O how I recall with joy a visit to Jackson, proud capital of Mississippi,
The land of the fearless fatties, the glorious land of the uber-obese,
A paradise enjoying amazingly high blood pressure and diabetes rates,
Thanks to the greed and gluttony of its 'proud-to-be-portly' inhabitants.

How delightful to stroll along its leafy boulevards, admiring the advertising
For junk food shops: "Super-Size Your Deep Crust Giant Pizza for only $1!"
"Real Men love our Emperor Size Cheeseburgers, King Size is for Kids!"
And "Come Try Our All Day Giant Breakfast with Triple French Fries!"

How enchanting to see furniture stores offering discounted extra big sofas,
Builders and carpenters with their cut-price floor-strengthening deals,
Tailors' shops with their displays of buffet pants and elasticated jeans,
Realtors promoting houses with double porches and wide internal doors.

And, O the trailer parks, those truly splendid residential areas,
With their giant size immoveable vehicles with spacious entry portals
To allow the immaculately dressed residents to carry in an armful
Of multi-packs of chocolate iced crème flavour filling Krispy Kremes.

But most wondrous of all, the myriad rival Pentacostal Chapels
With their guaranteed reinforced concrete padded sofa-pews
And their portrayals of plump Jesuses to make the fatties feel at home.
And all those "funeral parlors" with their gaping super-wide caskets.

How I loved the blinking stares of the sleep-deprived bible students
As they staggered out of an architectural wonder of a chapel,
Bleary-eyed after an all-night bible study session, and all eager
For a healthy breakfast of a dozen flash-fried sugar encrusted "donuts".

I was there in this glorious world centre of ever-escalating obesity
With my latest gorgeous lady love (at only 140 pounds and five foot two,
possibly the slimmest woman in the entire Jackson Metropolitan Area)
And we decided to try some good ol' Mississippi fine dining as a treat.

Holey Moley! What a feasts on offer: pan-fried catfish, deep-fried catfish,
Steaks the size of an encyclopaedia and all accompanied by unlimited fries!
Sweet potato and pecan pie with butter, sugar, eggs and extra cream,
And Mississippi Mud Pie with its chocolate crust and sticky chocolate filling!

(The chef de cuisine in our upscale diner told us that Southern cooks
had created this wondrous dessert because its sophicated ingredients
were available cheaply and the recipe required only minimal culinary skill,
and what's more it came with a treble serving of supermarket ice cream!)

We declined the bottomless cup of watery coffee with compulsory sugar
And enquired if we might have a bottle of his finest wine. Quel faux-pas!
The dear fatso was mortified and told us his was a Christian establishment
And strong drink was frowned upon. Did we think he was a degenerate?

That night we lay bloated like beached whales in our tasteful motel room
(its bed reinforced with ferro-concrete to deal with the horrid possibility
that any gargantuan visitors might wish to copulate vigorously);
Oh how we burped and farted, longing for a dose of bicarbonate of soda.

All good things come to an end so, after a nessy session on the toilet
(we filled it thrice), we bade farewell to the desk clerk and sloped off.
"Be sure y'all come back real soon," he declared, patting his fat gut,
"Cuz you both sure do look two real skinny Limeys, ya hear me?."

As we drove out of this elegant city that steamy Southern summer morn
In our rented 4X4 super-strong chassis Land Rover, how we smiled
At the scene outside Walmart where the special offer of the day
Was five pounds of free candies with every single assault rifle sold.

But alas! And alack! Tragedy was not so very far away that day:
Some corpulent teenagers toppled off the sidewalk under my auto's wheels
In their indecent haste to take advantage of the latest McDonald's bargain:
A quart of complimentary Dr Pepper's with a whole oven-fried McTurkey.

Oy! What a horrid mess my fender made of their pudgy, mottled flesh
And how wise we were to speed off before the cops arrived
At least, we avoided being beaten us to a pulp for being leftist libtards
Come to laugh at the dear redneck ways south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

I watch each of them eat
i watch each of them drink
i watch them all sink
i watch them sleep away
while walking,

zombie,
with the same placid easy
expression
ornamenting their face, handing chandelier face paint

a sconce on a wall i am
or in a chair
as they ensconce themselves into another job
another school another group

talk, about, important ****!
like a book
a clothes piece
a hair dye
clouds
universe
opening wide

revealing a void of absence
this makes me not closed
no closure

i want all their minds
to be present, i want

a
few people, around me.

they're stumbling off a plank of, mind, intellectual existence into

an ocean of jobs cars new ethics and things they wont get.
i'm trying to jump out of a swimming pool of truth,

out of,
existence.

It burns in the heart
Of eighth grade girls
Sparkles like diamonds
In the watery eyes of the poor

It is born, kicking and screaming
In toddlers, before they can speak
It slowly dies and sputters
Out in old age

It is the bite and growl
In the dog fight
The motionless upper lip
Of botoxed trophy wives

It is the stacked and ripped
Bicep of the body builder
The clenched back teeth
Of every smiling presidential candidate

It resides in the pits
Of the stomachs of the second place
The money in the pockets
Of realtors

It is the fight to the top
The never give in
The blood boiling revenge in
Every made-for-TV movie

It is the Red, White and Blue
Blood, pumping through
Our country

Oh, to be a tortoise
and never need a house.
No realtors, no mortgage,
never a call for
roofers, plumbers...
or ever to build a shelf!

You may see a vacant lot
Where a building has burned down
But I see a garden spot
With flowers growing all around.
And maybe a bench to sit
A take a while to appreciate
What can be done by people
With loving energy to dedicate.

You may see an empty field
Overrun by neglect and weeds.
But, I see a garden here,
And care is really all it needs.
Maybe some cutting back
And of course, a lot of water.
But time and compassion
Is what will ultimately matter.

Realtors may calculate
The money to make from this land
But, I see a garden
That needs some helping hands.
Maybe some cows can graze
Or a pretty little babbling brook.
A place of nature’s bounty
Like out of a wonderful storybook.

Do we need one more store,
Or one more fast food restaurant?
Maybe some serenity is
What people of the world really want.
Some may see a patch of dirt
And not much more than fallow earth.
As for me, I see a garden.
A bit of paradise right here on earth.

(This was written for and about Bette Midler.)

I have long sought quiet.
And please, let me be clear: quiet.
Not the quietus Hamlet desired,
No “consummation devoutly to be wished” for me.
No, with or without a bare bayonet,
UNBEINGNESS is hardly what I seek.
It is not the predicament of death,
But the quiet spectacle of the grave I envy.  
Originally a city mouse,
I am familiar with the urban soundscape.
I know city noise, amped up in decibels.
Noise-induced stress, shrill and enervating,
Add to the mix a working-class neighborhood,
Where someone is always hammering,
Using a power tool of some kind,
Repairing, improving an older, somewhat decrepit home;
But a steal as the realtors say.
Or vehicles, like Old Havana relics,
Held together by secular prayer,
And thriving underground Cuban capitalism.
Then just for fun: "Let’s send the ******* to war."
Tympanic membranes be wary and be ******.
Stretched and perforated,
Compressed and torn,
Shredded like wheat.
Pummeled by shock wave.
I was Lear wandering the heath,
Your ***-cheeks cracked:
“Cataracts and hurricanes . . .
Oak-cleaving thunderbolts . . .
Sulphurour and thought-executing fires . . .
Singe my white head!”
Cue Cabaret music (Cabaret (1972) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0068327): “Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome . . . to Indochine,”
First a Weimar-Saigon suckee-fuckee,
Then out to The ****,
Mind-numbing concussion,
Reek of jellied gasoline,
Charred meat,
Assorted red entrails,
Obliteration of thought complete.

He’s come to ancient plains, again.
Wide and open, high and dry.
Unrolling before his misting eyes,
He feels the tug of ancient ties -
A primeval sorrow,
His gut rarely lies.

Breathing the landscape in ...
He imagines America,
Before settlers arrived;
A life under
Different skies.
Oh, how they tried
To disguise
Their insatiable eyes.

Twisted, and tainted,
By treatises and lies,
Used for desire,
And profit designs;
Parceling the land,
That sour reprise.

But beneath
The ringing cries,
Of culture broken,
And shattered lives,
A wisp of her soul resides;

In stories told,
And countryside.
Places where nature
Remains untried,
And no realtors
Have thought to subdivide.

You, yew and ewe.
New, knew and gnu.
Two, too and to.
Do, dew and doo.
Your, you’re, ewer and yore.
Sower, sewer and even sore.

Pin, pen
Win, wen.
Tin, ten.
Bin, been.

For, four, and fore.
Poor, pour and pore.
Bear, bare and bayer.
There, their and they’re.
Sure, sewer, shore and shower.
Censor, censure, sensor, censer.

Din, den.
Kin, ken.
Win, wen.
Yin, yen.

Shoulda, coulda and woulda,
Wanna, hafta and hadda.
Pitchers painted of pitchers
Ree-lutters instead of realtors.
Pertecting you with protection.
Prescribing you a perscription.
A different kind of differnse,
For instance, gimme a frinstance.

Pin, pen
Win, wen.
Tin, ten.
Bin, been.
Din, den.
Kin, ken.
Win, wen.
Yin, yen.

I want to thank Ms. Kann, Pat Robbins and Ms. Farley;
the realtors that convinced me to buy the poetry house.

I want to thank Marie and Lynn,
for warming the hearth. Next time, close the door. Smoke damage is a pain.

I want to thank my parents
for lying; the concrete foundation to this house of cynicism.

I want to thank the neighbors,
without the windows I wouldn’t learn anything.

I want to thank Mr. Lynch, Ginsberg, Carlin & Blake
for the fridge. An excellent place to keep my brain food

I want to thank. Mr. Gabriel and Miss Phoenix,
the only two lights in this house.

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rushing mountain stream
grey stones protrude
blackberries hang just above
little splashes cause sparkles
sunshine filters through branches
light dances on the moving promenade
a lonely leaf passes by without fanfare ~
we sit watching
discussing home ownership steps
dropping names of realtors
considering taking the plunge
just over 1050 square feet
spring fed wood and oil heat
tiny cabin off Tree Farm road
future property of Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Lyman Temple ~
bright blue Steller’s Jay
squawks his arrival
***** a mow-hawked head
and considers us for a moment
three quicks hops and one more call
before he flies off into the foothills
nature gifting us a nod of approval /

It is said in time,
That beauty to the beholder is a sensation.
The most powerful statement of forgiveness to a human being is the ability to behold and practice creation.
Ice figurines can’t hold under heat,
Yet their demise creates life sustaining substances,
Like dangerous chemical concoctions,
Company never really felt completely perfect.
We kept masks on when we gathered,
It seemed like my friends could have always made it to Hollywood,
The way our lives were just mere performances.
Highlights of high times,
Quality, picture perfect film reels burned into cyberspace,
But the ladled space between our fingertips became foreign as the next new emotional overhaul was just fingertips away.
Obsessed over why perfection isn’t an issue yet imperfections are celebrated,
Yet not the ones you have.
What is desire if the object sought is someone else?
Elsewhere, the first half of the year is spent trying to remake the second half, pretty in pink,
Only when it didn’t rain.
So soulless, our bond became,
The hollowed Ravens became vultures,
Clearing the pathways to prepare for a feast,
Not caring whether death would actually take us,
But what would be broken would cause the death of our own ways,
Our own souls terrified,
Shocked to the security of a coffin.
Do we merely search for what is rightfully ours?
No,
For we are dream catchers,
Simply grasping for a reality that would be a shame to the creator,
Formed by the realtors,
Sell your self worth for a secular sense of selfishness,
Steal the dream,
And be complacent.
The worst part wasn’t when I lost you,
It was what became of my dreams when I lost myself too.
My first half is done.
I wish no longer to live the second half in misery through.

..........  I believe that killing has perhaps always been in my blood. Once out the womb I was forever drawn to the fascination of death. As a kid I'd tend to **** bugs, which turned into birds and other rodents around my yard. My mom thought it was disgusting but could never get me to stop. On the other hand, my dad figured it was just a boy thing and it was good that i enjoyed being outdoors.
      My father was always an outdoors type himself. He enjoyed taking me fishing on the weekends. As well as the gun range to practice my shot for when hunting season rolled around. Now that was heaven on earth to me. I'd never miss any shot i took and my dad was glad to be carrying a legacy down to me.
      It still haunts me to this day that my parents were murdered in my own home. Why wasn't I there to save them? Why couldn't it had been me? So many questions and very little answers. There was only one answer I could ever think of.. Revenge.
       Asking around only made the people suspicious of me. Being an 18 year old kid trying to solve my parents ****** seemed stupid at the time. So i joined the military to learn all the aspects of war. ******* the enemy, traitors, even fellow soldiers left for dead. If i ever had a soul it was gone by now.
   Returning back to my home town was nostalgic. Twenty years older and I had one mission on my mind. My old house was sold in auction to a bank but based on the gruesome murders nobody had yet to occupy it. Perfect chance for me to scope out for clues. Any evidence I could find that could help in the search would be worth it.
     Lucky for me, nothing was touched in that house since that day. Felt off that it wasn't cleaned up and labeled for sale. The realtors had visited the house and left nothing disturbed. Was the bank covering something up?
        It was easy for me to find blood that had never been cleaned up but testing old blood was rather tough. Fingerprints were numerously left by the detectives, my family, the realtors and me. After a few weeks of searching over and over i came across a dusty old bandana. Why it was never in the hands of the cops , puzzled me.
     A few hours later i had found a partial fingerprint from the corner of the coffee table. I picked it up with a piece of tape and put it away. Something about  finding those two things together after weeks of nothing sounded rather fishy. I figured i'd give it to my old friend in the force but I wondered if he was someone I could still trust.  Could it have been a setup to throw me off my vendetta?

     Over the phone I had asked my old buddy from the force to meet me at the Moonlight Diner. From there I had asked if he could return an old favor. I was able to get his troubled son a job at the base and that shaped him up pretty quick.
         " Hey Dan, long time no see, how's it been?"
         " Hell of a lifetime ago, thought you forgot about me."
         " Nah, i'd never. I just got into town and been getting stuff together y'know how it is."
          " Excuses," he says and points to the table to sit.
Our waitress than approaches us with menus and asks us about our drinks.
          " Mm, some sweet tea would be lovely, you Dan?"
          " Sweet tea? Hell nah my diabetes would wake up and **** me. I'll just have a coffee. Black."
  He readjusts his hat and looks back at me.
         " So, what caused you to want to meet up this late at night?"
         " Well, i'm here to call in that favor you owe me."
         " Favor? ****, well what is it?"
          " Well, I've been looking into my parents ******..," and i stare at him awhile to see if he budges. " and anyways i'm pretty sure i found some evidence."
          " Evidence? You must be a **** fool, now you know its been decades since that happened. You need to learn to let that go. I understand it's still tough after all these years but the only thing you're going to find is dead rats and a bunch of dust in that place."
         " This bandana wasn't here a few weeks ago when I searched. Isn't that fishy? And look, I found this fingerprint. Maybe if you can test this on the low we can find a match."
       " The military done got into your head didn't it? You think I can just run evidence like nothing? Even if it was real, someone would catch me."
        " Look, it could probably be nothing. For my own sake Dan, this is all I got to go on."
        " I can't just reopen a case because you are feeling desperate."
        " You don't have to reopen it. I just want some tests , that's all. If nothing comes up I will personally back off and you won't hear about it again."
  He looks at me with discomfort. Shuffles around a bit, and after a long pause opens his mouth.
       Sigh. " I guess I can try and tell  the nerd geeks to take a look. I know they'll keep things hush hush if I offer them some food. Those suckers never stop eating. Got **** endless pits."
      " That's all I ask," and I hand him the plastic bag and the fingerprint entrapped in tape. " Please, guard these with your life."
       " I will," he says. He stands up and grabs a few bucks out of his wallet, tips his hat off to me and walks off.

        Daniel Castillo. Been a cop as long as I was in the military. He was friends with my father but back than he was just a young rookie learning the ropes. Originally, he was from Amarillo ,Texas. Born and raised a southern cowboy he ended up coming to college here in Colorado and ended up working the force straight after.
         He took me in for awhile after my parents died but once i left to the military, i became out of reach. Still, a phone call away, he was the only one I trusted at that god forsaken time. Even had offered for me to join the force once I got out but the law never seemed to agree with me.
         At the time, I was renting out this worn down apartment. It was just temporary so I wasn't worried about living expenses. Not everyone knew I was due back in town so it helped that i remained quiet. I had all my leads scattered over the counter, newspaper articles, names of suspects and police reports.
    Eventually I set them all up on the wall, some with yarn leaking to certain leads.Still, unanswered questions kept me up all night binging on coffee or energy drinks. Reading and re reading until i'd end up passing out. Until, one day I saw a glint of light shining through the curtains and conveniently landed onto a name.
       Charlie Rivers. Female. It had appeared to me that her name was Charlotte not Charlie. Why had i missed this before? Had I driven myself to overthink and overlook simple matters? And if this person was female, why was her prints discovered at my house?
      Pulling out my laptop i searched for a Charlotte Rivers here in town. There were three. One deceased, and one was literally born yesterday. The last one was a 26 year old girl who worked for none other than the famous Glass Industries. My parents never partook in that company so what was she doing at my house?
     I clicked on her name and seemed she was an assistant to none other than Alexander Glass. Clicking on his name gave me his profile.

        ' Alexander Yuri Glass. 35 years of age.
          CEO of Glass Industries.
          Mentored by Professor Luka Glass & Rose Glass.
          New York Times mentions how "innovative and forward thinking", this company is. Ascending to a billion dollars in a matter of 5 years, Alex is the youngest CEO to do so within his own company. Originally transcending from Germany, he set his sights on tackling USA and has done remarkably well.'

        Hmm, seemed he was quite the entrepreneur. Or he just got lucky when his parents handed down the company. Perfect spoiled brat came to make money living off US soil. How lovely. I assumed I'd try to get in more in touch with this Charlie girl so i searched more in depth and found her social profiles.
Seemed her favorite hangout was a local cafe about 15 miles north, so I set my sights on making that my second home.
      My approach was to appear romantically interested in her. It seems she was unmarried and had no trace of a boyfriend ( or girlfriend), so this was my one shot. Looking myself in the mirror i saw a train wreck of a hot mess staring back at me. She might end up thinking i'm homeless, i thought to myself. After a quick shave and haircut, I set out in a fitted suit and headed to town.
     Steuben's Diner was a retro style diner, seemed like an easy appeal. Although, I had come to the realization that i may have been overdressed in a suit. The setting was more casual style, crowded with families and young couples.  Quickly I settled down at the bar and ordered a club soda.
       I stayed doing this every day of the week coming around happy hour and sometimes even staying till closing. Even the waiters came to see me as a regular. After the third week, I had begun to give up putting my things away and turned to see her walking through the entrance.
     So eloquently beautiful. Luxurious blonde hair tucked behind her ear, reached down her back. She had pale skin and a small body frame, didn't look a day over 25. She sat at the corner of the cafe, opened a book , and later her waitress came back with some type of alcoholic drink. Casual drinker.
       I sat and watched for what seems like hours but merely 30 mins. had passed. Figuring out an approach was one thing , getting her to stay interested in the conversation was another. My waitress saw me staring at her.
" You should buy her a drink, and your in luck.. I know what she ordered."
I give her the nod to go ahead and try to adjust myself to seem more approachable.
       I see the waitress point at me and smile. I wonder if she's working me up. She then turns around and raises her glass at me and smiles.
      " If you don't talk to her you're going to regret it," the waitress said to me and left.

Like an expectant batter at the plate,
sitting on the Pitcher’s change of pace,
Philip took the speedball for a strike.
Imagine the surprise upon his face.

Found by a friend upon his bathroom floor,
The last used needle still stuck in his arm,
Philip heard the Speedball called strike three.
Inevitably, the addict came to harm.

Some will weep to see such talent wasted,
while Realtors will inquire on his space.
Philip Seymour Hoffman burned too brightly;
some other star will come to take his place.