among mountainy women.
The doctors move among us as if our bigness
Frightened the mind.  They smile like fools.
They are to blame for what I am, and they know it.
They hug their flatness like a kind of health.
And what if they found themselves surprised, as I did?
They would go mad with it.

And what if two lives leaked between my thighs?
I have seen the white clean chamber with its instruments.
It is a place of shrieks.  It is not happy.
'This is where you will come when you are ready.'
The night lights are flat red moons.  They are dull with blood.
I am not ready for anything to happen.
I should have murdered this, that murders me.

FIRST VOICE:
There is no miracle more cruel than this.
I am dragged by the horses, the iron hooves.
I last.  I last it out.  I accomplish a work.
Dark tunnel, through which hurtle the visitations,
The visitations, the manifestations, the startled faces.
I am the center of an atrocity.
What pains, what sorrows must I be mothering?

Can such innocence **** and ****?  It milks my life.
The trees wither in the street.  The rain is corrosive.
I taste it on my tongue, and the workable horrors,
The horrors that stand and idle, the slighted godmothers
With their hearts that tick and tick, with their satchels of instruments.
I shall be a wall and a roof, protecting.
I shall be a sky and a hill of good:  O let me be!

A power is growing on me, an old tenacity.
I am breaking apart like the world.  There is this blackness,
This ram of blackness.  I fold my hands on a mountain.
The air is thick.  It is thick with this working.
I am used.  I am drummed into use.
My eyes are squeezed by this blackness.
I see nothing.

SECOND VOICE:
I am accused.  I dream of massacres.
I am a garden of black and red agonies.  I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing.  And now the world conceives
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
It is a love of death that sickens everything.
A dead sun stains the newsprint.  It is red.
I lose life after life.  The dark earth drinks them.

She is the vampire of us all.  So she supports us,
Fattens us, is kind.  Her mouth is red.
I know her.  I know her intimately--
Old winter-face, old barren one, old time bomb.
Men have used her meanly.  She will eat them.
Eat them, eat them, eat them in the end.
The sun is down.  I die.  I make a death.

FIRST VOICE:
Who is he, this blue, furious boy,
Shiny and strange, as if he had hurtled from a star?
He is looking so angrily!
He flew into the room, a shriek at his heel.
The blue color pales.  He is human after all.
A red lotus opens in its bowl of blood;
They are stitching me up with silk, as if I were a material.

What did my fingers do before they held him?
What did my heart do, with its love?
I have never seen a thing so clear.
His lids are like the lilac-flower
And soft as a moth, his breath.
I shall not let go.
There is no guile or warp in him.  May he keep so.

SECOND VOICE:
There is the moon in the high window.  It is over.
How winter fills my soul!  And that chalk light
Laying its scales on the windows, the windows of empty offices,
Empty schoolrooms, empty churches.  O so much emptiness!
There is this cessation.  This terrible cessation of everything.
These bodies mounded around me now, these polar sleepers--
What blue, moony ray ices their dreams?

I feel it enter me, cold, alien, like an instrument.
And that mad, hard face at the end of it, that O-mouth
Open in its gape of perpetual grieving.
It is she that drags the blood-black sea around
Month after month, with its voices of failure.
I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string.
I am restless.  Restless and useless.  I, too, create corpses.

I shall move north.  I shall move into a long blackness.
I see myself as a shadow, neither man nor woman,
Neither a woman, happy to be like a man, nor a man
Blunt and flat enough to feel no lack.  I feel a lack.
I hold my fingers up, ten white pickets.
See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it.  I cannot contain my life.

I shall be a heroine of the peripheral.
I shall not be accused by isolate buttons,
Holes in the heels of socks, the white mute faces
Of unanswered letters, coffined in a letter case.
I shall not be accused, I shall not be accused.
The clock shall not find me wanting, nor these stars
That rivet in place abyss after abyss.

THIRD VOICE:
I see her in my sleep, my red, terrible girl.
She is crying through the glass that separates us.
She is crying, and she is furious.
Her cries are hooks that catch and grate like cats.
It is by these hooks she climbs to my notice.
She is crying at the dark, or at the stars
That at such a distance from us shine and whirl.

I think her little head is carved in wood,
A red, hard wood, eyes shut and mouth wide open.
And from the open mouth issue sharp cries
Scratching at my sleep like arrows,
Scratching at my sleep, and entering my side.
My daughter has no teeth.  Her mouth is wide.
It utters such dark sounds it cannot be good.

FIRST VOICE:
What is it that flings these innocent souls at us?
Look, they are so exhausted, they are all flat out
In their canvas-sided cots, names tied to their wrists,
The little silver trophies they've come so far for.
There are some with thick black hair, there are some bald.
Their skin tints are pink or sallow, brown or red;
They are beginning to remember their differences.

I think they are made of water; they have no expression.
Their features are sleeping, like light on quiet water.
They are the real monks and nuns in their identical garments.
I see them showering like stars on to the world--
On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones,
These pure, small images.  They smell of milk.
Their footsoles are untouched.  They are walkers of air.

Can nothingness be so prodigal?
Here is my son.
His wide eye is that general, flat blue.
He is turning to me like a little, blind, bright plant.
One cry.  It is the hook I hang on.
And I am a river of milk.
I am a warm hill.

SECOND VOICE:
I am not ugly.  I am even beautiful.
The mirror gives back a woman without deformity.
The nurses give back my clothes, and an identity.
It is usual, they say, for such a thing to happen.
It is usual in my life, and the lives of others.
I am one in five, something like that.  I am not hopeless.
I am beautiful as a statistic.  Here is my lipstick.

I draw on the old mouth.
The red mouth I put by with my identity
A day ago, two days, three days ago.  It was a Friday.
I do not even need a holiday; I can go to work today.
I can love my husband, who will understand.
Who will love me through the blur of my deformity
As if I had lost an eye, a leg, a tongue.

And so I stand, a little sightless.  So I walk
Away on wheels, instead of legs, they serve as well.
And learn to speak with fingers, not a tongue.
The body is resourceful.
The body of a starfish can grow back its arms
And newts are prodigal in legs.  And may I be
As prodigal in what lacks me.

THIRD VOICE:
She is a small island, asleep and peaceful,
And I am a white ship hooting:  Goodbye, goodbye.
The day is blazing.  It is very mournful.
The flowers in this room are red and tropical.
They have lived behind glass all their lives, they have been cared for
        tenderly.
Now they face a winter of white sheets, white faces.
There is very little to go into my suitcase.

There are the clothes of a fat woman I do not know.
There is my comb and brush.  There is an emptiness.
I am so vulnerable suddenly.
I am a wound walking out of hospital.
I am a wound that they are letting go.
I leave my health behind.  I leave someone
Who would adhere to me:  I undo her fingers like bandages:  I go.

SECOND VOICE:
I am myself again.  There are no loose ends.
I am bled white as wax, I have no attachments.
I am flat and virginal, which means nothing has happened,
Nothing that cannot be erased, ripped up and scrapped, begun again.
There little black twigs do not think to bud,
Nor do these dry, dry gutters dream of rain.
This woman who meets me in windows--she is neat.

So neat she is transparent, like a spirit.
how shyly she superimposes her neat self
On the inferno of African oranges, the heel-hung pigs.
She is deferring to reality.
It is I.  It is I--
Tasting the bitterness between my teeth.
The incalculable malice of the everyday.

FIRST VOICE:
How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off?
How long can I be
Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand,
Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon?
The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow
Lap at my back ineluctably.
How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

How long can I be a wall around my green property?
How long can my hands
Be a bandage to his hurt, and my words
Bright birds in the sky, consoling, consoling?
It is a terrible thing
To be so open:  it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.

THIRD VOICE:
Today the colleges are drunk with spring.
My black gown is a little funeral:
It shows I am serious.
The books I carry wedge into my side.
I had an old wound once, but it is healing.
I had a dream of an island, red with cries.
It was a dream, and did not mean a thing.

FIRST VOICE:
Dawn flowers in the great elm outside the house.
The swifts are back.  They are shrieking like paper rockets.
I hear the sound of the hours
Widen and die in the hedgerows.  I hear the moo of cows.
The colors replenish themselves, and the wet
Thatch smokes in the sun.
The narcissi open white faces in the orchard.

I am reassured.  I am reassured.
These are the clear bright colors of the nursery,
The talking ducks, the happy lambs.
I am simple again.  I believe in miracles.
I do not believe in those terrible children
Who injure my sleep with their white eyes, their fingerless hands.
They are not mine.  They do not belong to me.

I shall meditate upon normality.
I shall meditate upon my little son.
He does not walk. &n

I love the evenings, passionless and fair, I love the evens,
Whether old manor-fronts their ray with golden fulgence leavens,
In numerous leafage bosomed close;
Whether the mist in reefs of fire extend its reaches sheer,
Or a hundred sunbeams splinter in an azure atmosphere
On cloudy archipelagos.

Oh, gaze ye on the firmament! a hundred clouds in motion,
Up-piled in the immense sublime beneath the winds' commotion,
Their unimagined shapes accord:
Under their waves at intervals flame a pale levin through,
As if some giant of the air amid the vapors drew
A sudden elemental sword.

The sun at bay with splendid thrusts still keeps the sullen fold;
And momently at distance sets, as a cupola of gold,
The thatched roof of a cot a-glance;
Or on the blurred horizon joins his battle with the haze;
Or pools the blooming fields about with inter-isolate blaze,
Great moveless meres of radiance.

Then mark you how there hangs athwart the firmament's swept track,
Yonder a mighty crocodile with vast irradiant back,
A triple row of pointed teeth?
Under its burnished belly slips a ray of eventide,
The flickerings of a hundred glowing clouds in tenebrous side
With scales of golden mail ensheathe.

Then mounts a palace, then the air vibrates--the vision flees.
Confounded to its base, the fearful cloudy edifice
Ruins immense in mounded wrack;
Afar the fragments strew the sky, and each envermeiled cone
Hangeth, peak downward, overhead, like mountains overthrown
When the earthquake heaves its hugy back.

These vapors, with their leaden, golden, iron, bronzèd glows,
Where the hurricane, the waterspout, thunder, and hell repose,
Muttering hoarse dreams of destined harms,--
'Tis God who hangs their multitude amid the skiey deep,
As a warrior that suspendeth from the roof-tree of his keep
His dreadful and resounding arms!

All vanishes! The Sun, from topmost heaven precipitated,
Like a globe of iron which is tossed back fiery red
Into the furnace stirred to fume,
Shocking the cloudy surges, plashed from its impetuous ire,
Even to the zenith spattereth in a flecking scud of fire
The vaporous and inflamèd spaume.

O contemplate the heavens! Whenas the vein-drawn day dies pale,
In every season, every place, gaze through their every veil?
With love that has not speech for need!
Beneath their solemn beauty is a mystery infinite:
If winter hue them like a pall, or if the summer night
Fantasy them starre brede.

If Memnon's mother mourned, Achilles's mother mourned,
and our sad fates can touch great goddesses,
then weep, and loose your hair in grief you never earned,
Elegy, now ah! too much like your name.
That bard whose work was yours, who gave you fame, Tibullus,
burns on the mounded pyre, a lifeless corpse.
See Venus's boy, bearing his quiver upside down;
his bow is broken and his torch is quenched;
look how he goes dejected: his wings trail on the ground;
he smites his naked breast with violent hand;
his tears dampen the curls that fall around his neck,
and heaving sobs keep breaking on his lips.
(Just so he went out, fair Iulus, from your house,
they say, at his brother Aeneas's funeral.)
No less was Venus stunned by her Tibullus's death
than when the fierce boar smote her lover's thigh.
They say we bards are sacred, favorites of the gods,
and even that there's something holy in us,
but that churl Death defiles every sacred thing:
his shadowy hand appropriates us all.
Was Orpheus saved by his father and mother, who were gods,
or by his songs that tamed the astonished beasts?
They say that that same father sang 'Linos! Ai, Linos! '
deep in the woods on his reluctant lyre.
And Homer, too, from whom, as from an endless fount,
bards' lips are moistened with the Muses' waters,
one last day pulled him under Avernus's murky wave:
his songs alone escaped the greedy pyre.
The work of bards endures: Troy's famous sufferings,
and the endless shroud, undone by nightly fraud.
So Nemesis and Delia: both their names will live,
the one his first, the one his latest love.
But what use now your rites? What use the Egyptian rattle?
What use, to have slept alone in an empty bed?
When harsh fate steals away the good (forgive my words!)
I almost want to believe there are no gods.
Live virtuous: you will die. Respect the gods: grim Death
will drag you from their altars to your grave.
Write glorious verse, and see! here Tibullus lies:
one small urn holds the dust of what he was.
Is it you the blazing pyre bears off, O sacred bard,
not dreading to be fed upon your breast?
Flames that dare so great a blasphemy would burn
the golden temples of the blessed gods!
She turned aside her gaze who rules Mt. Eryx's heights,
and some say she could not restrain her tears.
And yet it's better thus than if Phaeacia's land
had strewn mere dirt on your neglected grave.
Here, as you fled life, your mother closed your streaming
eyes, and brought her last gifts to your ashes.
Here your sister joined your mother in her grief
and came with loosened hair all disarrayed.
And with their kisses Nemesis and your first love
joined theirs, and did not leave your pyre forsaken,
and Delia, as she left, said, 'Happier far your love
for me: you lived, while I was still your flame.'
'Why, ' Nemesis replied, 'do you grieve for my loss?
Dying, he clutched me with his failing hand.'
If anything remains of us but name and shade,
Elysium's vale will be Tibullus's home,
and you will greet him, learned Catullus, ivy bound
on your young brow, with Calvus at your side,
and you (if it is false that you betrayed your friend)
Gallus, careless of your blood and soul.
These shades will be your comrades, if any shades there are:
you have joined the blessed, elegant Tibullus.
May your bones find repose within their sheltering urn,
and may earth not lie heavy on your ashes.

Hips hunkered, rise to dapple-blue-toned dusty seat
Flush arch cheeky blush, excitement
Droll eye-glazing blue pupil toned in sleepy drug haze
Wind whipping wild air rushing through tempered glass
Wubing whoosh of wheeled blacktop pavement
Colored in eerie sunshade yellow
Lined, darting-flash gold white boundary crossing  
Tight knuckles, two hand hold
Blinking brown doe-eyed drowsy heavy lidded
Lolling head knocked back, head bash rested caressing faux blue
Ploom of dust
Dry-mouth open to catching fly’s
Or what’s left of dank-infused air
Quiet stillness

Blond hair crawling in busy wind,
Equally as gone
Thumping, jolting-momentum  
White line boundary lost, wheels ended grass
Ditching down, dirt slid slide
Floating weightless suspended-nightmare phase

Snapping,
Awake! Awake!
Screaming slotted terrified,
Panic! Painful-heart-wrecking rob breath
Nose dive, mounded metal drive inching closer
Hairs-breath away

Afraid, screaming ****** ****** inside sealed lips
Brown eyes; lid white
Hands upon steering slack, loose light
Asleep, peaceful in calamity
Unnatural shake and tumble
Nail dug bleeding ache
Skidding gravel, tree lined doom
A god not believed in a prayer ensued
Shaking, the calm unglued
“Baby, wake I beg you!”
Brown quick electric wide
Screaming, Screaming
“Oh my God! Why!”
Swerve snake skin peelout
Black lane orange in night
An almost death.

Cabana, cheese and mustard sauce
Do grace the tablecloth,
White puffy clouds and warm south breeze
And joy in chilled beer's froth.
Hot sun doth bake these stony walls
Sweet mandolins do play,
And the pigeons peck at breadcrumbs caste.
And all fares well today.

Young darting men on Vespa's
Ply their arrogant good looks,
And those stunning senoritas
Strut their stuff while momma cooks.
Monsignors in scarlet robes
Do scurry through the town
Dispensing Catholic action
To any soul who is around.

Madonna's guard the roadside shrines
Where hot seal winds aloft
Toward the craggy mountain pass
And pastured alpine croft.
The peasant woman bends her spine
Trudging forth with strain,
Wood ******* piled upon her back,
Up hillward bound with pain.

Old men sit and ruminate
And watch the young girls pass,
Whilst nursing dark retsina
In an opaque thimble glass.
The olive trees look stately
In their crooked ancient way,
And cast a darkened shadow
Where the roosting chicken's lay.

And out across the mounded hills
The patchwork quilt of farm
And out beyond that deep azure
Of Italian coastal charm.
Seaward to horizon
The aqua blue intense
Extends as far as eye can see
Mediterranean immense.


Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
23 January 2010

Why does this mutt whimper
while lying on the table
before his euthanasia?
Does he not know of
the lush, oak-covered fields
and meat-mounded hills  
that await him just past the horizon?
Or is it because
his owners do not realize,
a pup inside,
he still has the will to run?

His kicking legs ache as his heart cries, "Why?"

He lays there at my feet,
Deaf and nearly blind.
Wearing upon him
All the traces,
Of his 15 summers,
(105 in people years.)
His coat grown sparse,
A body gone frail and thin.
Fatty benign tumors below his skin.
A worn tired expression,
Almost always visible,
On his still sweet old dog face.

Yet there is something regal,
About this aged fellow.
With the dignity of maturity
He moves about his domain,
With a cautious measured pace,
And conserved energy suited
To the elderly among us.

He prefers one mounded spot,
In our yard, on high ground,
On the greenest grass,
In the summer sun,
That restores and warms
His old bones.

Diligently working the breeze
with his still receptive nose,
Sensing the things he can,
No longer see or hear.
Appreciating and feeling all
That he has left to him.
This likely his last summer.
And he and I both know it.
We two old souls can sense,
The end is drawing near.

I reach down rub and scratch,
His soft Yellow Labrador ears,
Tail rhythmically thumping the deck,
He succumbs and leans into my touch.
Closes his eyes and receives my love.

He is my son’s and grandson’s dog.
The first dog my son ever owned.
The companion that has slept
At the foot of my two grandson’s beds,
Since both of those boys were born.
Protector, playmate and devoted friend.
Without question, he shall always remain,
A most important part of,
This our own little,
Family Of Man.

I need to go to the grave yard,
need to dig some dirt.
Make a nest for sleep.
Let the dirt infuse into me.

Infuse with me and the dead.
I want crosses on my forehead.
My forehead mounded upon with dust,
the soil of all this West Texas, impacted upon my chest,
and the sticks of skeletons shall ***** my flesh.
Make me parts of them.
Splinters, perfect spacing, spectral spines.
Barrow injecting me with creativity.

We all come from the particles left of,
by the demise of life.
We are leftovers of after thoughts,
left in attics, filled with soot in peoples minds.

Then I can make art.
Then I can cut out snow,
to shapes of stars.

Tin man in the ground, grows rust as he settles into moist dirt.
He wont grow any more like a plant.
But as sugar in the ground he rust and melts,
oxidates into nothing, then transmuting into,
crystals.
This is cemetery life.

I need to go to the grave yard.
So I can make a home.
Build me a little mistress,
make a family in her bones.

The cottage that we build there,
will have ivy, we'll have friends,
the gates of it will say welcome sir,
madam death waits to have you in.

Drinking milk thistle tea,
dancing waltzes in the fog light.
Diffusing in the spectral photons,
bowing down to afterlife.

Kissing the lips of the grave yard.
Opens the doors, hands extend.
I need to go to the grave yard.
So I can find a place, I fit in.

Sometimes, when poets write of love,
we speak of body parts,
but the part of you that I love best
is hidden in your heart.

How can I kiss your kindness?
Caress your thoughtfulness?
That's what I adore the most,
beyond your mounded *******.

The fount of understanding
flowing from your lips
is even more attractive
than your shapely waist and hips.

Your ready sense of humor
is very **** too!
You get the joke that others miss--
I love that about you.

While others pant of naked skin
and love that's passion-driven,
we share a secret smile because
our love is baked with leaven.

Four years of hopes flung into the sky like clay discs
of a ***** shoot and foolishly, I think
that they are real pigeons with wings colored
in iridescent shades and cooing softly to me

“I am coming home.”

I do silly things, like clean my house, buy new
******* and his favorite foods. I push all other
men away and wait, so I won’t risk rejection or
inflict wounds by betraying this man who

does not even belong to me.

As the date approaches, the estimated time
of arrival becomes more and more obscure
like the day he left for California and never
came back. And the innumerable

broken promises every day thereafter.

“I won’t be here a year” he says. But year two
hides him safely in west coast crevasses. “No I
won’t come to see you” declares year three
“they confiscated my electronics,

I am not supposed to talk to you.

I beat myself in the head with a golf club, don’t
you see how much I love you? I am coming back
for you in year four; why didn’t you wait for me?
In rushing water I stripped naked  

37.83 N, 122.54 W and carved a poem

about us into a rock but I needed to prove that
I am normal, so I loved and ****** the autumn
haired girl. Why won’t you talk to me? How
could you hurt me this way? My song set

tells the story of you

but I cannot let you hear it because you have
abandoned me.” One by one, the hopes are
shot down, “pull!” cries his fears and erratic
behavior, because I broke his silent contracts

by moving on with my life.

How many times will I scold myself saying
that I never should have answered the phone?  
If your muse is tragedy, you must continually
feed it. Now is it he or I with the spoon in hand?

Mounded spoonfuls of clay pigeons.

Old men tell stories to recruit the young                                                            ­  
and they listen
'round
that dancing fire,
tales of heroes
that do god's bidding
with swords and holy shield words,
smiting infidels that would, if not stopped,
they're told, "violate our women",
but these very women know all too well
that the morrow will be a land of sorrow,
mounded high with soulless bodies too numerous to tally.

Lemmings living lusciously in tiny boxes all the same – splashes of color
the whirring buzz of a paved path lures them like fish to their shiny frames
drab claims to a cube – clickty clack,
guffaw guffaw goes the lemming in cube 102
cube 104 pounds and releases, click click click, whirring slides overwhelm the brain of the lemming.
Beep beep beep,
ring ring ring,
millions of delicate digital lemmings walking off cliffs
plummeting to their pasteurized expiration
glued to more tiny shiny brightly lit boxes wanting verbosity and novelty
superficial thoughts grasp until every little living lemming wanders into the last chest,
the box made of satin, and silk, hammered shut and dropped into a rectangle mounded with dirt.
What comes next – nothing but more lemmings living in smaller boxes to their expiration dates

neath the maple's boughs
copper leaves were tumbling
in a mounded pile

So much hope set in the height of 8"

The curlewing curls of
pea plants
decadent

Continuos flowing of the firmament
Breaking the concrete walk of the beat to the scene we live our lives between street meat
Imploding our boundaries while humans surround me no air or oxygen just fountains trying too hard to be scenic

I have a garden
I own the earth
But not In the end
It will be my dad

All carbon and cozy covered in primrose plots moldy and pozy'd
So many flowers mounded on the grave of a detritus that it worthy.
To be part of physics
Oh happy squeaking willow branches I remember
Oh china tree blossoms white
-just soon to come out-
Ou the bombs though

The agony hanging over me when I know that there is not a peace treaty from betwixt man fingers plotting graphs of how to not hurt each other

Yet I swoon to the garden and it befuddles my every move tripping me with plant with organism with hippy mumbojumbo
Convoluted  material
That makes an aqueous pressure and fluidity to drown all the youth
Thou must grow but this isn't this fixed rates word attack

No. I am here to be the garden
To show walden in myself for my selfs joy
I am here for selfishness
Not evil as you couldn't see me


To pick apart the pieces
If the leaves rent in the movement to just create me
To tease and toss the strings ran from below them to the trees seams.
To root the ever awesome conglomerated picture of a fixture of an ornament
Of the human life that Seams to stem from what is Lendon.
This is homage to myself
And so is the thought.

Quailing from the mounded earth
Dethroned and lashed from heaven's sight
A shadow strode where man had wept
His hollow husk engulfed the night

Howling deafness gnawed and chewed
Within his arms she'd come to rest
Calm agony besieged his bones
The flame of gasping eyes suppressed

Darkness drank his memories
Piercing loss cavorts in mind
All false reflections need be snuffed
To end their taunts he sought be blind

Tearful hands roared overhead
And all the stars were furiously hewn
His head flung back threw mouth agape
Gnashed his teeth and ate the moon

Among the summer woodlands wide
Anew she roams, no more alone                                                                   (Alfred Austin, Agatha)
And the white mist curling and hesitating
Like a bashful lover about your knees                                          (Richard Aldington, The Poplar)
She walks in beauty, like the night            
A heart whose love is innocent                                                   (Lord Byron, She Walks In Beauty)

Chequer'd with woven shadows as I lay
Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam   (William Allingham, A Day-Dream's Reflection)
I try to think of some one lovely gift
No lover yet in all the world has found                                              (Richard Aldington, Prelude)
A sunset's mounded cloud
A diamond evening-star                                                               (William Allingham, An Evening)

I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields    (J. Keats, To a Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses)
It was a little budding rose
But sweet was the slight and spicy smell                            (Emily Bronte, A Little Budding Rose)
Plucked I for my love's delight.                                                          (Rudyard Kipling, Blue Roses)

But in the sun he sang with cheerful heart
Of coloured season and the whirling sphere                                   (William Allingham, A Singer)
I told my love, I told my love
I told her all my heart                                                                           (William Blake, Love’s Secret)

Arise from out the dewy grass                      (William Blake, Songs Of Experience: Introduction)
So much grace, and so approve her,
That for everything I love her.                                                                       (William Browne, Song)
All thoughts, all passions, all delights
Whatever stirs this mortal frame
All are but ministers of Love                                                                       (Samuel Coleridge, Love)

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise
I love thee with the passion put to use                                                   (E. B. Browning, Sonnet 43)
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed                                                 (E. B. Browning, Sonnet 10)


In secret we met—                                                                      (Lord Byron, When We Two Parted)
Beneath such dreamy weather                                 (Lewis Carroll, All In The Golden Afternoon)
The long grass now
Waves dreamily in the evening wind                                             (Emily Bronte, The Sun Has Set)
A flower was offered to me
Such a flower as May never bore                                           (William Blake, My Pretty Rose Tree)

In movement, in dancing                                          (Raymond A Foss, In Movement, in Dancing)
flowing, spinning
twirling, to the dance of love                                                                  (Raymond A Foss, Dancing)
surrendering to his leading                                                        (Raymond A Foss, Dancing Today)
To be fond of dancing was a certain
step towards falling in love                                                          (Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice)

A shudder comes o'er me—                                                      (Lord Byron, When We Two Parted)
Whereat the lips, moved with delight and pleasure
Through a sweet smile unlock'd their pearly treasure                 (Thomas Carew, Lips and Eyes)
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth                                                      (Song of Songs 1:1)
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed                                            (E. B. Browning Sonnet 38)

Why, when I gaze on Phaon's beauteous eyes,
Why does each thought in wild disorder stray?      (Mary Darby Robinson, Why, When I Gaze)

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise
I love thee with the passion put to use                                                   (E. B. Browning, Sonnet 43)
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed                                                 (E. B. Browning, Sonnet 10)

I was well-armed,
And I dug in.
Bolted the garrison gates,
Posted my defences on turrets
Of pity and self-loathing;
Attacked with self-righteousness
And posturing.
After the expected one hundred years,
You retreated and fled,
Yet I awaited another on-slaught,
Sharpened my sticks,
Mounded my stones,
Prepared for a signal.
The Keep has long fallen,
The moat is weedy and dry,
But I've left the drawbridge down,
Dismissed my guards,
Examined my scars.
I am a veteran of domestic wars,
With no benefits.

Life’s hustle and bustle has ended,
Now I’ve passed away, deceased,
My new terra firma home,
A guarantee of eternal peace;
Never disturbed by clamour or noise,
I don't even hear a sound,
In this world unknown to the living,
Within the ravenous ground,
No one here is the least impressed
By status, rank or class,
Deep below the skylit realms
Of fresh-green, new-mown grass,
The worms treat everyone the same,
Whether noble born or serf,
As I idle away my leisure hours,
Under neatly replaced turf,
No need ever to work again,
I've had my share of toil,
As my weary bones I rest forever,
Amidst the once feared soil,
I reflect on life's rich journey,
A long winding path, well-trod,
Time for contemplation assured,
Beneath the mounded sod,
This place is now home to me,
I don't think of it as a tomb,
Birth and death entwined as one,
In Mother Nature's womb.

When in September sunshine
The yellowing leaves mounded over our memories
Under the beautifully - painted tree
It made a noisy rustling
Humming sweet talks
When the world was still a magnificent dream...
Under the blanket shade  of date palms
Rosy sunshine rained on us back and forth
The seeds fell in harmony
The world was not yet awake
At the lustrous dawn
We slipped into each other's hearts..
I close my teary eyes leading to a vaulted tree
That world was a debilitating dream
The yellowed leaves and fallen seeds laid bare
As someone crushed the two ants parting  way
The tear trickled down my cheek..

DecemberDreamer
I’ve fought the give and go sensation and the suited man on my shoulder hunched under the flickering light post divided—drawing stale smoke trails. Reflections wreak imperfections living in present dim dimensions lit liberations tinted temptations longing for lost love as fickle perseverance ****** me I’m dreaming. Poised stars seaming secrets of wisdom tell me what do you know, where do dreamers go, how much further below twinkling upon the silent tear drop as she goes forgotten desires follow as so without a sound—worn wanderer waiting to be found. My thoughts scream loud but my arms and legs are mounded to my body my gift granted chemical sins straining my soul 20 dollars to sleep pay the toll watch your step 6 feet holes lined in rows of tales however years old and yet here I am the one waiting wasted without a hand to hold. Dearest distraught darling december dressed in gold.

my alive:

   this awakeness seems to breathe

of being close through skin
to heart and muscles
singing softly stroked

by peach parted
over pit stinging;

the gross and fuzzy pash
bristles and bur
catching on roughness of
lip:

has two eyes
completing after darkness
hair in pale perfusion,

lipping with flowers
curled in mounded heap;

whose breaking sound
(star startled)
shook with saliva

–throat can't

               but to

                    unkeep

have you ever seen or felt
or pressed apart the lips
of dying girls who
23 years less of life
split tenderly–
wetly caving
into

         eyes
hair mouth
shoulders spine
a tiny breath
fluttering lids
tense cording of
sinew

dancing sharply
pulled sternly after
wrist
hands onto
scalp

the buzzing
of coarse
tightness
against lips(mylips)

and dies
one dying
final revolution
of ecstatic
breathing

(who
in her mounded purse

tastes of salt
sweet and

                              earths




?

it's november 21st again

2016
the snow is piled
up on the tips of
the tree branches
mounded on cars
blown down my neck
and through the sky

i know it didn't snow
seven years ago but i
can't remember the
weather of every anniversary

2013
just a dusting on the
grass and on my
braided hair
red plaid tunic
i have selfies and
pictures of the dog
my legs covered
in red plaid wounds

today would have been
three years clean

2011
windwhipped trees
black walnuts naked
it rains all month
and never seems to stop

2010
dress me up
take me out
fall back in love
with life but my
past is starting
to bleed

i just can't remember
the weather
i just remember
the date

things get burned into
our minds so we can
never see them the
same way again
we remember moments
and faces that don't even
matter they just stick
in our memories

it's november 21st again

2009
we're all afraid
of dying and
we're all afraid
of changing
terrified of
growing up

i don't know why
it scarred me why
it changed my
family but maybe
i need to stop asking
why and just move on

it's november 21st again
and i'm not saying anything about it

You forget how light your steps fall
and how quickly the tide
and wind weather your footprints.
So what if you’re not standing on sandy beaches,
go stand on the frozen lake and
leap over the snowy mounded waves.
Take this moment for what it brings.
You’ve been ill—but you’re standing here
better out in the open, your feet cold and wet.
So you don’t enough money to
fly to wherever you want whenever you want.
Your eyes fly upward now,
over where blue meets white endlessness.
You breathe in cold air and blink.  
You’re where you’re at
in life because
you chose
to    be   here.
Every day your choices accumulate
like snow that refuses to stop falling
even on the first day of spring,
and they bear you
over a mound of frozen opportunity.
Sure, 90% of what happens in life is beyond human control,
but 10% is how we react to it.
As time passes, choices can’t always be undone,
but
May always comes.
And in March
we always have the option to continue.

Can the Universe call out, entice
Demand?
Is there a feminine thread, of life
Growing
Do the sands of time park curbside
Mounded into moments into road-side stalls
Into Markets to haggle the existence
Of love
A sip, to taste, to close my eyes and replace
The crashing global shore over the remnants
Of culture and edifice
Outside, in this open air cafe
The caffeinated steam
Presses up to anticipation
A planet contemplates
The Universe
Still, at last, at longingly forever
She waits, in the glowing sea
A rising among the vast sheen

look close, the old world moldering,
unsightly damage year by year,
the yellow sun yet billowing,
indifferent to all we fear--
the sacred disappearing,  god
reduced to holding seances
behind an aging, thin facade
of emperors and witnesses,
whose outer dark is just the street
gaslit by hawkers selling shade
half guaranteed to stand the heat
on sidewalks chalked where children played,
as life gets marked down, sold by lots,
and mothers visit mounded plots