A slow walk up Centennial
and I still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the Turkish blend and dust pack

A novice mixed duet plays
Brahms on broken strings
the erhu and overcoat
veiling a blue heeler and sphinx

Maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home Bedford Falls;
the flavour and character and social circles

Annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins

Dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto

Night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door

pound the table
another round
here liquid courage
is to be found!

out flow the ales
pour forth the meads
hoist axe and buckler
there's mighty need!

For bearded froth
and battle hymns
tonight we drink
we drink from skins!

we drink from cups
we drain our steins
we'll drink until
our eyes go blind!

So hoist yer glass
join us tonight
put up yer fists
prepare to fight!

Put down that barstool
Ha! Ya missed
And sing the
Cadence of the ******!

Then pound the table
one last round
there's liquid courage
to be found!

Did you notice the painted trillium—
The way it freckled the dark sky
Or the hills below the Sassafras summit?
Scarcely scattered beneath the pines,
The blossoms live and die like love,
Or maybe not.
Perhaps the petals live like I’ve imagined after they die,
Boutonnieres pinned to the night’s blue blazer.
But even if they don’t, I envy the way they live
Their lives without wondering whether
Or not they might dream.

Our clothes fed the sweet pinesap,
Rotting with our minds on the forest floor
That night beneath the Lenten moon,
And the cold draped our bodies
In a film of sweat as thick as the sound
Of the falls flooding the valley.
Winter’s fear saturated our bivy’s fly
As Spring drew near, but still we slept.

Your pupils danced behind my eyelids
And God shook his head in disgust
While we sipped silver steins replenished from Lethe,
But only angels died that night in Elysium.

They came by the Inn that morning,
A troop of Cavaliers,
With their swords and buckles shining,
And ringlets round their ears,
They called to the simple stable boy
To attend without delay,
To feed and water their horses,
The King would be there today.

They kicked the Inn door open
With boots that came to the knee,
Demanded an instant pottage
For the troop of twenty three,
‘So get your wife to the kitchen,
Your daughter up to the bar,
By serving us you will serve your King,’
They said to the Inn-Keeper.

They crowded into the tap room,
Where Molly was serving ale,
Made rude and haughty gestures
‘Til the girl had turned quite pale,
Their empty steins were flung at the hearth
And shattered, over the stair,
The Inn to them was beneath contempt
With its simple peasant fare.

The wife served up a ploughman’s lunch
Of wheaten bread and cheese,
They snatched and curled their lips at it
And not one mentioned ‘Please!’
They tore an edict of Parliament
That was hanging over the bar,
And held it over a candle ‘til
The ash was spread on the floor.

‘We have us an act of treason here,’
The Captain said to his men,
‘What shall we do with an Inn-Keeper
Who favours Parliament?’
They dragged him out to the stable yard
And hung him high on a tree,
Dragged the wife and the daughter out
As he died, so they could see.

‘God rot you each and every one,’
The wife screamed out in pain,
‘I curse your colours and curse a King
That could be so cruel - For shame!’
They held the daughter and dragged the wife
Out of sight, in alarm,
Despatched her with a rusty pike
And then set fire to the barn.

The soldiers started to fall about,
Were throwing up, and pale,
While Molly shrieked, ‘How did you like
My Belladonna Ale?’
They still were there when a troop rode up
Of Cromwell’s Ironsides,
Who slaughtered the King’s own troop that day
As the daughter sat, and cried.

David Lewis Paget

The streets were not as mean as history
said they would be,
especially after a night out
at the bier haus,
where we filled our grosse steins
with litres of hops
& barley
& natural carbonation.
It really wasn't a nation full of crazies,
but rather
one full of serious frunken fun
& frolicking amoungst the bauchnabels
with liebe.

Without sinking through the spheres. Hymns betting, still hands crisp under the wings. The wind slumbering, stays in the dark spaces. Eleven invisible pages, over. Any other name- Lux Arabesque, Uuqui Haratas, Preset: 117, and the foil.

The mirrored valley’s strangest flora, sifts the decorated thriving trails. Then it can all become an infinite weave in this world where lazy whistling sand dunes beyond, claim the rights to a juried Spring. Then somehow it may recant this glorious history we’ve only barely known. The potent eyes starved by madness, waxes seas and radio fields, slimming the loops that rip into  hinges and dispel a tryst.

Toward Earth’s serene prelude, this pageantry of standard masks make ascending towers just and stately. Then come the planets we’ve always loved: Mars, Neptune, and Jupiter too. Barefoot and staggering through the modern coolness of a colossal spring, aching mental itching grows. Until the fruits have fallen into the cloven shadows. Until buried stones alit with day consecrate these omens and conceive such lucid strings to break these quiet thieves into song.

Then the diary belies this affair. The steins upset the tales where pungent fleshy working minds coalesce. Observe the horses play in their endings, upon the wild mountain rivers where felling human eyes wander amidst these cleaved and sun-drenched desert mounds.

Pt. II

In origins uplifting diets foretell the escaped  seams of darkness whose lofty tongues of nature’s prose lift the veiled hours’ wraith. Never pressing bells nor raked by shivers, it occurs swiftly should the marbled rushing master call. Above the sound of narrow whispers, comes the wishing hands to shout.

how many stories can we pour into our
summertime beer steins
how much before the foam spills over
into real-time

there’s no numerical answer to that, let’s state plainly
bubbles geometrically become one another, shrink
and multiply and turn amber-red in the august nightshade

and dogs skitter under basketball hoops, couples play in shadow
fathers sneeze and industry marches on
under our noses, outside our windows, between our ribs
how many stories can we swallow
before we’re drunk on the skyline and the view to the next

does it matter?

that one brew is for sale only in midtown
and sometime I might go back, drink it with you not there
watch the spinning hexagon floor tiles
and I’ll write you that I had it, and it was
all right

how many stories can we fit into the new year
stuff into the hamper, hide in creases of the couch
like quarters
like hands on knees, yours, yeah, the soft elegant spider-hands I
wanted on my knees since the first day—
two perfect hands

how many stories can we write on our palms
as reminders, how many can we fit between appointments

the ending’s not so important, is it—
bubbles join together, multiply, change shape
go hexagonal, spin
touch, remember, forget, divide
always even numbers

just shy of eleven
shy of prime

but amber-red in august
like that first time

Cast away thy woes
bring bounty to the table
We and I shall feast
Yes, we feast
Like kings of old
Fill thee salver
keep steins wet
and we shall feast
now come fill your court
with kindred spirit
and dance in linear toe
until thy fellowship
is askew and crapulous
laugh through thy belly
and out through thy nose
neck the nearest matron
thy night is early
and daily labor is through
now drink my chap
my friend, my kin
before the night is through

If I had but one wish,
I would wish to live forever.
Find the ties of mortal life
Cut quick the binds we sever.
Become a watcher in the mist,
A homeless, timeless clan
Caught in the currents of the rift.
No Steins Gate will be entered
World lines locked from our reach.
Fighting the tides of entropy
Fist, nail and bloodied teeth.
Again and again and again
Unto the breach.
Drowning,
From the pressure of the deep.

And if in that moment we falter
Our power lost to the trees.
Alder, Maple, Ash.
Vines strangling our cities.
Choking on what we were told.
The earth takes us in a headlock
Strangles tight and wont let go.

Its fingers slipped in the nuclear snow
Withered tendril arms, retreating
To where they used to go.
Exiled below
Deep within the darkest reaches
Far from the reach of the human throne.
In the dark it patiently plotted,
Schemed to overthrow.

"Having turned the machinery of the Gov't into
a corrupt process of getting bad press made on
his political opponents, the Bidens, by buying
false investigations on them by multiple Gov'ts,
must be impeached, now", say Dems, the people.

The impeachment investigation has received much
evidence to support it, yet, Rumputin/vlad-
the-impaler, who were illegally installed into
the Blackhouse after the 2016 election, are
stonewalling numerous other subpeonas, requests.

People have seen evidence of Donald's demanding
false investigations of the Bidens be started by
the Ukrainian President in exchange for already
allocated by Congress 1/2 a bill in anti-tank
'javelins', but not the unreturned voicemails

detailing his desires for the same 'quid pro quo'
by him to other nations, here's some.  The Donald,
'Hi President of Ghana, I've heard you have some
hellified kool-aid, if you investigate the Bidens
we'll buy 100's of tons, awaiting your call.'

'Yo, yo, yo, President of Liechtenstein, just
calling to let you know if you liechten the Bidens
and find some dirt on them, we'll buy a hundred gross
of your steins, this is time sensitive, top secret,
so get back to us a.s.a.p., pppppllllleeeeeaaassse?'

''Sup, President of Guyana, must be hot in Africa,
too bad for you, all kidding aside, I hear you guys
have the best kool-aid to die for, if you investigate
the Bidens and find dirt on them we'll buy 1/4 of a
bill worth.  Limited time offer, bro, sooooo holla.'

'President of Hungary, I've heard you guys are always
Hungary, so, if you want a 1000 tons of food 'b' alls you
have to do is investigate the Bidens, find dirt on them
and provide it to the Steve Bannon set-up Hungarian fox
news who'll broadcast it globally over the next year.'

The atrocities of it all is all the people can say.  Does
this feel like a Greek comedy/tragedy to anyone else?  A
quickie impeachment to cover-up the bigger Russiagate one
that indicts the whole of the republican conspiracy, just in
time for vlad, etc., to hack our next presidential election?

Things aren't the same as they once were.
Perverted, our connection, you and I
due to the nature of an incident I procurred.
I miss the endless adoration once pure,
now muddled with a **** up and a "bottom's up!"
I raised the glasses, the bottles, the steins,
witholding truth, I ended with a bolsterous hiccup.
I laid in bed that night, in a drunken stupor,
covering my cold body with a sheet that lied,
hoping to move past so I shan't become part of a looper.
Alas, all was finally revealed and I to blame.
A fool to follow the masses, I couldn't find my own ground.
I should've fought harder, but now, I only feel shame.
I tried to embrace for that's all I knew what to do,
She shoved me into a wall, tears trickle down her face,
And all those barriers that I once broke down,
are now being rebuilt in what feels like the original place.

I don't know what to do.
I've lost all the trust.
Actions over words, she says.
Hit, Stay, or Bust.
I'm trying, lord knows I'm trying,
but in the dead of night,
when no one can hear,
I sit in the bathroom,
failing at holding back all those tears.
"I'm sorry, babe, I'm sorry."
Those words mean nothing now.
Words. Can't. Fix. Everything!

She loves me, which is why she stayed,
giving me a chance to fix the error of my ways.
She musters a smile, but I know that heart of hers is frayed,
but I'll find a way to prove to her that I am what I say:
The man she fell in love with, built on promises of old,
And if I may be so bold when I say, that I promise
our little sweet peas, will learn from this story and uphold,
the honor I had to fight for, and the lesson I had to be told.

I'm not going anywhere
my time with him is cemented and fluid in my mind
it runs through my veins and steins my every thought

wake up to the sound of your fleeting heart
and all the bands you show me and books you recommend, they reserve a special folder in my thoughts and in my soul
and even the things that are mine-the things I share with you-they are no longer completely mine
the smell of you lingers on these things that once defined me

where am I gonna land if I fall for you?
I think it's been happening and I was too scared to admit it.  Because these things are so fragile and if I say it out loud maybe it will evaporate like warm air on cool Maine mornings and the cool will be too much for words so soft.  And once they turn into silvery swirls of reality-I will only catch a glimpse that they were real after all and they would be gone permanently

like a river flows surely to the sea
I know this life is flowing
and I know many things we must find peace with
I know often times the river forces us along and we must let go of things never meant to be
But I'm not ready to let you go
and I'm ready to fight the current
but I'm secretly hoping it's pulling for us

can I be close to you
and for everything that night was, for all the beautiful moments we shared, my favorite was lying there because I could hear your heartbeat and it was racing.  For the first time ever you weren't composed or mysterious or unknown. For the first time ever you were exposed and raw and I could see it in everything about you...you were scared too.

moonlight through the pines
so when I come back this time I just need to remember your smile and I am comforted because when I think of you smiling, I am reminded that I am coming home.

of all the people I'd hoped it'd be you*
and so the two of us laid there and tried to figure out how to be one.
I fell asleep to the sweet melodies that had promised me you so many times.  And everything was perfect because I woke up to the last song on the album which was my favorite.  I thought I would wander back into the beautiful sleep that had only just recently relinquished me from its soft and consuming grasp.  But then you did what you do.  You turned and kissed me.  And it was a goodnight kiss.  But it wasn't a goodbye kiss.

Hey John can you tell me how you've been.
The world has been a nightmare with no end
Since you were shot and dropped your pen
Can you help us remember how to imagine again

Whether heaven is real or just a big old fake
Seems trivial while the Earth trembles and quakes
Your far out ideas created a peaceful wake.
But now we're screaming in Hell's boiling lake

Have you noticed we still fight over imaginary lines
Generals get off ripping out young men's spines
The congregation still drinks blood from steins
Mega churches are built like ******* shrines

It sure is embarrassing and I'm sure your sad
That we'd rather shoot instead of lending a hand
Our brothers and sisters are hungry in far off lands
Yet the war pigs keep us fighting in shifting sands.

They had to **** you to silence your peaceful dream
Your message of love made the dominator scream
Now everyone's addicted to plastic that gleams
Worshiping an apple while their master schemes.

The cast is ever changing, be it at Old Eli its ownself
Or various other institutions, most sans ivy,
Their distinguished here-and-gones
A touch short of presidents and laureates,
And certainly the songbook has changed
(Out with the Crosby and Waring,
In with the Cobain and the Stryper)
But certain verities, gnawing and implacable,
Remain unchanged, the inevitable realization
That, for all one's promise, all of our ilk
Have preceded us in our arrival, flush with pride and promise,
And made the odd ripple or two, perhaps,
Before shambling onward to other things
(Very rarely bigger and better, sadly enough)
And all those songs we sang and steins we hoisted
Have now been consigned to less fashionable quarters
In the anterooms of memory,
The melodies and laughter filtered, transformed, muted
The sound not unlike the slightly discomfiting bleatings
Of some distant barnyard animal.

A lone troubadour in some forgotten bar ,                                            
Paints the silence with a weathered guitar
Maracas made of ice cubes in tall drink glasses
The clatter of billiards , the call for waiters
Neon lights shower chipped tabletops
Chatter , laughter & poetic lies
Salty margarita tops , old world steins
A young writer recording his thoughts -
in between sets  
Tales of stale beer
A love grown dour
The plight of the wordsmith
The powers that be & the killing rent ..
The perfect gig & the strangling government ...