forgotten are
those bright
autumnal colours
of the freshly fallen
no longer able
to offer
a crisp rustling
with each step
a whisper that
invites child
and adult alike
to kick
   and shuffle
playfully
ignoring the bite
of frost
unwelcomed
by noses
and fingertips

those downbeat leaves
lately of such
seasonal delight
have been rejected
by bough
   and branch
drifting meekly
without protest
or wrenched
from arboreal familiarity
by gusting wind
or gloved hand
turned to mulch
by constant downpours
muddily trodden upon
without second thought
clinging to any
passing boot
trainer or shoe
only to be scraped
and scuffed
on pavement
   or curb
stomped in a puddle
left behind

I saw the news of that night,
I saw the people cower in fright,
I felt their love fall to the ground,
I knew the fear would spread around,
Down in the place called Orlando

The outed, the loved, the brave,
The ones in closets, dark like a cave,
The lonely, the lovely,
The ones like dogs stomping muddily,
Down in dear old Orlando.

No one had expected what came next,
It was something like text,
You read from a book,
Now don't ever look,
Down in Orlando.

What was once a place,
A very special space,
Space for those different than him,
He thought they were a sin,
Now it's no more in Orlando.

All they wanted was love,
But their souls flew like a dove,
No more of their musical,
Wonderful, beautiful,
Lives in Orlando.

To all those,
Who rose,
To the next place,
I give you good grace.
I am sorry for all that's been done,
I know sometimes life hasn't been fun,
But you didn't deserve,
To be served,
The final, the last,
Place. I'm sad that you passed,
Into death.

The flag flailed flawlessly
then fell flaccidly
under the bushy
grey brow like clouds.

Restless winds
settled in
to a plain old boring
temperate temperament.

Then the dull day
gave way
to much ado
as the clouds grew
dark and heavy with
evaporated wetness.

The calming clouds
could not contain
their weighted frame
anymore.

Soft trickles
turned to
a thick downpour
moistening
my dry skin
till I was soaking.

Thin T
sticking
awkwardly
to me,

but the water felt good,
so, I sat and basked in
the rushing rain
that was falling.
Till, the earth beneath me
began sinking
muddily.

Then, I sloshed
my soaked self-home
sheepishly
spreading all the muddy
mess around me.

The rumbling cat circles the chair,
wondering what wakes me
at this hour. A reassuring stroke
or two between lines,
and she puddles beside
in tail-wrapped satisfaction.
Heir to a hundred insignificant sufferings
which scurry and gnaw
at the underpinnings of slumber,
half-awake and fumbling for gratitude,
I choose enough small misery to write.
Don't scare up ambition to rhyme
or scan, or make myself look good,
or put lipstick on the false smile
of swinish apathy wallowing muddily.
Cold, clammy soil suits and soothes my mood.
There is a hunger howling
in hours dark with early morning
for a gentle scratch behind my ears,
a soft hand welcoming my nuzzle;
a nesting ground of warm worn cloth
smelling of home and family
where I can pad its perimeter,
curl into myself
and sleep.

Days pass muddily, time is stuck.
Five more to go with the right luck.
At time and a half, hours tick;
The stroke of five does not come quick

Rush hour feels more like rush year;
Finally, your exit I near.
I dance up steps to the right floor,
A sweaty palmed knock on your door

The moment long overdue,
Is the heat before I kiss you.
The second between our lips meet,
That's the ****** I crave all week.

I held your hair as you penetrated the core of my womanhood twice. We rolled around muddily in muddy mud like pigs in heat. I threw puke at you and you laughed. "Why?" You begged to know, while your shoes burned from the gasoline I soaked them in. "Shut up and get a job!" I ordered. "I can't while my feet are on fire," you replied. “You possess the naked qualities that I look for in a woman with no clothes on,” I opined.

In the green pasture I couldn't stop doing healthful deep-knee bends
with cyanical-blue deep sea friends or uric-yellow sheep *** friends
who'll attend 6 ewe-cross-human *** fairs pushing 32 ******* trends
“There's something hateful about you,” the proctologist said. “But I
just can't lay a finger on it with the pig blood you've bloodily bled.”
“There are 15 traits swinish about you,” the **** doctor said. “But I
can't put a finger on 1 with the piggish blood you've bloodily bled.”
F-off worthless U.N. eaters! My fat hogs-to-market are muddily fed
before blowin' their brains out rendering 'em big time groggily dead
& chilled to be, after purgatory, down the primrose path foggily led
as saturated dirges, under bridges where bums ****, are soggily read
to mug inquisitive ***** lion-tamers of Afrocentrical inventiveness
without deying the endless toil of food-stamp-getting relentlessness
Weird is wired to borrowed dots once dotters abandon plotted plots
for the ******-bad equity of besotted day bed county jail-issued cots

We met as we vomited from a skyscraper onto people looking up at the skyscraper. I held your hair as you penetrated the core of my womanhood twice. We rolled around muddily in muddy mud like pigs in heat. I threw puke at you and you laughed. "Why?" You begged to know, while your shoes burned from the gasoline I soaked them in. "Shut up and get a job!" I ordered. "I can't while my feet are on fire," you replied.