512

The Soul has Bandaged moments—
When too appalled to stir—
She feels some ghastly Fright come up
And stop to look at her—

Salute her—with long fingers—
Caress her freezing hair—
Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
The Lover—hovered—o’er—
Unworthy, that a thought so mean
Accost a Theme—so—fair—

The soul has moments of Escape—
When bursting all the doors—
She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
And swings upon the Hours,

As do the Bee—delirious borne—
Long Dungeoned from his Rose—
Touch Liberty—then know no more,
But Noon, and Paradise—

The Soul’s retaken moments—
When, Felon led along,
With shackles on the plumed feet,
And staples, in the Song,

The Horror welcomes her, again,
These, are not brayed of Tongue—

The TSA won't let me fly
It seems when airplane-jailed,
My muse sneaks aboard
Without paying for a seat.

Another airplane poem like 30B,
From a long ago flight,
Found dusty, in the poetry sewing box


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

with every breathe he tithes
a packet of whispered wishes,
a blended osmosis of
past and future scenes,
reviewed, previewed,
moments in time,
actual and dreamed

some received,
airborne plucked,
in his chest stored,
prepared for future
takeoffs and landings,
for ultimate insertion
in both
your recesses
and
your abscesses

some native,
combobulated, containerized
packets of seconds,
of joyous moments,
bytes of historical
hugs n' kisses,
as a child
to a child
from a child

those are vanilla frosted,
residual payments for the
good done and given,  
forwarded with all clear signals,
to his loved ones,
now resent, to you,
fellow travelers and sojourners,
intersectors of our peculiar
coded dots and dashes

thirty five thousand feet high,
composure lost,
he swoons as
Bocelli's voce del silenzio
releases tears so sweet,
which are by nature,
gravitated and transformed
into snowflakes to decorate
the Sierra Nevada's
breasted peaks and valleys,
over which his physical notion
is at rest, yet in motion,
within a Delta flying ship

Yet his fevered chest
beats rough,
for every flight seems
a time warp interlude,
a forced reflecting rhyme,
not of his choosing,
a lawful, thoughtful, imprisonment

having donated to you
his best, the remainders,
the man tallies, recalls:

ancient slights, scaled heights,
requiems for his forefathers
scored by cantorial choirs,
liberation struggle weariness,
offers taken and refused,
aces in the hole that proved
insufficient to save his soul.

goal line stands made,
onslaughts refused,
true lies and false truths,
moist lips and monster tears,
occasional A's and calcu-hell-us,
hand me downs received,
help me ups got n' given,
buildings pricked by airplanes,
death wishes granted
and nothing thereby gained,
children, found and lost,
mine, yours, ours...

The sums, always the sums!

engine noises and pilfered winds
are dulled and semi-silenced,
yet the silvered chamber prison
resonates from end to end
as each ledgered memory,
each packet of the
hidden whispered poems
he does NOT choose to send,
dents the man,
leaving claw marks,
screaming pay attention to me,
as if they were the priorities
of a six year old child,
refusing to be ignored

he does,
attention, he does pay,  
allowing rocking guitar heroes
to overtake weeping violinists,
just as newer transgressions
surfeit even his
most really *****,
ancient sins

No matter how he counts,
unable to master the additions,
no matter how many times
counts are initiated,
taken and retaken,
the tally's net net is
concluded, numbered
"forsaken"

his life's W-2 is black n' blue,
deductions falsely enumerate
and thereby underestimate
dues he has paid summarily,
earnings, distorted,
taxes paid never enough,
to satisfy the justice scales,
so wearily he
cries and enunciates,

The sums, always the sums!

THEN COMES HIS SHOUT OUT,
at his most vulnerable,
when a thin veneer of alumina
separates him,
from a fall inglorious
to an end most gorious,
a rapping beat moderne
insists that he go all out,
disallowing no
airy fairy poetry
to disguise that:

If the integers are false,
the entries of a life lived,
are sucker lies
black eyed flies
toxic shockers
that bust open
stinko lockers
where the B.S.
mocking stories
are kept

don't look close
at his documents
they ain't exactly
heaven sent
and the government men
be back on his track
their aviator shades
protect them from
burning light of the
man's furnace
where he burns their liens,
and the agent's ear pieces
drown out his screams of

The sums, always the sums!

God bless you,
keep and recall those packets of
whispered wishes, good tithes,
that the man bequeaths,
gift baskets of
expresso essentials
with God's love delivered

Tho his words,
amateurish and unvarnished,
silly and pompous,
nonetheless, they are the
return on his investments,
his yearnings for your happiness
are the savings accumulated,
though meager jewels are they,
they are ad valorem,
mixed into his confused murmurings

here then,
are his summings up,
what he wills you,,
the tally finale
the best wisdom is
found on coffee cups
at 2:47am.

Dance
Love
Sing
Live

to which he respectfully amends with a
Write.
(See banner photo)

1535

The Life that tied too tight escapes
Will ever after run
With a prudential look behind
And spectres of the Rein—
The Horse that scents the living Grass
And sees the Pastures smile
Will be retaken with a shot
If he is caught at all—

Icicles hang from the cannons of my love
The bridge was taken , lost , and retaken
Many times before it was blown up

Now ice lays at the bottom ,
my forkless will
Cold rock kisses freeze lips
Brushable embraces hide their warmth

The harsh abandoned illusions
Come cold chested to breathe
Sparrows come reciting Bible verses

They flutter leaving debris
Of fractured nominclatures
Destined not to be

If I fire the cannon's of love
The icicles will shatter
****** to the ground of loud booms

But no one will hear
The shattering of hearts
Nor catch the falling icicles

Still the icicles remain
On the cannons of love
For all time

It'll be alright by the lightening
it helps us walk like itself;
walking up through the ceiling window
of my flat
we link myth and flesh
amongst the cherub jokes and sinuous cloud,
hands shaking pulse in the concaves,
death dance and phoenix breeze,
the prayer and the wet
rolling down the slates
harmony in our butts, rolling the storm back, and watching it all
happen.

The night spills its last beer like weighted sweat.
The opera accepts our tickets and slices us down with gallous applause
Where do our limbs stop being the night?
They do not, so it seems, and spread the thunder out
from our one hand
to another;
the nails, and skull, of one, open
fist, retaken-
and driven up
from the worlds core, remedy in scent
the talent of our blood,
damming the poison, allowed to evolve
inside cell
and be another - celestial light, that not only drives the heard,
but is at home in the energy of waking
life.

The lightening passing down through gelatenous night clouds,
caring that there is only sense in the warmth of our mind, our synapse grace,
the float of our hands moving away from the globe,
un lapin mouvements de warren
farmer gathering his flock as the night moves
chain smoker watching you cook
another reason to storm the bellowing halls, one more toast to the sodden market,
brings the landscape to a halt, and strokes out its weariness as apes walk
the amazonian peaks, as the sunrise settles down
and into us; summits
made of nothing,
but the story of your day, all that makes a man
know
and remember
that yours
are always waiting
and are willed by things
that I will never know
completely, but walk like lightening;
creating,
when the storm comes.

Letting me know
it's all **** false,
if not
you.

As a boat atop a glittering,
fragile sea, I am.

Storms frequent the waters,
and threaten me to capsize.

Ensnared in a titanic battle;
the meeting of the infinite heavens
and the untamable deep.

I shout to Thee in a full desperation, and Behold!
- my ropes become taught, the helm is retaken,
and I endure on the grand Stallion.

In the beginnings of the ceased wind I praise and laud and sing.

But aught the wind stop...
the sun, the flat, and the ease overtake
my vigilant spirit.

And how my tongue goes stale,
my muscles as a sleeping giant.
I thirst, but until the brink of Death...
I see it not.

You find me there, pondering the drink of Salt,
which becomes of a man Deliriousness and Violence.

Just as I yield to jump,
and swim that endless swim,

                          Your Right Hand catches me,
                          on all but a whim.

Fortitude regained, and rid of shame;
With a visage of stone, and straight before;
I unfurl my sail, and proceed,
back into the gail.

no one spoke
we got back home and
closed the door
coaxed fire lit and
sat well back
a brew in hand we
bent, compared
the lessons as
that music played
next room, next door
the child outside
his laughter welled
decision made
and past retaken
set afoot now
walk the path
to fireplace we
took the urn and
spilled the ash
into the flame
now we're all done
playing his old game

It's been four and a half years since I took my dog, and left the rainy little state of Washington. At seventeen, you never expected me to make a life for myself. I was just your incomplete daughter, whose name you cringed saying. I shouldn't like girls and I shouldn't smoke ***. Music is only a dream and poetry is no real goal. Abigail. You gave me a beautiful name, one I used to cherish. On my birthday, when you (in your drunken stupor) sat me down, over a bottle of wine, I never thought animosity would come from your heart.

I was never empty before, under the misconception of love. You called me hollow, and that word can never be retaken. So I have taken that name, and with it I will pave my own existence.

I am Hollow, nothing else, nothing more.

I am a shell, void of life, lost in the sands.

I can't settle down, because I am cursed to emptiness.

Who wants me?

After all, I am *Hollow.

The lie that lives
is bound in a book or told, vocalized
-ever hear a calf cry in a milk barn
-make that noise
as tale one may make into a metaverse,
- it lacks a name or that name
- is unspeakable, that is the ploy
- say my name

whither idle word awrit or spat, some say
in the beginning,
first dot to mean e, or some sucha thing
a letter
.
let it be knowing, exponentially
growing, stretching edges
pushing press press
up against gravity
itself the core
of all that holds us, here, earthly
as we seem
we heirs of wind and nada mas,
masters of making

mistakes retaken as chances, work look
second glances,
some thing seems
shiny
see'

it moved it chewed abit of the bud
I grew, in that twisted branch that led
to ba'hai, yes,
hai. right.

Fun though, nobody hurt, you know
when its real,
and you forget to breathe.

- good line
- you're mortal now, doitchaself
- faster
- or slower, lighter
- or darker,
darker, oranging a purple mantle
on three wanderers,

parts of the system we are parts of,
actual parts.
functional, working parts, paid
with vicarious thrills, djewnotice, its
colder now,
and darker, yes, I did, notice, there
remain tribal bonds,
some sealed in blood and love, as the
weavers of wondering tales told in days so
old
'tis a wonder, there' any life in these'tall,

gutteral stops'as commas do signal. stop
,'.; signs letter's signal subtilities subtler
than any beast, a we we imagine

we may realize
eventually eats us alive,

Jolishit, that felt so real/

8 seconds. Minimum, you're 10 minutes short.
Your overrode the stats.
What were the odds?