We are surrounded by silliness.
Don't make it obvious, but look over your left shoulder.
Slowly.
There, not feet from your face sits silliness.
Something silly breeding and FedExing its brood
to the best and brightest corners of the earth,
ensuring equal part shadow for every ray of shine.
If you find yourself disbelieving, please turn on your Television set
and flip (at your own risk) through the charmless channels
hovering enigmatically inside Mr. Pixel the “Babysitter.”
“Reality” shows, as if we weren't neck deep in enough reality
for a thousand years worth of open bars,
lamenting on how seriously, serious this soiree of sorts seems to be,
neighbored by celebrity rehab shows,
housewives from all over the country
desperately seeking attention
and augmentation
or attention to their various augmentations,
  divorce courts with quirky judges,
pawn shops in the ghetto with true grit, or is it true **** …
hard to say but they have attitude!
The endless scripts pour into HollyWeird from somewhere far, far away
from anything vaguely resembling reality …
a little place called – the Jersey Shore.
(Wait did he say scripts?) But ...

Ah, hell, it needs no description or justification,
in the land of the Super Silly,
it is the trophy wife of King Silly Bo Billy himself.
And no more time to waste on silliness wrapped neatly in a magic tube.
No, no, silliness is loose, running amok through the streets,
jumping with it's eyes closed on your neighbor Ricky's industrial size trampoline.
(Ricky only lost one of his nine children  last year to “roof to trampoline” diving)
tragic, yet the other eight get a little more tuna casserole on Wednesdays.
Silliness is fearless. It charges helmet-less into oncoming traffic
singing Christmas jingles in Latin,  
mid-February with no regard to Lincoln
or the people he is said to have helped liberate.
It defies logic, gravity, good intention or worst (best) of all – common sense.
You will find it in every church no matter the dogma.
Every court room, police station, financial institution, school, university,
tall building with more glass than steel …
yes, silliness grows there like mold in a dingy basement
overpopulated with sprickets.

Silliness is a disease.

Not to be confused with silly smiles and clowns at the circus.
This is not the silliness of your youth, but the silliness of adults
who have sold their love of the moment
and lust for life for the deadly elixir of conformity.
Conditioned by an unrelenting tidal wave of negative energy
and condemnation, they sign their death certificates long before they die.
Dreams and happiness are replaced with life insurance policies,
401k's and 403b's. In this lies the silliness.
As the masses line up one by one at the top of the cliff
and follow in suit as the jumping begins.
Into the abyss they leap, medical and dental plan in one hand
and neatly mowed lawn in the other.
As the happy children play to their parents dismay,
the merry-go-round spins blissfully around
as daddy slowly drowns.

While amongst the tresses of velvet night upon the moon river there lived a fairy that felt the echoes as she caressed her fingers upon the silvery water, she was the one with the dark eyes as bright as stars and a heart purer than the first snowfall, the voice of her glided through the clear waters and high into the wind as the leaves danced to her ethereal barefoot step through the mist shrouded forest where her companions, the fawns and the birds, were at peace where they lived. Until a traveler arrived one night and was enchanted by the soft, honey breath of her symphony, Indeed, in harmony they were, as the strums of his lute shared with her voice until time had passed for the mortal traveler and his spirit left the forest. The fairy and the animals were saddened by his leaving, so the fairy flew to the branch they sat upon that neighbored the celestials and she found a strand of silver blonde hair as a memory of her lover. Soon, she then returned to her companions and buried the strand within the earth, then, with the power of the sun and the fairy’s tears, a plant soon arrived as the flower of Galanthus.

these months have tainted hues of midnight blues upon my cheekbones, scathing trails of unmarked tears that refuse to fall.
they lay neighbored next to my eye comfortable and still, knowing what lays beyond will hurt more than what brought them before me.
i can no longer cry.
  i can no longer speak.
    this poem is what i could manage out of... this. no one could tell that my flesh and bones have been ****** and plucked of life.
a sithering garden of greys and graves amidst this summer of weary blues.

i can no longer remain
i can no longer remain.