City Slicker was lost in the bush -
two days without food
and no water
(battery in his smartphone died
so he couldn't google how to survive)
and then he stumbled into a farm
and he found a nice big cow
and he started drinking its milk straight off

But naive City Slicker, he died
How?
*The cow sat down

roundabout, unsteady weight
of my feet upon the sidewalk, sinking
deep into the cracks of drug dealers
and ambling adolescents
and old mothers
and young fathers, and whatever else
this city has to offer, its population
unknown to me, bewildering
since where i come from, everybody
has a name
and i know it
so this is weird
the imbalance between known
and unknown, the strange feeling
of a shift in the atmosphere that follows me
the loss of control that i feel
when i step down from the bus and make my way
through the crowd, feeling drunk
and off-kilter, feeling like
a drifting newspaper, out of date
trying to find some sense of community
but instead i find only small relationships
each separate from the other
each with a different dynamic, a different colour
a different reason for staying together
a different reason for falling apart
(and that happens
so much faster here)
and yet somehow i find that
i like it this way
having so many little lives, towns
to choose from
that there is always somebody, somewhere
willing to brighten my day
and so i think i’ll be okay, i’ll transition
into a city girl, all hardened and shiny
and maybe even stylish
with only the roots of my home peeking out
from beneath my feet, saying
don’t forget
and i won’t
i promise
city slicker pinky swear

There are only two ways to truly know someone: sleep with them or take them bowling.
Phoenix Aime was the woman of my dreams. So, I took her bowling.

Paid for a game. Rented shoes. Got the little, sticky bracelet thingy that said Slippery Joe Lanes.
That way if we got in some sort of accident on the way home,
the guy at the morgue could identify us as bowlers. Anyway, here's the bulleted list of what I knew about Phoenix up to that point:

• She looked like Diane Keaton circa 1972
• She talked with great pretension concerning craft beer
• She only patronized two restaurants: Denny's and IHOP
• She was eight years older than me
• She kissed my sister once on a dare
• Her shoe size was 7
• She was perfect or a near synonym

The bowling alley was empty save a World War II vet in a wheelchair and his wife at lane six,
and they were barely there. Country music played over the loud speaker. And I felt cozy. Predictable. Like a payment plan on the QVC.

That was until Phoenix said, "I forgot something. I'm going to go talk to Mack real quick."
Mack worked the front desk, according to his name tag. Talk to Mack. She just talked to Mack. Mack was sleeping with her. I untied my shoelaces. Oh, Mack, love your red polo with blue tiger stripes.
I pulled my sneakers off. Oh, Mack, I love it when you dip your finger in nacho cheese and feed it to me. Slid my right foot into bowling shoe. Halfway in with the left, and my socked foot struck something plastic. A stick of tiny deodorant. Like unsavory truck-stop-to-truck-stop deodorant. Oh, Mack, I love it when you deodorize -- so hard. Pull the strings tight on the left shoe. Oh, Mack, rub the deodorant until your underarms are SO CHALKY AND WHITE.

"You okay?" Phoenix asked.

"Yeah, what do I look like something's wrong?"

She carried a seafoam green bowling ball with a ****** Mary insignia. "It looks like you triple-knotted your shoes there."

And I said something dumb like, better safe than sorry.

"Sorry about leaving you all alone. Mack holds onto my ***** for me," she said.  I bet he does. "I hate talking to that guy." What? "He's a vegan."

Now, at that time in my life, I was a vegan. And had planned some stirring remarks about the processing of sweet little piggies into cancerous hot dog machines on the way to pick her up. Thought she would think me full of passion, "on fire" for a cause, you know? The wise thing would have been to say, oh well, I'm a vegan. But instead I asked, "What do you mean?"

"You know serial killer's get a last meal before they're executed, right?"

"Right." Where the hell is this going?

"Well, have you ever heard of someone on death row requesting a last meal that didn't involve some sort of animal product? Gacy had buckets of chicken, Bundy had a medium rare steak, even uh, ****, what was his name, McVeigh, Timothy McVeigh he had two pints of mint chocolate ice cream. Dairy."

"I'm not sure how this refutes veganism."

"Nobody is a vegan for their last meal. Nobody. I'm not going to subscribe to a diet that I can't follow until the very end. Live every day like your last, that's my motto."

"That's your motto." I said. To be a great listener, just repeat the last three or four things anyone says to you and raise your eyebrows a little bit. (Examples: "My dog died." -- "You're dog died.", "I never ate breakfast burritos again." -- "Never ate it again.", "I love you." -- "You love me.")

Over Phoenix's shoulder, over by lane six, the wife wheeled the World War II vet up to the lane. And he tossed the ball. Good team, I thought. Want to know someone take them to the bowling alley.

Phoenix removed a glove from her pocket. She had her own ball. Brought her own badass, jet black bowling gloves. And if her carnivorous tendencies hadn't already put a ***** in the Golden Days of Josh and Phoenix, that glove did.

She typed her name first on the scoring computer. Didn't ask if I wanted to go first. That's fine. Approached the lane, three fingers inside the ****** Mary. She brought her bony arm back with the grace of a ballerina tucked away stage right in the shadows. Mary cut from grace slid down the lane with a spin.

Strike. I couldn't really see the pins from my angle. But I recieved a transmission via the "yes" and arm pump. That was two marks against her, and I was going to three. I'd call it strikes, but well, the whole bowling skew.

Here's a bulleted list of what a "yes" and arm pump immediately taught me:

• She takes bowling serious.
• If you take bowling serious, when do you relax?
• She'd never relax.
• My life would be tucked shirts, matching belts and shoes.

For six frames, I picked up fours and sevens. Phoenix, though, nothing but strikes. I threw a gutter on frame seven. Like a normal human being, I shrugged. Made a face out the sides of my mouth. Kept it light.

"I thought you were a grown *** man," Phoenix said.

"Me too."

What happened next, I willed. I'm not god or anything like that. At the time, just cosmicly ******.
Her step stuttered. 7-10 split. "Mack!" she screamed. "Floors are slicker than a used car salesman's hair."

From across the alley,
"Sorry, Phoenix, baby. I'll bring you some nachos. That make up for it?"

"Ain't gonna knock down two pins is it?"

"So, uh, no nachos then?"

"Actually, go ahead and bring those."

She lined up. Back straight. Legs together. She rolled her neck. "You're about to see how it's done."

And I didn't. She broke it down the middle. Field goal. In that moment, that holy moment, I was knowledge plateau. Vindicated.

For about 10 seconds.

Mack swaggered over, nachos in hand. "Phoenix, sweetie, you okay?"

"Do I look okay?"

"No, that's why I asked."

"Just give me the nachos."

"Ah crap." Mack had gotten his pointer finger in the nacho cheese.

"Let me see it."

And right there, right in front the ****** Mary seafoam green bowling ball, she slurped the cheese off his finger."

Frame seven, a good as time as any to call it a match. The wife of the World War II vet kissed her husband's forehead. Handed him a ball. As I walked by, hand on shoulder. "Struck gold, dude."

If I had any super power I would want the power to control time.
To stop this moment
To relive the past
And to see the future.

If I had any super power I would want the power to control time.
To slow it down
To speed it up
And to play over.

If I had any super power I would want the power to control time.
To spend it wisely
To cherish it
And to learn from it.

If I had any super power I would want the power to control time.
Because it is the cruelest villain
It keeps moving regardless of our lives
It keeps ticking and tormenting
It claims to heal all wounds
It is the dictator of life.

I'd be stronger than super man
I'd be slicker than batman
I'd be bulkier than the hulk
I'd be faster than quicksilver
All because I'd have the power to control time.

The rusted belt is tight
in our hometown city.
Black smoke masks the lights
In one gaseous setting;
the permenant fitting
Of our hometown city

Trees exchange steel
In our hometown city.
You’ve never seen the wheels
churn and the deals burnt
In the factories that take pity
On the nitty-gritty of our
Own hometown city.

The last laughs with us
In our hometown city
We don’t’ ride the Cali bus,
But yea, I'd say we are witty,
cause al'the prettiest girls
Live in our hometown city.

The river’s been burnt
In our hometown city.
Yea we’ve learned a lot
From our own ad(e)missions;
And now, clinics fill prescriptions
in ourown hometown city

In my own hometown city
We’re slicker than you,
Even though our York’s isn’t new…
Why? Watch my city revive in
Front of your eyes- then ask me;
Why is this your hometown city?

Amelia wore a yellow slicker raincoat,
rain or shine, Every day without fail
And her smile was almost as bright as that
But not quite.

Amelia took off the raincoat in the seventh grade, when
a boy said she looked like a duckling,
"the ugly duckling". They laughed, but her?
Not quite.

Tenth grade rolls around. The raincoat is
collecting dust in the very back of a closet filled to the brim
with clothes no one could say were an ugly duckling's feathers.
First day of school, and it begins to rain. Pour, even.
But not quite.

Amelia is in a rush. She grabs the first raincoat she sees,
the ugly duckling yellow slicker. She
begins to cry, and her tears are almost
blending in with the rain.
But not quite.

with no other choice, she wears her feathers.
she expects laughter, and pointed fingers
but she is met with the same smiles as
she always was.
"Cute raincoat, Amelia!"
And she begins to smile, almost as wide as she did
when she was an innocent duckling.
But not quite.

For Amelia, who found her wings
in an old yellow slicker raincoat,
smiled wider.

A thought sometimes forms

I live too much
yet I do too little.
    Woken at strange hours,
never asleep.
       Rapt in raps
       or wrapped in riddles
Chained to links
or hammered to handle
    stubbed to bone
Mens et
               Manus

There is time yet, I swear
        To flourish
To dream

        To make
To be
        To do
        To create

Will I?
We'll see
There's time yet to tell

Be yourself, they say
    The best you you can be
But once more— Will I have time
        To edit

I live less
        I do less
    Portfolio: empty
    or at least, locked away.
        Excitement too.
            Blank slate
Blank palette
Is there any paint?

Can I truly make
        excitement saturate?
Will I be able to place
        value as I see fit?
    Can the world be hewn slimmer, slicker
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger

Tis daft I think, to amuse such a notion
But not necessarily so daft to be wrong
Emerson called it misunderstood,
Shaw found it unreasonable
But ay, theres the rub
That bed once made, must be lain in and
all dreams which might be had are alone not enough

Bloom effects don't work outside the movies.

Ideas are trash, these are recession times
Deflations made them a farthing a dozen
                                  
                        ­       Started 10.03.11
                               Unfinished
                               D.B. Guy

Whether weather withers
Heavy penny pinchers
Or orders hor d'oeuvres
Don't mean I'm richer
I'm just not a city slicker
Don't say I'm bitter
I got honey in my pitcher
Oh no wait that's pilsner
Sorry I forgot my censor
And she told my I got a ****** up
******
There's a reason I don't miss her
And I'm just trying to be honest
But she left with my wallet
And now I'm elbow deep in Comet
Paying for a dinner, faux gras, I said that like ***** grass to the waiter
I know I can't pronounce it
**** it he's a hater
And she said see ya later
Later on Imma be Dark side
Like Master Vader
I roll up like high tide
And my homies roll up to Eastside
And I tried to go nuts
Now I gotta run hide
'Cuz bacon munch next door on their donuts
Call me crazen, brazen, but
I was cravin' me a donut
So I strolled up
And then she showed up
Tryna get some tacos
And she was with her ****-o
Head look like a rock-o
And he knows bout them rocks though
So I zip-zap-skidaddle
Back to the Eastside
Now the bar died
So I try to find a quick ride
Down to mi casa
But the cars they passa
Without no second glance - uh
Until I drive myself - uh
Now I'm in a jail cell
Callin' for a lawyuh
Writing out my woes nuh
Hiding from my phone bruh
Cigarettes at home
And my heads all full of fog
I should sleep this off
Imma sleep this off

Young Liam loved Orange
and liked to wear ties.
To his firehouse friends
He was one of the guys.

He had his own locker
a slicker and hat.
He also had cancer,
and a bad one at that.

From early on in his life
he fought neuroblastoma ;
An invasive tumor
a metastatic carcinoma.

His family who loved him
labored to save
their dear little child
Prince Liam the Brave.

He faced surgery bravely,
engaged in his fight..
He endured radiation
Chemo and knife.

When many a New Yorker
complains about stress,
Prince Liam was stoic
When put to the test.

Then just before Christmas
he suffered a relapse
He became neutrapenic-
His immune system collapsed.

With blood in his *****
And a spot on his lung
Liam grew weak.
his defenses undone.




An Amethyst stone
he received from a friend
was his talisman of hope
that he held to the end.

The worst part of the journey
was when hope was gone.
Then Liam lay, still and silent
in his mother's arms.


There are brave fire fighters
Who’ll be fighting back tears
Brave Prince Liam has died,
He lived only six years

There are many old people
still avoiding the grave
Who know less about love
Than did Liam the brave

We will gather together
In St Francis’ nave
To remember the life of
Prince Liam the brave


i

I went down to watch the ocean this morning - well, Long Island Sound anyway. My last chance for a while, classes start tomorrow. I wonder sometimes how I can be refreshed by that gray, drizzly, melancholy harbor - locked in winter’s intemperate grip - but I am.

The salty air seems thicker and richer, the sky bigger and wilder. There’s the relaxing sound mix of wave and gull. The ugly brown pelicans bickering like old, married couples, as a lone fisherman, in his yellow macintosh slicker, sorts his boat lines under the watchful, hopeful, hungry eyes of floating black-backed gulls.

Maybe I should become a sailor? Besides, I hear it’s a great way to meet guys.

Where's the man whose love is big enough

To catch a waterfall?

Whose rain slicker is sturdy enough to let things roll

Who isn't afraid to stare down a stream

Or look a storm right in the eye?

This man doesn't run;

The water-bearer--

On his shoulders he lifts the weight of love.

Do you know how many times I've seen

A man turn and run away from me

Instead of rushing to the sea?

He trickles away from feeling;

He dries up.

No, the man I'm speaking of

Is more than an oasis in a desert of difficulty;

He is a full-on river

Gaining speed

As he rolls down the mountainside

Carving canyons as he goes

Defeating the foes

That try to make us hide

from our emotions

--In fact, this man feels oceans

And never turns back

On his decisions

Doesn't reconsider the love he's given

or what he lacks

Because when he lacks, he makes more.

This is the secret of persistence

That keeps the sea kissing the shore

Because at times the tide gets pulled back by the force of the moon

But this man keeps sovereignty over the moment, knowing that soon

He will come crashing back onto her shore

And she will be waiting.

Yes, the earth would wait

Solid as a rock

for his return-

Her faith unshakable,

Though she is moved by his caresses.

She remains ever the same,

But she is molded, changed

By his loving form.

Made even more beautiful

By his presence.

Where is a man like this?

I've yet to find

One with such ardent purpose of mind

As to sweep his lady love

Off her feet, in a great flood

Of kisses and hugs

and promises fulfilled

The man who has an immutable will

And an unalterable course

Who dissolves the rock

And inscribes his love into the very earth

Not just by strength or force,

but perseverance

And resolve for all he's worth.

Asked to write a poem of yellow, what could I possibly have to add that would celebrate this word found within the sun, the moon, at times, the stripes of a bumblebee, a butterfly, a yellow jacket's sting,  the brilliant splash on a painted bunting, the goldfinch, canary, a yellow breasted warbler, baby chicks, a rubber duck, a baby duck, too, a dandelion in spring, a sunflower, a rose of sorts, a lily, daffodils in a field of wheat, rubber boots upon your feet on a rainy day, a slicker, too, a school bus, a number two pencil, a taxi when you're running late, a tangy lemon, a banana, sometimes a grapefruit, butter on a pancake, egg yolk for your western omlet, lemon drops, cheese, macicheese, and a cheese pizza, too, yellow hair on a farm boy, a piece of straw in his father's mouth, his yellow-haired beautiful sis, her yellow polka-dotted dress, a yellow kitten, a dog in a sad movie like old yeller.

So nice, the color yellow, on a sunny day in May.

r ~ 5/3/14

He floated like a butterfly,
Stang like a bee –
The one and only
Muhammad Ali.
“I’m The Greatest”, he always said,
20th Century Sports Personality,
Put his rivals to bed.

Yes, he WAS the Greatest, that’s for sure.
Above the rest by a massive score.
Faster than a hummingbird,
Slicker than a snake,
Those quick hands of his
They made opponents quake.

He’d get into bed
Before the light went out.
Rarely a whisper,
Usually a shout.

Like a long-distance runner
Ali had the endurance.
Anyone who fought him
Needed lots of insurance.

Ali was great and didn’t he know it.
A witty speaker and amusing poet.
Some of his lines I’ve used right here:
They had his rivals shaking with fear.

No way would Ali fight the Viet Cong.
For that he merits a Nobel Gong.
He was the champion of the oppressed,
A hero with whom we all were blessed.

He had charisma, way beyond sport.
Ali influenced our every thought.
He’ll call into Hell on the way to Heaven,
To knock out Satan, in round seven.

Paul Butters

Maybe you said it once
And breathed it quietly in my ear
As we sat in your freezing car
Parked in front of the library
The roads were slick
But you were slicker
Handing out compliments like candy

Maybe you said it a couple of times
Over and over on the telephone
As we both laughed into the receiver
Me picturing your smile with every word
The connection was weak
But I was weaker
Falling head first into you

Maybe you said it a thousand times
And held my face in your hands
As we laid in that twin sized bed
Your body pressed against my own
The room was warm
But you were warmer
Moving for the first time in sync

But maybe you never said it at all
Or at least you never meant it
As you said this was the last time
Standing on the other side of the room
The air was heavy
But I felt heavier
Fracturing me piece by piece

frozen in time he was quite the spectacle
thick rimmed frames traced rigid lines
projected from kaleidoscope eyes
sharp with the corners of unknown dimensions
caught hot handed
both in expectation and reminisce
so awkwardly present

most nights
he spins fairytales
double-dipping moons in molten watches
skewered with his arms
      these wooden poles
stirring the coals buried in ashes
he steps lightly.stomps
dances with the rings of saturn
then rolls like thunder
chasing Zeus's sore words
zig-zagging down to earth
ooohhhh…..
he may not melt hearts with that shoodoop
  that bebop
but they break for his habit of
making promises

he who holds time in the cave below his tongue
which now juts left off the reef of his lip
slip into
trip - - - skip
fall.into.this.
go mad for the pitch of his sweat
glaring at the spotlight
Dalí
painting worlds in the moments
between your ears and soul
he is god to their populations
and their hymns excite
rhythms ignite
visions of hard candy
tumbling your teeth smooth as river stones

he does not belong in a gallery
no high tipping wine sipping city slicker big wig
should ever feel comfortable in his blast radius
he makes bombs from tribal instruments
wigwam concoctions
set to test resting souls for pulses
paradiddle defibrillator
triplet stent for arteries
he is tall
and now thin
pressed against the wall as if under interrogation

splitting breath from its carbon
asphyxiated by the frame
he spells his words with motion
I find him
mute

Rock step, trip-le, trip-le*
              Rock step, trip-le, trip-le

Judah bids us "Good morning!" at nine at night,
He's like Fred Astaire,
Big moves and big ears.

Dylan is late coming in,
Sliding out of his leather jacket with a sour expression -
He's too cool for this game.

Lindsey drags in the speaker system,
All goofy grins and ugly sweaters,
And she's so happy to see us.

Rock step, trip-le, trip-le

Andy with his slick moves
and slicker hair.

Matt who always smelled strange
but lost to Kevin.

Susan with her tight, swinging hips
and constant critiques.

Pete thinks he can do this,
and then breaks your arm.

Caleb concentrates too hard,
and tries not to look you in the eyes.

Josh gets bored with the basics,
deciding to breakdance instead.

Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
                Rock step, trip-le, trip-le

And after an hour of being passed from one lead to the next
Like a hot potato,
And then standing with your back against the basement wall
During the free-for-all,
You decide you rather be studying algebra
and leave.

Lindsey waves goodbye.

Sitting here hoping you miss me
Cause things ain't been the same
Since that good for nothing city slicker
Keeps trying to give you his last name

Rolling into town
Like a brand new Cadillac
Well I'm here to tell you mister
I want my baby back

He may take you to far off places
Places we could never go
Like over there in Georgia
Where you could visit the streets of Rome

Or take you to a romantic dinner
With candle light just you and he
Toasting you by the riverside
In Paris, Tennessee

You can drive a world away from here
In his fancy sports car like it weren't nothing
Clinking your bottles of Lone Star beer
High stepping it out in Dublin

I even here tell he's taken you
To the sunny shores of Naples
Way down South in Florida
Something I was never able

But can he take you out frog gigging
Or catch fireflies in a jar
In all your worldly gallivanting
Don't you miss the way we were

Has anything he done for you
Been as sweet as chewing on a piece of Bahia grass
While standing in an open field
Watching the clouds blow past

Or listening to a Whippoorwill
Sing out it's nightly song
On the front porch you and me swinging
To it's rhythm all night long

Don't give a hoot about places he takes ya
That's about all I gotta say about that
After all this highfalutin society traveling
All I want is my baby back

I built for you
(another nightmare).

goodness,
is your heart still broken?

I consider your names from time to time
and fall under in wonder,
if the syllables were just an uttering-reach
for your attention,
or if they were failed attempts at catching
amusements-daze for your entertainment.
my sound waves wanted to cradle your letters,
to give you the alphabet in symphonies
harmonious with my admiration for you
and all I thought you stood for.

you flipped me on my stomach,
face down
trying to muffle the sound of my love,
what pain!
trying to force me not to love so loud.
I felt less than proud to
pull you out and leave you empty,
wishing, for once, not to be so untouched.

your passion for passing opportunities
to prove yourself worth the patience
was the only thing you held onto
when I opened my arms.
your touch no longer comfort,
more infectious and breathtaking
in a wind knocking your lungs down into your guts sort of way,
with all your broken promises jutting into my rib cage,
shredding the butterfly wings that used to arise that love-sick shutter
until I'm sick of love and left with blinds
that leave me to mutter about the darkness.

you were a creature of great wonder in the lack of light,
the shadows painting angels wings
sprouting from the backside of your heart
shooting through your spine,
your halo shining so bright that I lost my concentration,
I took a second look and lost my path
in a concentrated dose of your praise,
witnessed the sin seeping through your skin
as you sweat and soon there was nothing left
but the sound of your breath and the words
and the words and the words and the sickness
came creeping in like a crash.

your wings melt in the daylight
your teeth rot in your cheeks
halo crooked and eyes clamped tight
you sleep because you're too weak to speak
to another human being face to face
and from your face sprouted flowers made of meat
but the bees stung me when it was time to eat.

guilty by association.
guilty of procreation tendencies with absolutely no intention
of creating anything but distance from the wreckage.
broken hearts are broken bones
are breaking our breaking
we've broken apart and my heart
it has been shielded, restored into a beating,
living, loving organism.

for someone who wanted so badly to play the part of jesus,
you sure didn't pray enough, laugh enough or heal enough.
you didn't even try.

you were a wreck that I couldn't withstand,
a self-imposed torture,
because the thrill of losing everything
was too intoxicating to escape.

you were a right handed lover
and a left hand driver
with a ******* and not much else to say
with all that anger in your heart,
with all that hatred in your bones,
you will tear at your flesh to dig deeper
to try and understand something that's already been explained,
as all who once loved you will watch you rot away.

silver tongue city slicker
stay at home in your cabinet
don't come calling or knocking
it's too shocking: I'm thankful.

most positively,
I am free,
because without the wreck
there wouldn't have been anything to feel at all.

Each day passing by in a wild-eyed dash
In truth my soul fell aside, but bluer birds still doth call
Missed that cardinal harken when I set down my last two cents
Kickers of tricks, scroll-ers of myth, bottlers of ships
Knew it all along, just couldn’t stiff the rest
Refuse to capitol, refuge atop the pious politic that steeps these hills
Is it not hard to tell? The meanings of what buys in bulk
The people is we, of what sells slicker than plot itself
A minority rule, hid reasons from majority fooled

That is working trade class, taught to chain drive
The gleaming sheen glowing green, crowning jewel¬¬¬ is as mist and steam, fleeting as the wash of this worlds seething seas
We, the misanthrope of being, bloom in the warmth of idea
Only to recede at the water mark high of each our lives

Authenticity bless the distant time, costless venture to each about die, salute through another caesars’ dilated eye a definition
Eons in annunciation; immortality flashing by
Reverence cannot lie, not long at least neathe a chipping patina
Gold leafed by the hand of man, coerced creations’ fondling finger tips strips thin, leaving us then to watch the weathering

Not a one may ever remember for too quickly or too timely
Arrives dismemberment, a cyclic certainty, often relegated falsely
As loss or gain, truly misspoken frames for reference
At any given attempt to render the language of tongues, oh speaker the son of the morning shamelessly ****** by predecessors increasingly lavish

Phonemic savage; life running rabid, splicing love over the atom
The simple one whom tends a patch of what he calls “cabbage”
Knowing always the wordless truth that is his field fallowing
Unconvinced by everyone, save himself if nothing else
Penitent candor dangle, frameless wonder can you hear the thunder?

I search this ocean of emotional wrath,
Rage building up from below the core,
I study the textbook acts of feeling hopeless,
In a world of halfwitted fools,
Whom I claim superiority over.

Behold! This artifact of false pride,
I discovered it as I meandered the ocean on my love boat,
Fighting constant rouge waves of selfishness,
It calmly floated through the white foams.

I defected on the **** deck,
Holding no desire for consideration of my mates,
Mates who could care less for me,
And my prejudice towards sailing on this body of water,
They then made me walk the plank.

My heart rate reaches a point of vulnerability,
As I struggle to hold my breath below the surf,
I lasted unusually longer than a month's worth of travel,
Floating on nothing but my buoyancy,
I reached shore,
Suffocating with no use of my hands and feet.

Ironically,
A lady fisherman retrieved me from the waves,
Reciting a prayer, then proceeding CPR,
I regain consciousness, gasping for air,
Forgetting what was to become of me,
I grab her by the torso of her slicker,
And kiss her passionately,
With no ***** given.

She did of course kiss me back,
Confused but delighted,
Once she realized what was occurring,
She pulled away smiling,
I gave her a glance projecting my ruthlessness,
Because I am in fact,
Superior to the king himself.

The sun looked innocent,
As the clouds rolled in viciously,
This storm seemed like an old friend,
I recall it's grubby warfare,
Kicking me around as I swayed to and fro,
On the mahogany of my dear rig,
A rig that has been stolen from me,
On the lost sea of emotional wrath.

Twisting

Slithering

A never-ending chaotic morass

Winding through

No sooner does the light of dawn bleed over the horizon

Than the shadowy form of dread

Eclipses and quenches the fledgling beam

Waging a constant battle

Darkness always seemingly victorious

or...

Ba da da ba

Juxtapose the extremities

Daddy-o

The slicker downs a bottle of rye

Hits the open road in a beat up coupe

Off to see that daring young man

On the flying trapezoid

Zoom - zap - yowza

Upside

Downside

Thru the water

Ellipsis!!

Awakening

Comes

Slowly

But

Inevitably

Like

the inexorable process

Of

continental d r i f t

Self-awareness

Dawns upon the unsuspecting soul

Crashing down

Edifice of  substance

No more.

After the matter, he said he saw it like an old black-n-white
because I had said I loved Cary Grant films.
But I know now that he couldn’t have possibly
because he told me he hated classics.
We stood three baby steps away from each other
on that beautifully manicured stretch of green.
He smiled so widely and wildly,
seeing as if through a sleeping gas dream haze,
I, ever cautious, looked with clear, hard blue eyes
and scrutinized and analyzed until
the grass was jaded green and the blue sky
was smudged with laundry grey clouds.
He told me excitedly, in what he assumed
was a lover’s pur, that he had something for me.
I thought the tone was an aggressive command
and I snapped my eyes back from the splotch
of mud from my boots, and was horrified to find
that I was now a mile away from him.
How’d I end up here, and why didn’t he notice
I wasn’t where he was? When I asked after the matter,
he said with venom that he assumed I would follow,
like I always did.

He had pulled from his pocket a beating pink heart
and stretched his arm out to me, but I shook my head.
I can’t reach it from here, I really tried to let him hear.
I am no where ready to take that!
But he smirked with older superiority,
a grin I had come to loathe,
and brought his arm back behind his head,
like a veteran pitcher at the mound, and followed through.
But he was never in baseball, he was a speech kid in high school,
he didn’t know how to throw, and the wind picked up
that little pink heart like a paper plane.

I tried, I really did. I ran until my lungs ignited
with blood, pumped my legs until the muscles
fell off, strained my hands and fingers forward until they were as long
as red oaks in an ancient forest.
But it wasn’t enough. I was still thousands of feet
away from catching the weak little ball of emotion,
because I hadn’t played ball since I was fifteen.

The delicate little heart landed in this thick brown mud puddle.
On such a lovingly cared for lawn, why was there
a huge-*** mud pond?!
I frantically waded in to try to and help it.
When I found it, the heart was contentedly
sitting in the mud as if it had landed in
a warm kettle of chocolate.
I was sad to see it so easily mislead, and knew I had to return
because I knew I couldn’t clean this little bruised ******.

As gently as I knew how, I eased it out of the mud,
and stoically walked back to the boy
who had so carelessly thrown his heart.
Unfortunately, the grass was slicker than i thought,
and the sun was in my eyes, and I guess
I’m just clumsier than I thought, so about five steps away
I tripped and dropped the fragile little heart.
As the tender pink thing landed, finally it
and he noticed the state everything was in.
He looked down at the banged, muddy heart
and I watched in fear as his eyes filled up.
With quiet misunderstanding he asked
how could this happen? Why did you do this?

I must admit, I just can’t do displays of emotion,
so I told him I was sorrier than words could say
and as iron bars of guilt began to pile along my shoulders,
I turned 180 degrees away from him.
I felt his hand reach for me, but all he could grasp
was my rustling skirt, and I couldn’t bare to see him,
so I sprinted forward and let my dress rip to flowing shreds.

The air from his screams helped pushed me into a flight.
The sooner I disappeared, the sooner he’d take notice of his heart,
I kept telling myself this, praying for this.
After the matter, when I asked what he saw,
all he said was a pretty girl that dropped his heart at his feet,
and step on it, smeared it with her ***** boots.
I deserved the harsh words, I do know that.
This is no plea for the girl that broke your heart,
but did you ever think she might have really tried,
and it isn’t completely her fault? Sometimes she’s
afraid to see your name on her phone
because she can’t bare to see the beaten heart
she just couldn’t save.

Slashers

I grew up when rock bands were first here
from out of nowhere they would apprear
long haired, bearded hippies makin noise

some were quite good once you figured them out
others were bad, couldnt sing a lick, only shout
wondered where they got the money to buy the toys

one thing they featured, were loud out of tune guitars
made more weird sounds, then the race track cars
but some of them knew or actually learned how to play

these were the slashers who knew more than 3 chords
spine tingling sounds, from electric wires on boards
the sounds were so new I would listen all day

now I'm gonna name a few who made an impression on me
I'm sure your opinions will differ and you won't agree
but mostly I'm talking bout the early days of underground rock

there are new ones I know who are slicker than snot
but these are the ones that I never forgot
I can still listen to them now around the clock

ok here we go, hold on to your hat, you can reply to me
if I left off  your favorite, and I'm sure I did;
  
clapton, page, Hendrix, Holdsworth and howe
Bill Nelson, Kath, nugent, krueger, Van Halen
blackmore, knopfler, doucette and Eric johnson
gambale, benson, carlton, farner, frampton
satriani, Johnny A., Gatton, atkins, mayer
schon, lukather, takanaka, ritnour and west
monty montgomery, wes montgomery, keaggy
trower, may, derringer and ford
santana, montrose, morse and Trevor rabin

Gomer LePoet...

i don't usually rhyme much
but my thoughts are coming quicker
i'm lifting into the sky right now
drunk on a curious liquor

i recall a scene in a bar last night
one involving a french tickler
i'm seeing her much more clearly now
my memory no longer flickers
i offered to take her eyes home with me
and her body didn't bicker
i took her to a street in pound town
and oh god, did she take me with her

at the top of her lungs, she called my name
sometimes she called me mister
but alas, it's the next morning now
and i think i'll have to ditch her

98 bottles of jack on the wall
my stomach is getting sicker
my mind is sharp like a noodle
my tongue is getting slicker

wish you could see me right now, mom
*******, i'll take a picture

advance floorplay
that's how these fourplay
money, power, respect, thats my forte
lifes a *****,
that's what my dog say.
i walk the talk- don't listen to Beyond-says
karma busy gettin that foreplay
while finishing first, .
seems to be my forte.
life goes around,
and it **** around, been waiting all day.
i expect the same around fourty
these dudes don't measure up
my spit game slicker than WD-40
turn a grown man to a shorty
i'm even first in 1st class, the view is excellant
serving these fools, I'm a lyrical savant

if i'm talking about the keys, i could be trippin
I frequent flyer miles, so i must be trippin
i'm frequently flyer, now that's advertising!
And they still won't give a nikka credit, how surprising!
took it like a grain of salt, now the steaks is meszmerizing
sipping Moet over the rocks, appalachians
me myself and my iphone uniting nations
they just hope its Opuss, with your hokus pukas
you can point fingers, just don't poke us
I fear no one, cause life ain't a fear
they still criticize god, so I'm fair ground
speak it into to manifest,
let got then handle the rest, with fanase
and since i got a heart of gold,
all i do is treasure chest.

The dew drenched garden on a crisp Autumn morning.
Birds singing their song as you start your day.
Mist rolling over the Hunter Hills & down the galley, creating a lite fog throughout the town.
Your shoes become slicker with moisture, flicking drips into the air as you crunch through the leaves on your walk to school.
Teeth chattering as you make your your journey, steam rising from your mouth a constant reminder of the porige you had for breakfast.
Young & oblivious to the beautiful scenery that surrounds you.
The days when the worst part is facing possible detention.
If only I knew then just how easy I had it.

My neighbor, a beauty, runs naked
into the woods singing
"Help me help me help me help me."
I find her rolling in thorns,
stuffing her mouth with leaves.
     I say, "Please come with me."
     She says, "Blackberry tea."
She bleeds from her back and buttocks.
I reach out my hand.
She flees: barefoot, through brambles.
Somebody has called the volunteer fire brigade.
We come upon her in the hollow of a redwood.
Again I offer my hand.
She clutches and suddenly
pulls fist
to belly.
In an instant the fingers know it all:
     heat, grit, sweat,
     firmness of flesh.
I am paralyzed.
     Dimpled thighs,
     dark electric hair,
     dazed eyes.
A fireman takes her arm,
wraps body in blanket,
stuffs her into the cab of
a fire truck the color of blood.
Men remove helmets and yellow slicker raincoats.
Flashing lights go suddenly dark.
The radio sputters farewell;
neighbors disperse.
Soon street and forest are silent.
My hand
still burns.

No (wo) man is an island
But is it possible to be the
Roaring ocean?
Swallowing rocks with animosity
And spitting out a
Glittery product
Of sandy turmoil

No (wo)man is an island
But is it possible to be the grey
Black boulders?
Among the edge
Where the green lush ends
And the midnight blue
Sadness begins.
Stagnant and indifferent
To the wild hearted seagulls
Perched and picking
Pointing out the imperfections
Of a jagged way of being

No (wo)man is an island
But is it possible to be the drifting
Lofty limitless clouds
A pertinent part of the  paradoxical ceiling
Of the globe
Floating and spreading
Fluffy wings of idealism
offering frustrating fantastical
Dreamy substance
To a crooked solidified world below

No (wo)man is an island
But is there just a small
Glimmering possibility
That if I wanted to be
I could be an island
Lone, and far away
From these
Destructive city slicker
Emotions
That stack on top of each other
Like the condos neighboring my mind
Crowding my consciousness