Not being one, who was born with a green thumb, or one of any other colour
I’ve never had a yearning to plant, nor care for, any type of flora or fauna
But as good fortune would have it; I was blessed, with the mind of a scholar
Or at least that was my theorization; while under the influence of marijuana

This was a period of time, during which knowledge flowed; like a gushing river
Sadly each lesson learned, was in the end, not comprehended and thus lost
But I had this situational calling to earn a living, and so, had these seeds to deliver
To some Basmotical garden; which unfortunately, in my haste, I later tossed

Of course, this occurred during a time of immense erudition; under the influence
This did cause me to manifest myself, as some exceptionally tortured soul
Not realizing how my outer apparent confidence, hid my inner impudence
I, into this garden of good and evil; did so thoughtlessly, let myself stroll

As I entered, under this arching Gothic gate, I immediately sensed a certain presence
And as I walked, was instantly drawn to one side’s fescue; bordering on my path
I was unfazed by the pedestrian variety of growth; but savoured each sweet essence
And as each new scent infused my sensory cells; my nostrils flared in their aftermath

But then on the other side, odors that stung and burned; a forewarning of some kind
So I grasped at my proboscis and squeezed it; to prevent any further *******
Making me gasp for air through my mouth, infusing my throat; though so disinclined  
Then causing me to heave and cough, from the putrid smell; during its gestation

On this side, such flowers of exception did excel; and yet that dreadful smell
On that, so casual a bloom; brought no visual enjoyment, only exquisite perfume
On one, like burning flesh, a rancid smell; it made me gag and want, not there to dwell
On the other, scents that made the nostrils spume, with the pleasance of their plume

Then all at once a revelation; to my left, there exists all nature of exotic foliage
But from its growth, leaped out all manner of fowl stench and guttural malodour
Yet to my right, the umbels lay, with a menagerie of misguided, erroneous spoilage
Though the effervescence of its bouquet; permeated, perceptibly from its disorder

I felt an enticing ubiquity, but not the nature of this presence, to my left and right
So, meandered further down the trail; until at last, I felt this attraction from each force
Both from the left and right, each enticing me to leave the trail, and enter its delight
This did at last, dupe my brain to say, choose; in which direction, to which concourse

Such a variance, made me ponder the relevance of what I had just discovered
Did I sense but apparitions; or was this truly spirits, which must exist among us  
This good or evil that lay hidden on each side, thusly camouflaged or covered
And a novice such as I, knew nothing of their nature; or was it just the cannabis

But, before I could decide, a puissance did ****** my throat and cloistered all my air
Not able to breathe, I impulsively dropped the bag of seeds, which I still carried
And as the bag burst and the seeds spewed forth, I thought, I am without a prayer
****** to my hands and knees upon the path, craving air; my demise, somehow tarried

As I watched those seeds slowly bounce; there arose a stream of sweet pure nectar
Which sped its way to my nostrils; and so relieved that tight noose around my throat
As my asphyxiation lost control; my passing, no longer became an imminent specter
My breathe returned, unencumbered by a ****; this new purity, to now my life denote

Not, to the ease by which I can my life direct, with mere stimulants; to be content
But to look ahead and discern, what it is I see; on which side the good or evil exists
And to forever, let my conscious being preside; over any future occasional discontent
So that now, my concentration would be, on the essentials; of which my life consists

But yet those seeds, so strewn about the footpath; was it for me then, to them gather
Either take their discharge as a sign; if left alone, the wastage may, by itself be fruitful
Or should I harvest each as best I could, to repackage them; and would that matter  
Inasmuch, they were so scattered, I let them lay; to not salvage them, I erred as frugal

So, I left this garden of good and evil; not perplexed by its existence, but assured
That not with the use of some opiates, would my future progress be thusly led astray
But through the realization, that stability and restraint, come from what I have endured
And good or evil, comes from attributes of my character; that I’ve earned along the way

And so, a moral you may ask.....maybe two
Then I say yes; well of course you do

From such a visceral experience, to bring about this massive conscious newel
A meaning was ascertained; firstly, from my consignment, thence, from my deliverance
Don’t scatter your seeds aimlessly, or leave them lay fallow, on a bed sheet or a towel
And trying to discern, delights of good or evil, while high on drugs; is just pure nonsense  
BOEMS BY JA 399

My lovely volley ball
Shattered your panes
Like an action hero
That kills spoilage

Dawn downs from death
To open the file of life
As if it was an owl
Blinded by the light of darkness

A slash from your lashes
Build me this real Lear
A hero is killed forever
You hit a very bad dab.

Repetitive complaining spoilage
Asking for help but pushing away anyone who tries
The way people help isn't the way I want it

I want you
I don’t get to see you when I want to
Because sometimes I need to hold your hand
And I'm punished for needing help

I don’t know if my problem is this depression doc prescribed me with
Or the idea that running away from problems is the path most travelled by
They said that when you held my hand, you brought me down the wrong path
And they said your hands were filthy

But you promised me that you would wash them
Clean them of the sleepless nights
And the assumptions of your life
Prove them wrong

But don’t change who you are
Don’t rinse your hands in bleach like they want you to
Rinse them in the forgiveness those people need while reciting your ABC's
And don’t forget to wash in between our mistakes

How do they expect me to hold foreign hands?
Without a razor in my own
How do they expect me to find sanity?
When they’ve taken everything

Transporting me into the hands of others
Am I too much to handle?
But they didn't even stamp "handle with care" on my crate
Carrying surprises of disappointment

It’s been shipwrecked stormy seas
Seeing familiar faces
Explaining myself over and over again
Monotone and white lies

Of all these 16 years they didn’t even know me
Now pursuing every secret
And every locked door

I don’t hold the key to my own body anymore
It’s in the freckled hands of lullabies
Strings attached
I'm their puppet

tomorrow's hunger
steps on today's sweet produce
best walk carefully

a truism, an overused, abused entrée to the first poem of the day,
they always are night-born, from a slow passage of dark to a light-triggering recording event, a 6 hr. poem period, gestation, incantation

and a sort of relief, temporary

many the miles voyeured, a mentaller feasting sated,
simple rhymes to covet, rephrasing the complexities of
our other lives, where our sub-selfs exclaim, out loud!
this is me unchained, this is me chained, this is...someone

besotted by the rottenness of honesty, once air-exposed,
eyes fixed, no away-turntable, all that well hidden spoilage
in dreams reverent, forsaken, my ashamed-ness, is willing
taken to the scaffold, and by daylight first, perceived, conceived

we may examine the half of me, nay, the all of me, open-face
secrets secreted in my nighttime travelogue, of crimes, revelations,
insects, drownings, strawberry moons, all the fraying edges of a
linen covering, my cadaver pouch of well used words

inscribed thus:

”human born from a sac, and to earth returned, in sackcloth

How long is a dream,
Worth holding on to?

When years,
Decade's,
All pass right by you.

How long is a pain,
Of going without,
Worth a journey,
That may never work out.

And how do you fill,
The void if let go...
Of the dream and goal,
Are what kept you whole...

How long is a dream,
Worth holding on to?

If dreaming said dream,
Leaves your heart split in two?



-------

That dream is true love,
One size for one pair.

But love just like this,
Doesn't come...

From simply.... anywhere...

So before you cast thought,
On what one should do...

I've had broken heart,
Of missing this dream,
From 1.. plus 42...

Why factors

Why do the hopeless die?
Factors the programing called for,
quired first,
ere ever
were required.
(re, once more, locked in place after first.)

Why called for
reason,
why,
why do what you can't do alone
alone?

Never heard, is a discouraging word
on the range

where home was. Why not?

Nobody who came this far, carried that dis-crap
in our corazone
past Sisyphus, laughing at gravity,
and our struggle to face
eternity as mortal
hopers for more.

Discouraged folk die out here,
beyond the effect of discouraging words,
on uncloudy days, developing
negatives from
imaginations linked in to blurry, tearstained
yesterdays.

Look here.
Yes, t'day, in tight bundles of hows,
tied with memory string,
bound to be better
stood up under by

why factors helping you along.
Reason is

your heart is a phor of the amphora ilk,
round, pointed bottom meant to
easily and snuggly fit,

into a square slot on the inner hull
of the ship, below deck.

If the amphora is emptied of any earthly spoilage,
scrubbed and cleaned by the fuller apprentice,

songs come to fill it, virtually,
to over flowing,
---
trauma drama on an oceanic scale Himalaya high

suddenly
time goes
geo
logical and we are other wise,
slowly
absorbed in being able,
as our voice crys out to cain, it's okeh.

This ain't hell,
it's now.
Live or die.

He has
Been usurped by barley before
Golden blades
Which willingly widen at the base
Specking and neighing before Euclid’s geometry
Teetering his terrible truth
Before the teeth of the combine

She is
Surrounded by myths of family
Sustained in that old fermentation
What she has is a rare cask
What she wants is a rare cut
What she is offered is not a rarity
What she accepts is the controlled spoilage
Over flowing her half empty glass

He appreciates
This auburn sharpness
Swaying before the wind
As it is bathed at the basin of the sink
Soaked in hydrogen peroxide
Looking at life’s vapid revelations
of her un-shucked past

She expects
To be a queen away from constant cultivation
Though eventually she will be taken from behind
Plucked from some store bought husk
One size too small
The only one left looking ahead
She will then proffer an ultimatum
Sitting atop the protruded spine
Where she will grind out the imperfections of man

He sleeps
As sleeps go
Nestled into that heathered silo
Flecked and bereft of material
Here is
A rest incomplete
Somnambulist upbringing
Allowed for somnambulist #adulting
A paralyzed gasped
Waking to the ghosts & ghouls
That grew deeply from her fertile soil

She dreams
As dreams go
Bestowed princes atop sterling steeds
Bellowed ball gowns
Broken into fables and bandaged brothers
Threshing out appendages
Screaming to be lengthened
Put up on the bar to build the perfectly sculpted ***
A reminder of an imperfect personality
A relationship is the constant reminder of compromise
He will not always make her ***
But more often than she cares to admit
She will always go

What we do we can't go through, without becoming quite attached
Everything is oh so good, because we are well matched
You may grab and you may claw, the surface is just scratched
I would hate to think of spoilage, and being too detached

Well let me tell you something, I always will go ooh
Especially when we get undressed, and it is just us two
If you laid down and we're exposed, then what would you do
And it revealed your intimacy, and showed us that its you

We've done so much together, after all the years we waited
It wouldn't really bother me, because I am now liberated
With everything that's out there, most of it's overrated
As long as we can carry on, and not get segregated

Exposure to the internet, well give me a bit of credit
I wouldn't care if it was there, or if someone else had said it
As long as we're both honest, then let anybody spread it
So what if pictures are undraped, on websites such as Reddit !

who are you but a dripping honey
from the witch’s fingertip
who are you but a moss on fallen logs,
creeping into magnificent spoilage
who are you but that one last bubble,
escaping from drowned pale lips
who are you but the peaceful smell
of morning after a night’s storm
who are you but the devoid ink
from the tip of a writer’s pen.

A life is a theme
that summarises
crystallises
what you are
the substance
the essence
the core
of your being entire
minus the trivia--

the waste
and spoilage
of millions
of hours
have consumed
the best
they fall
they despair
fade away
with scar-

all that we are
is self-made
self-directed

how far
we go
lies within
not dictated
by any fateful star-

we are each
a Ulysses
a silent
unknown
hero
only if
we dare
to be
what we are.

If one were to strike while
    the iron was hot, then

Indecision would not leave a
space vacant for confusion

But as we have been taught
     to look before we leap

Yet never look a gift horse
           in the mouth

  We invariably fall victims
       of choice spoilage

   Which brings me to the
   solution of this dilemma

      When the road forks
     and there’s no pointer

  Choose one, pair it to the
one from whence you came

   Then ask yourself, do I
    really want to go back?