“reminding me to remember what has yet to occur”

~for Jean Fisher~

this poem title lay fallow now near four months;
the poem title, a riddle in and of itself,
my inability/reluctance to bring it to a
spoiled fruition is simply and sumptuously explained,
no idea what it meant and
cause I got an F in future-telling in 8th grade,
when we still believed anything,
even hap-hap-happy was a possibility

all day long fits and spurts;
a sad poem rattles around in every part of my overcast Saturn day,
this last eked out September pretend summer weekend,
bereftness so powerful,
that the weather is slapping me down, hard, for begging,
gray grey sadness in the windless stillness

asking,
why,
do you deserve it?

the death of summer is a tree ring completed, a marker of
nearer-my-death that I dare only utter to my pillow,
hoping it won’t betray my statelessness to whomever makes the bed and plumps up them pillows up into squealing my hidden  
truths and trust

birthing the past is easy and not what the title,
words I wrote somewhere, is asking for;
no so more straying and to the
scribbling and pecking
do I attend
that title commenced ironically at the end of May
when the summer man feathered his mental nest once more

and now my blindness clarified.
now when summer commences, was I not secretly reminding myself of what was sure to occur -
that troubles will come in cold and snow,
and no longer will the little house by the sun bathed bay be an available antidote to the real toxins that grow stronger

this then
was the clarion self-hint to prepare,
reminder to self
for the summery summation-end inevitable,
for the perfect ending of this poem

now that I have accurately
predicted my future
the title has borne its
bittersweet fruits

down the Valley
where the river flows
flocks of graves
swarmed with crows

ashes to ashes
turn dust to dust
where their metals lei
and turned to rust

stenches of blood
screams and decay
where wasted sheds
are left astray

down the Valley
where the river flows
are plumps of graves
where flowers grow

Stumbled across the astrophysics mystics
Statistic black and gifted see me move shifted
Paradigms the dimes over pennies and signs
Signature my thoughts before I was caught
Unto this matrix illusion boosting confusion
Keep my temp at cold fusion using fusing
Links with the real **** laced retraced space
From me activating the my minds safe til I chafe
Off negativity gravity show no pity leasing gritty
Upon the burning desert sands master plan
Set the black thought forth meditate the great
Ness within finesse the sins break through religion
Ultimate rebellion revolutionized the wise
Plot stole Solomon's sigils begins a new sequel
Only a few people could rock the stones evil
Hell raiser third eye appraiser can't graze a
Shape shifter alien baby mack to the ladies
With the Barry vocals make the legs go loco
Think that sip that French cognac hold the fat
Nice and plumps *** out quick to take a bat
Thousands and one at the bed room plate
Earthquakes break their freak level mindstate
Moving like a figure eight it's black love above
Spread the kitty like wings of a dove glove
Over my Johnson tote it like Pierce Bronson
Double O seven golden bullet shooter heaven
Got her feeling the nine levels of intimacy
Take her to a whole new world like Disney


Got my enemies scoping with triple eyes
deep as the skies otherwise know my ties
Wise as an owl accustomed to the foul
Since I was a problem child chased the wild
Ambition of being a coke dream fiend
Wishing for good to come out see the clout
Been long tainted drug game painted
A good thing til the iron cells cling
But most can't hear the liberty bells rings
Chaos of an o-rings lost most of my siblings
Still dribbling in this society advoiding the sting
Bees only come when the money circling
And ****** too only down for you when you
At the top of ya reign but disappear came
Once the downfall began deeply pain
Pleasures the migraine of a headache
Dead weight once you ground your stake
Intake the bad choices replot my theme
Form a new opening no false hoping
Breath in the celestials for chemical doping
Natural tryna max out like Ken Copeland
Minus religion still knocking stool pigeons
That's just the principle of the grassroots
Giving this is the prices of just plain living

Persephone sits under a leafless

tree, sprouting infantile green.

her back against the trunk, her

knees square against her *******.

her dress adjusts like an eye, to fading

hues seen after change.

she's surgically bisected a pomegranate--

with the intimate caress of her right

pointer finger.

counting the gory plumps of its seeds.

her legs start to rattle as if in ******--

she crushes the pomegranate between

the palms of her hands.

having tallied those freshly admitted below.