Laying back
I stare at the mustached men
Staring down at me
They all have white hair
And blue eyes
They float on by
With half smug grins
Holding back their pride
Of their mustaches
Some have big fat ones
Some have long wispy ones
Some are bristly
Some sway in the wind
Like an old sock on a telephone pole
Their stern gaze
Judge every face they see
Once in a while
Their faces swell
And get dark and puffy
Then the mustached men cry
And shower the landscape with tears
I wonder what they see
Looking down at us
That makes them so sad

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky
that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays
resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her
son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,
though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we
waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they
would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and
moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their
eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever
since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar
cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring
out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier
in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the
house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a
newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and
smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his
slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and
ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose
into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier
Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt,
Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would
say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets,
standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel
petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt
like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the
English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills *******, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I
made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it
came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and
settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and
mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It
seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our
fence."

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the
doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making
ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled
down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's ****, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was
gone."

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths;
zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-
shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking
tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you
wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now,
alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not
to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp,
except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and
a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that
an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the
red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches,
cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who,
if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for
Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to
wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall.
And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited
for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And
then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle
and sugar ****, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird
by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and
women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles
their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all
the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in
their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling
pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying
their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the
kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to
break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this
time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he
would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing,
no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite,
to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling
smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the
dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a
snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of
a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face
of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high,
so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled
windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch
chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie
Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some
elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port,
stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to
see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In
the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among
festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions
for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim
and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him
under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr.
Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills,
and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-
rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly;
and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with ***,
because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like
owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving
of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand
in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant
and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them?
Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high
and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood
close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small,
dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped
running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-
gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another
uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out
into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other
houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas
down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

I

In the depths of the Greyhound Terminal
sitting dumbly on a baggage truck looking at the sky
        waiting for the Los Angeles Express to depart
worrying about eternity over the Post Office roof in
        the night-time red downtown heaven
staring through my eyeglasses I realized shuddering
        these thoughts were not eternity, nor the poverty
        of our lives, irritable baggage clerks,
nor the millions of weeping relatives surrounding the
        buses waving goodbye,
nor other millions of the poor rushing around from
        city to city to see their loved ones,
nor an indian dead with fright talking to a huge cop
        by the Coke machine,
nor this trembling old lady with a cane taking the last
        trip of her life,
nor the red-capped cynical porter collecting his quar-
        ters and smiling over the smashed baggage,
nor me looking around at the horrible dream,
nor mustached ***** Operating Clerk named *****,
        dealing out with his marvelous long hand the
        fate of thousands of express packages,
nor fairy Sam in the basement limping from leaden
        trunk to trunk,
nor Joe at the counter with his nervous breakdown
        smiling cowardly at the customers,
nor the grayish-green whale's stomach interior loft
        where we keep the baggage in hideous racks,
hundreds of suitcases full of tragedy rocking back and
        forth waiting to be opened,
nor the baggage that's lost, nor damaged handles,
        nameplates vanished, busted wires & broken
        ropes, whole trunks exploding on the concrete
        floor,
nor seabags emptied into the night in the final
        warehouse.

                II

Yet ***** reminded me of Angel, unloading a bus,
dressed in blue overalls black face official Angel's work-
        man cap,
pushing with his belly a huge tin horse piled high with
        black baggage,
looking up as he passed the yellow light bulb of the loft
and holding high on his arm an iron shepherd's crook.

                III

It was the racks, I realized, sitting myself on top of
        them now as is my wont at lunchtime to rest
        my tired foot,
it was the racks, great wooden shelves and stanchions
        posts and beams assembled floor to roof jumbled
        with baggage,
--the Japanese white metal postwar trunk gaudily
        flowered & headed for Fort Bragg,
one Mexican green paper package in purple rope
        adorned with names for Nogales,
hundreds of radiators all at once for Eureka,
crates of Hawaiian underwear,
rolls of posters scattered over the Peninsula, nuts to
        Sacramento,
one human eye for Napa,
an aluminum box of human blood for Stockton
and a little red package of teeth for Calistoga-
it was the racks and these on the racks I saw naked
        in electric light the night before I quit,
the racks were created to hang our possessions, to keep
        us together, a temporary shift in space,
God's only way of building the rickety structure of
        Time,
to hold the bags to send on the roads, to carry our
        luggage from place to place
looking for a bus to ride us back home to Eternity
        where the heart was left and farewell tears
        began.

                IV

A swarm of baggage sitting by the counter as the trans-
        continental bus pulls in.
The clock registering 12:15 A.M., May 9, 1956, the
        second hand moving forward, red.
Getting ready to load my last bus.-Farewell, Walnut
        Creek Richmond Vallejo Portland Pacific
        Highway
Fleet-footed Quicksilver, God of transience.
One last package sits lone at midnight sticking up out
        of the Coast rack high as the dusty fluorescent
        light.
        
The wage they pay us is too low to live on. Tragedy
        reduced to numbers.
This for the poor shepherds. I am a communist.
Farewell ye Greyhound where I suffered so much,
        hurt my knee and scraped my hand and built
        my pectoral muscles big as a ******.

                             May 9, 1956

mother died today or maybe yesterday i can’t be sure  the telegram from the home says your mother passed away funeral tomorrow deep sympathy which leaves the matter doubtful it could have been yesterday - “the Stranger” Albert Camus

a misguided partiality exists inside me i feel safer around women maybe i’m fooling myself and women are equally capable of the brutal cruelties i associate with men i don’t know i guess i believe women hold themselves to a higher behavioral standard gentler more nurturing there’s another aspect to my belief women floor me i am totally vulnerable to a pretty woman but it must be stated my tastes run quite peculiar i prefer alternative looks and am put off by classic American glamour i guess the real deal is i’m a guy most comfortable among men watching World Series Sunday Monday Night Football despite the fact that if i were with a woman would be my greatest craving who cares what i think i apologize for opening my mouth

we are stranded by the side of road from out of nowhere a beat up gray truck pulls along side in a cloud of dust we cannot see driver from passenger side stubbly shaven mustached man wearing red bandana under tattered western hat in accented hoarse voice hollers out how much for the girl with terrified expression in her face her hand reaches for my arm i peer coldly into man’s eyes then glance away answering

a. what exactly do you have in mind

b. how much cash do you got on you

c. she’s not for sale

d. we need a ride

e. we’re lost do you have a cell phone

f. please leave us alone

g. all of the above

an extraordinarily attractive member of opposite *** runs into you on street in familiar tone of voice greets you speaking your name it’s been ages you look terrific i was just thinking about you the other day it’s such a wonderful surprise to see you do you have time to stop chat over coffee or drink i live quite near here please come over to my place let’s catch up i’d really love that this person then looks at you in a flirtatious seductive way yet you cannot place or remember where you know them or if you’ve ever known them you answer

a. yes

b. this is embarrassing i’ve forgotten your name

c. how do you know my name where do we know each other from

d. is it possible you’re confusing me with someone else

e. i have no idea who you are or what you want from me

f. all of the above

these are dark times every one acknowledges post-modernism post-911 is bleak jobless homeless callous frightful kali yuga no one nothing nowhere  is safe wars gruesome atrocities piracy blood diamonds **** mutilation theft deceit betrayal school yard bullying assassinations cyber espionage anti-depression drugs vicious video games why aren’t people making positive video games referencing cooperation affection happiness instead of Grand Theft Auto Vice City Call of Duty World at War Mortal Kombat what kind of world are we creating for future generations why does violence sell more than *** why is *** so unkind what kind of people are we better off dead they shoot horses don’t they what happened what’s happening why are we making this hell why aren’t we making better wiser more loving choices i don’t understand

in the late 1960’s early 70’s parents didn’t have money to buy their kids high school graduation gifts or perhaps the notion was not invented yet nobody had cars maybe a few guys i knew owned cars they bought with their own hard earned money everybody i knew who lived off campus and too far to bicycle hitch-hiked to school then hitch-hiked home every day for 4 or more years that’s how we all did it in Hartford i remember sitting in different adult’s cars indebted grateful looking thinking wondering will i grow up to be like him or her projecting connections

when i grew up it was a different time turn on tune in drop out in a way hippies were reactionary to all the modern progress atomic age we winged it by inexact methods that time is gone it is crucial at present to be coherent sober accurate mindful wakeful vigilant wary prepared 24/7 this history being written how will it be told i’ve been around long enough to know how these deceptions work we are all using feeding ripping off each other we give in to whoever wants us become whoever seeks to destroy us we disgust ourselves i’m astonished dumbfounded talk with me who are we please explain i beg you

who if i cried who would hear me among the angels even if one of them pressed me against heart i would be consumed in overwhelming existence for beauty is nothing but beginning of terror we are still just able to bear we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us every angel is terrifying – “2nd Elegy” Rainer Maria Rilke

i played Dolores Haze
sitting sideways on your lap
on your birthday
i felt kidnapped
by incessant language
i felt intrigued by genius.
i kissed the brunette above your lip
old fashioned mustached man.
pastry eyes i could've eaten for days.

my second gemini
was thin and frail
high on amphetamines
and drunk on ego
he weaved in and out of me
like a snake looking for peace.
he fidgeted nervously
after every ******
i gave him
(or he gave himself on top of me)

mercurial men
hell bent on
changing the world
with no aid beyond
the words in their mouths

Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.
Say.

Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.
Take.

Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Give me a complete statement of my actions.
Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.
Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.
Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.
Did I make you go insane?
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through?
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart?
Did I make you go insane?
From the grave write me, Anna!
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.
Write.

I laid there staring
at the insanely
bright and rude
fluorescent light
that
mocked my suffering.
The cold concrete
floor felt
good against
my screaming aches.

My body was
pleading with the
Gods for just a
taste of what
had been taken
away.

My bowels were as
controllable as
a teen aged
beauty.

With a ****
I brought my
burning face
toward the cool
silent cold metal
toilet.
Ugly yellow bile
that only a tired
and tortured
body could
produce
spewed forth.

A moan and a wipe
then a hollow knock
on the graffiti
covered cell door.
"You made bail"
an almost robotic
sounding voice
says.

With a thousand tiny
swordsman stabbing
at my face I
managed to smile
into my own bile.
I looked at the
mustached uncaring
face in the
small window.
"You look like Death Pal"
The mustache says to me.

I spit the acrid taste
of day old *****
and ****** resin.
Then rise and run my
sweaty palm through
my hair in an
attempt at looking
presentable.

The mustache opens
the door and
as I walk out
I look directly at the
rogue hairs
protruding from
the mustaches nostrils
and say.
"Death Is Beautiful"

The mustache holds
the door as I walk out.
I'm feeling better already

"Oh Yea well so was my Xwife
look at how much trouble
she still causes me".
The mustache says

Every step
I take down
the institutional colored,
masonic checkered floored
hallway causes
my body
to scream with hope.

I can feel the sweat
roll down my face
but I refuse to let
this mustache
see my suffering.

We stop at the
property window,
I sign a half
of an X where it
says signature.

Then before
I gather up
my belongs
and head
back out into the
night I looked
over at the
mustache and said
"You had a Wife?"

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R          e          a          c          h.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.

I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.

I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.

I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.

So I wrote a poem for the ages.

Just the other day
I met Robert Goulet

I was surprised a bit
The way his mustache twitched

A mind of its own
Like in the Twilight Zone

Jumping right off his face
His mustache ran away

Teeny boppers next door
Giggled out of control

As Roberts mustached jumped
Landing in someones lunch

That's when the Maítre ď
Let out a girly scream

Quite an embarrassment
To all us burly men

Then throughout the day
The mustache of Robert Goulett

Made a name for itself
As it ventured about town

His mustache all could see
Has a tinder streak

Helping old ladies out
To get across the street

Why it even saved a cat
Giving all its nine lives back

Pulled it from a tree
That was burning excessively

At that same moment saved the town
Itself from burning down

But that story's much to long
To try to abound

The town was so impressed
They trimmed up the mustache

Of Robert Goulett
Then gave it a ticker tape parade

After that they named a street
Because of its heroic feat

If it had two hands to greet
Would have handed it the city's key

And if the mustache could talk at all
Would have given the greatest speech

If Roberts mustache had only known
It'd do this good out on its own

It would have left the upper lip
Along time ago

I was six:

On the steps
Of the small
Carousel

Stood the old,
Greying haired
And mustached

Man in a
Ratty suit
Smiling and

Anxiously
Peering out,
Waited for

Me.

"He is your
Father, say
Hello please"

"Hello" I'd
Said to the
Stranger who'd

Introduced
As father
Yet I hadn't

Met or seen
Before or
After and

That's where it
Ends.
The one,
The only,
Memory
Of him.

Good riddance
I suppose.

Perches on my window
My mustached friend bulbul,
Finds me shaving,
A stray bird and I call it a miracle,
It pecks from my hand tidbits of food
Not scared at all
Looks deep into my eyes
And plants there a sunrise,
Asks the bird, ‘why do you shave,
And not save your beard
For the time it would fit your sunken face
When it would tell
There aren’t any of us around,
No miracle of waking up each morn
With our sounds’!

It knows miracles are drying up.

A girl is *****, but wait for the punchline
Except it is not a joke,
And it is an actual punch
Hitting her left cheek

As I sit in a coffee shop,
Her story is being played
Through the speakers, while playing on the news
Everyone giving their own opinion

A couple of men sit at the table beside me
The bald one states that she asked for it
My eyes roll as a drop of coffee runs down my chin

The one with a large mustache laughs
States, "her mother was a failure."
The third man ignores his ignorant friends
But instead listens to the young girl's story

Bald one says her clothes were too tight
Mustached one states that the skirt was too short
Her knees were showing
Knees that are now bruised and ******

The third man states that it wasn't the
FAULT OF THE GIRL
But instead the FAULT of the man
He states that a woman should be able to wear
WHAT she pleases
WHEN she pleases

The bald and the mustached nod in agreement
One says that her clothes aren't the problem
The other says that women need RESPECT

As a woman, covered head to toe walks past
The men stare, except the third
Because it is not the woman's fault
And he understands that

But it is the FAULT of men
Who "cannot control it."

I decided today when I woke up
To write a poem  for everyone
I'd start off with the very old
And end up with the young

In between I'd have kings and queens
Along with a peasant or two
A genius with a dozen degrees
Even a few without a clue

For the in-laws and the outlaws
Though at times they act the same
If right now they're sitting next to you
No need to mention names

I'd also write it for the Catholics
Protestants and Jews
So as not to leave anyone out
A Methodist marching band with kazoos

What would a poem for everyone be
Without rodeo and circus clowns
The ones that paint happy faces
Over the top of their life's frowns

The tall the short and skinny of course
Those that are tipping the scale
Which these days are most of us
But let's not dip into that well

And of course I can't leave out
All the gays and all the straights
Who never knew that they were straight
Until the gays knew they were gay

I guess we've all been labeled
I really don't mean to offend
Oops...I almost forgot to include
All the mustached women and hairy backed men

If you find you weren't in here
And think that your unmentionable
I'd like you to know my friend
My rudeness was unintentional

You may take this poem for everyone
And do with it what you wish
Perhaps the closest receptacle
Where it may join it's friends...the trash

The artist chose concrete to sculpt The Kiss.
Playfully made the woman taller than the man,
his gaze uplifted, filled with total captivation ---
lemur eyes, mustached smile, desire unmistakable.
Her arm about the nape of neck, hand caressing cheek,
certainly she cherishes him, intentionally stokes his passion.
Concrete the perfect medium for immortality.

This image implanted firmly, as I take my morning walk,
when it hits me, somewhere between Key Bank,
7-11 across the street, and John Deere lawn equipment,
why it is, women place such importance upon relationships,
why they love us, despite flaws numerous as wharf rats.
They have an unremitting need for romance.
That's what the sculptor knew and finally I do too.

Candy cane soldiers
roll her down like a boulder,
Her wet cheeks nearly speak
with that bed of concrete on her shoulder.
Could it be? It is she!
Redundant locks trapped in braid
Suddenly, squirming around the corner
a mustached man repeats
"Your wish is mine to fade,
you hold no recognition in the decision youve made.
So its time you come with me"
The princess and her scruples finally flee.

Unsteady warp
blurring corpse after corpse.
One with a top hat
and 3/4 of a profile pose.
Horns surrounded with fur
turned to a hairless neck for a nose.
Useless change changed the pace,
as far as walkin' goes.
Each taste is heavier,
Each word is touchier.
Their fingers grew legs
runnin where answers grow on a tree.
Could it be? I see he.
How can you not
when he hides in the most obvious of spots!
Im serious.
He's as clear as the beer on your beard,
you're delerious.
Take a look at the windowless reflection
pointing in the direction back at thee.
Sneaky little red-eyed bumblebee

Jerry Singing at his Lathe

Slim and mustached
Jerry sang his heart out
in overalls at his lathe –
the Mario Lanza of Kent-Moore Tools.

Curled metal gathered at his feet
as he cut hard steel into usable parts.
He glanced at the prints,
reset the turret to take a second pass
and belted out another chorus.

Jerry retro-dreamed of New York,
of lessons, certificates, Juilliard
and arias finished with outstretched arms –
visions derailed but unforgotten.

Global madness sent him to France.
With a pack and an M1 in place of scores.
Jerry helped set Paris free
yet never left a song on its stages.

Kent-Moore paid him well
and masked by din of colliding metal
Jerry sang and sang and sang all day
for rivet guns and turret lathes.
His voice would melt your heart.

*July, 2006

There's something exhilarating about watching the hero of an action movie soar across the silver screen, thrusting fists into the face of some grotesque, mustached villain. Every time I see a thriller, I am at the edge of my seat, bubbling with excitement.

When the security guard came sprinting into the lunch room shouting, "This is a lockdown." I didn't feel anything even remotely close to excitement. I didn't want to skip through the commercials, didn't want to turn the page. I wanted to close the book, to pause the movie, to curl up in the safety of my own skin and never leave.

It was nothing like the movies. There was no hunky hero waiting in the wings to save us. There were only teachers on the edge of a breakdown, as they slowly realized that they were responsible for the two hundred lives they had just herded into the auditorium.

The villain was invisible. He was a crackle on the radio, a shadow in the corner, a ghost hanging in the forefront of everyone's mind. There wasn't a clear cut solution, no Bruce Wayne to bust in and kick some ***. Just terrified kids, and the teachers who were so much more human than I had ever seen them.

The girl next to me's hands shook in her lap, her voice carrying a note of panic that I'm sure matched my own. My knuckles turned white as I gripped my phone like a lifeline, trying to send words of love through the airwaves to my everything, who was cowering in a corner of the algebra classroom three stories up.

In the movies, goodbyes are always a performance. They are dramatic and gut wrenching. They are sobs into the sky, and screams into the night. What the movies don't prepare you for is the idea that your goodbye could be an eight letter text message, or a whisper no one would ever hear. As I waited for a reply, I wondered what would happen if this was the end. Maybe I'd hear her name on the radio that the teacher was holding, read from a list of casualties from another teen drama. Maybe I'd come home to find her name plastered across tv screens, my best friend's face synonymous with a caricature of tragedy.

If they made a Lifetime movie about this, I wonder who would play her, what glamorous Hollywood actress would dissect her personality and attempt to transform into a pale ghost of the girl I've known since childhood. I wondered how much money she would make for wearing a dead girl's skin.

Somehow, "school shooting" has become a marketable phrase and sold to me with a perfect soundtrack and a dramatic title. I wonder how much money I have given to the same people who wouldn't hesitate to turn my tragedy into a blockbuster for all to see, as they fill fiction with the faces of the nonfictional dead.

The voice on the radio signaled the all clear. The girl next to me breathed the deepest sigh of relief I have ever heard. My best friend sent back a text much longer than eight letters. A happy ending, I suppose. But as I walked out of that auditorium, something shattered inside of me. I will never hear a gunshot without imagining it coming from behind my best friend, never watch the news without wondering why it wasn't us, never see a bullet without feeling it pierce my mind.

I haven't been to a single action movie since.

I've already lived one.

Be a regular somewhere.
Ask for the usual.
Turn head up from the facade
of reading the by now memorized menu
to the smell of peppermint chewing gum
and a voice like old rubber treading gravel.
Notice that she did something different with her hair,
asking about how her kid's soccer game was
over the weekend.
Blonde curls--as opposed to waves--streaked with white dangle and bounce restlessly
encroached on an oval face
movement synchronized with fast and tight lips dark wrinkles formed around a bad habit swore to quit after her second child
but conversations and routine keep her body
and mind moving
their weakness frozen in place.
Nod to the chef, a dark-mustached thick-skinned and coarsely-coated fellow;
he tips his hat in greeting, smiling mostly
to himself as he looks down half consciously to chop the tomatoes.
You catch in the air the familiar scent
of coffee brewing, your ears perk up
to the sizzle of bacon as it
slaps into the pan.
The chatter of dishes and silverware
clinking together as they're
scrubbed scrupulously by an oily ambulant adolescent in the kitchen.
You look around, spotting the elderly man
enshrouded in the brown overcoat
patches at the elbows
on the stool, hunched over
the counter, orders coffee black
and graces hot sauce on meals like an elixir.
The lines on his face
seemingly not from the assumed winces
one would have from eating such a spicy meal
in the waking hours.
Wiry fingers coated in aging spots
reach out shakily to the coffee
like a saving grace
thin lipped breaks formation
solely for the formulaic
meal to be consumed.
You watch him now
as you're prone to do
His eyes look forward
and beyond
the kitchen's outer walls
where to in time
you wonder,
and think better of it all.
There's an atmosphere of peace,
not so much the calm before the storm
but the walk before a trot
to a jog and then a sprint.
This is the moment
before the preparation
for the moment,
frozen in time before
the blink of an eye
or the exhale of breath,
before the stretching of muscles
or the cracking of stiff bones,
as the eyes open from sleep
still carrying a few seconds
of the dream
before awakening to reality.
To have this moment all to yourself,
in the presence of others.
To share an atmosphere,
dense with the allusion of dreams
faith
metaphor
axiom
illusion.
It's in the appreciation
of the mundane
as a sign of life,
in the shared atmosphere as a
sign of community.
To see less blurry faces,
and maybe just a few good ones.
To see the imperfections
of others patiently,
or in awe,
perhaps at the work of a creator,
or of nature,
or to wander between
fact and fiction
unlike two sides of a coin,
but more alike two bodies of water
on opposite sides of an endless isle;
currents break onto the shore
with crashes full of yearning,
as if a call to the other side.
You walk amidst the cacophony
interpreted as a symphony
the sizzle of pig meat
the clinking of dishes
the monotonous yet
harmonious chatter of
ritualized conversations
with nuances you've interpreted
and analyzed, memorized;
you could sing it like the refrain
of an old folk tune.
This is your song
this is your orchestra
clinking dishes
sizzling bacon
chewing gum between yellowing teeth
you write this symphony
and rehearse it everyday
before it fades into the world
of chaos and conundrum.
But for now
you are on the shore,
with the coffee wind
carrying the sizzling and clinking
breaks awash white foam like milk
with a peppermint gum-
flavored saltwater mist that
kisses your face as it asks
about a refill.
Of course you say yes,
sitting upon worn leather upholstery
on the beach side,
feeling yourself settle
into a familiar crease
you sigh with relief.
Tucking away the urge
to anxiously wait
for the moment to cease.

Please let me have several weeks
So that my anxiety can decompress
Several weeks
That I might feel comfort again
With you
Give me several weeks
So the furniture is gone
And we can properly pretend
That there is no history
Past or future
Only the present

Cause you don't need this
And this is just practice
For your epic
If you don't
Stop for a month of Sundays
And really think about
What it is you're writing
Who you're antagonizing
I guarantee that you'll never
Ever
Have time to formulate it all
Type for a month
And you'll never get far enough
To encourage bindings

NO more
Fix that
All that *******
That makes you RAMBLE
Yeah I said it
You run on at the mouth

Just kiss me
Tell me how you feel
With the mustached upper lip
And your fat bottom lip
Leave me mouth insides
That I have to wipe off

Several weeks before you leave me a poem like this
Don't do it.
I'll leave something that like this
Raucous. On blast. Larger than life.

Don't **** this up.
I JUST got you a job.

It¹s Raining
Here in this place a forgotten past
The smells of damp wood, of mold, of dusty books, of rooms occupied for many
years;
Of wet wool
Of brewing all day long; of cooked cabbage and rolls and butter; of potted
meat;
The mustached old men close their umbrellas  they make sounds like talking
of something but nothing is said;

These rooms are not here any more -
It is a place of another time that I know but cannot have known.
Will it disappear the moment I step back outside into the Bloomsbury street?

Oh the laughing sisters
And mustached misters
Clad in diamonds that
Glare as I stare
Out on the diamond ocean
Saying I never loved a lady
Like the one that got away
She said she could not obey
But the praying ministers
With their naked chuckling
Alright I see through this sky
I am alone without myself here
And I am free to live as live can be
Without itself I am nothing but you
Torn apart without money or a face
And is this part of the story too hard
To bear?
I ask not in question but in query of
Where we have no permission to lie
Cornered by the man in yellow who
Dances without smile or frown
And here in this hotel room where
The window is cracked and the
Waiter is crowned and gone
Neither night is clear or morning sincere
I mention this for her and not for me or
You in sight the kite's string is tight
Tell me love how long I can live for
Please I beg I plead and I realize that
In this place for truth fortune mentions not
Dictionary definitions for love and
For hate and for
Nonsensical bottom feeding trash heaps where
Art is put on the heads of the ones that
Only will to create for this land is too
Heavy in heat and fire and brimstone and
The prophet chuckles in a breathy beurocratic way
Telling everything that shouldn't have been said
On the death of Him He was released from himself
I had left him for another time, another place
Withholding the help nature had given him
Chaos had plagued Him with
People had forced Him to live up too
Cadence in the most convaluted form
Lonesome hard times in Old New York Town where
I never been but I soon wish to see where
Dreams sail through the air like ol' Fall leaves and
Ghosts of Christmas Eve in sorrowful moves
The ones where we used to whisper and see and been
So I see no heart when they eyes are broken and
The mention of the ear ache where the Baron paid
His last debt and saw too much war and the women
With their braids, their whiskey, and their beads told
Out to the God that said would save them that He
Lied and He pried into their children's minds wherein
I saw fate and death and life all wrapped into one
Infinite lines scribbled long with a fine young four year old
Eyes of an angel and the hands of million year old man
Genius in the crowd and genius in hell
Longing for a fate different from their own
Alone with a tomb of stone white water drowning and alone
Underneath the near farewell in a kiss that stings like a bee
That carries you through life like having your own pair of wings
And the hotel you mention is not where I been
The place where I'm going ain't death or buried or the least bit scary
I tell the place where I'm going for her and her only
So at the station praise all that is here and in life where she hast been
History mentions the victors as the piano screams and yells
But lo' the man that shows fear in the eye
In heart through itself heat praises poor for more
She envelopes each note from the piano that falls from the sky
A kiss where envious jealousy once did reside
Know not where the bullet came from
Know not where absence is obsessed with itself
Hard as a rock in the souls of the highest bidder
Longing for purpose and reason and sentence
Trusting that this is not the life you were supposed to lead
And in that you see the truth where it is vile and
Covered in the stink of rotten war torn vermin
Linking the past to the future and the future to the present
Sinister in the melancholia of us men and us women
We present the unpresentable as the need for going on
Where gone nature would continue all the more blissful and
Peaceful and meaningful
Terror in the hearts of man like a firecracker in the mouth of a frog
Each minute races through the thicket dumb waiter
Franz reveals the trick behind the pen
Bob behind the song
Aching for a salvation that will only come in death
Just for the blues and only for it
Telling the last tale of man that will never be heard
Pushing through your shell of a body a cage
A barracks filled with no faced soldiers
Men and women without names
People without purpose
A light at the end of the tunnel
But in the ruins of the mind of man forgotten
Dreams of double temper tantrums re-awake in
Time each tick of the clock of the ever glade
So serene in the eyes of the ones we wish not to be
Crowded dreams in desire for the work is there
But the hard nosed preachers predict the death of man kind
And God with his ticket that shines in the sun
Tells himself the world was meant and created for fun
Wrapped in the down turning world that spirals fast
For it knows that love and life cannot infinitely last
So in the turning of the hour each night I ee I let go
Cornered by mans imagination that boxes even the largest
Hardest roughest toughest ******* with the mall type
Insurance that says if you live to this point you are then granted worthiness
Caught in the block of tepid eyes that frollock in the wake of midnight
Diamonds on the streets of the city but everyone is too busy
To mention their desire for another kind of life
The dice has fallen and we sit around waiting to see where it will land
But its Ok I see now why you have to go
I am blind in the heart but I'll know soon where to start

You are as far as a soldier from his bricked home, his brave, frail mother, his noisy night by the mustached man's shop who was also his friend's best uncle. Best friend's uncle.

You are far but not like finding water in a long desert far. That image alone chokes me. You are far like clean water on a beach far, when your shoes are filled with mud and every step forward is a burden you have no choice but to take.

You are far like help on an empty road far, when night and horror fills in the lungs and only a whisper splutters out.

You are far like hope for a bright student's first big failure, redemption for a sinner, and love for a newborn - one whose mother died delivering.

You are far but not like light in a blind's eye far. You are far like light in my life far.

i walked down my street today
although it doesn't belong to me
i still like to pretend it does
like i grew up here
like i belong here.

oh well.

so anyway i was walking
and i saw this old woman
hobbling toward the flower shop.
this struck me as a rather romantic idea
and pretty cliche, too
but what the ****.
it wasn't really the fact that she was walking to the flower shop
that interested me
although the teenaged girl side of me
was sobbing the same tears that hadn't been shed
over The Notebook
(i wish Nicholas Sparks would die in a hole)

...i think i'm getting off track...

but in that minute or two
that i watched her walk
her hair cut to her chin,
her glasses thick
i didn't see
an old woman.
i could see quite plainly
who she had been in the 1920's.
short, unflattering dress
necklace
tight around her neck
the strut
that only a woman
in the roaring twenties
could pull off.
she quite clearly articulated
hidden love affairs
with mustached men
amber drinks
in crystal glasses
stenographers
and married bosses.
and even though she's now
wrinkly
old
stooped
her former glory
still remained
i could still see it
even now.
and really
i guess i wouldn't mind getting old
if  i could be as ******* cool
as the old lady
i saw on the street today
that doesn't belong to me.

My first American love
was 4 inches taller than me,
had a muscular upper body,
(all they did were push-ups,
day, and night, day and
night) and stood on
skinny legs, pale;
mustached by thin,
fine brown hairs

They wore pants,
nothing but jeans,
black mostly, sometimes
faded when they weren't clean;
sometimes denim if they
were purchased by me
(They had to be Levi
or Calvin Klein)

And their tops
had torn sleeves;
holes punched in
everywhere due to the moths
in the closet;

nothing
but torn seams

It was rare they wore
anything else

We first made love
in a 2004 Tornado Red Volkswagen Golf
they received from their parents
as a graduation gift;
that night my body was just another present
piled on top of it

And on and on
the shape-shifting went
until we got tired
and slept

We were smoothed out
like freshly baked
carcasses under the
rising dawn; and when I woke up

I realized that great American love had gone

A promising horizon peered over the
dashboard, past the Little Tree air freshener
peeking through as though it were
a mother returning for her runaway child,
and saying it's time to come home;
breakfast is ready, father is waiting
and your future has been put on hold
for far too long

My first American love
was found in the form of a song
once the car radio was turned on

She was washing dishes,
Putting things away,
Glad for a little quiet after the fray,
Hospital bills would be coming,
Juggling bills to pay,
But she was glad for the quiet today.

Sam came in with dirt on his face
From playing "trucks" on the drive,
And trailing a gritty wet trail
For a cookie or two and some milk with his Mom.

She milk-dunked an Oreo
Looked at her son, and said,
"What shall we do for today?"
To the  milk-mustached boy
Who'd barely made it to five.

"How 'bout checkers?" he asked,
And she looked hard at him,
"Where did you learn how to play?"

"At the doctor's," he said,
As he dipped cookies in,
And startled his mother again.

"Honey, who taught you to play?"

"Max and I played. He showed me how,"
He said with a straight, serious face
As she spilled the milk from her glass.

"Honey, Max has been gone for two years!"

"I know, Mom, and now he is six, and not three.
In heaven, you get to decide.
And Grampa and Gramma came up to say hi,
And numbers were swirling around."

She paused, now uncertain, and mopping up milk,
"So did you see Jesus?" she said.

"Yup, Jesus was there. He said I could visit,
but I had to go back," Sam looked at her matter of fact.
"Can I go play now?" And outside he went,
Brown smudges still stuck on his chin.

We were told to read a book about a mustached murderer
and most of us were put to sleep
by the architect's chapters
but I read them anyway
maybe just to say I did
or to more enjoy the blood and
wicked victories of the killer's story

-cj

Hope was delivered quickly, mercifully,
as the aseptic needle silently, expertly
pierced the anxious skin of my upper arm
bared to its untattooed, obese reality
and scarred deeply with forgotten badges
from islands and mountains and forests
and caves, with souvenirs and tokens
from clingy rattans, unforgiving wasps,
solicitous leeches, and hyperactive biting midges.

Pushed by magmatic desperation, something
imposed by elected incompetence, fudged
as a destiny of an unfortunate nation,
I toed the line of the long queue, hiding
my rhinitis-ruled nostrils and mustached
mouth from the many dreaded arms
of SARS-CoV-2, uneasily shielding
my embarrassed face from sneezed aerosols.

Aging paranoias of undignifiedly drowning
in one’s own phlegm unconsciously fuel
the tired and greying servant. Respite is not
as appeals for help to ease the burdens
of mountains of debt, and so sadly, yet
the beloved, alone, succumbs to death.

We’re all hostages - and the ransoms demanded
by this protein-coated tyrant are costly,
unjustly. Incarcerated by our fears of being
caught within the nets of this pirate at the sea
of our existence, we are, I am, grasping at all
but the last strands of a rotting rope – hope,
diminishing, flickering hope of salvation
from pathogenic damnation. Come messiah!

Likened to Christmas Stars shining bright,
the sages of Science illuminated our dark night
And through the ***** of a hypodermic needle,
Hope was delivered quickly,
mercifully,
compassionately . . .