Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball,
This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Here's yesterday, last year ---
Palm-spear and lily distinct as flora in the vast
Windless threadwork of a tapestry.

Flick the glass with your fingernail:
It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest air stir
Though nobody in there looks up or bothers to answer.
The inhabitants are light as cork,
Every one of them permanently busy.

At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file.
Never trespassing in bad temper:
Stalling in midair,
Short-reined, pawing like paradeground horses.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy

As Victorian cushions. This family
Of valentine faces might please a collector:
They ring true, like good china.

Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly.

A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle
About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper
And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly

With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle,
The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture
She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised,
Leave her alone now.

The future is a grey seagull
Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,
And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold,
Crawls up out of the sea.

I’m a rat-tat-tattling gun
You hear the stream of my gun
You know my words are no fun
You’ll find it’s no use to run
You see I blot out your son

I’m a rat-tat-tattling gun
I work in administration
I **** your reputation
I send your resignation
I ‘tack with no causation

I’m a rat-tat-tattling gun
You see no rules of war
You won’t stop me from putting, you to the floor
You see the ink splotch on the paper, the only gore
You can’t ignore the screaming shots.

I don't want
To break with you.

Can't we still be babies
In a tub,

Tattling to our mums;
Watching our worlds end,
And still falling asleep as friends?

I want to still be
The angle-face good one,

To your fantastically beautiful spiky one,

But you see, with age,
Comes bitchiness and a sense of

Self respect.

I never had that before
Around you.

Oh, I was your good little dolly,
Darling of your heart

But you like to beat that muscle well,
Don't you?

Much harder than necessary.

So why then
Do you think that
This constriction and skipping of a beating
Was a surprise attack of the heart?

Toad sand and frog pebbles,
warted rocks kicked and toed.

Tease the ocean with chocolate dipped feet,
spiced and salted teas.

Taper off mid-sentence, paragraphs tepid
long arms and zebra stripes, a crosswalk tepir.

Tocsin alarm clocks poison innocent bystander’s sleep,
slipping things in their drinks, filling their ears with toxin.

Tie a scarf around the forehead
of the middle child. Teach them beginning syllables of Thai.

Throes and spasms of overachievers
motivate for longer strides, faster throws.

Tense shoulder muscles
hide in sleeping bags, badly pitched tents.

Told injuries snuck in when the door opened,
we heard the miniature silver bells as they tolled.

Ticks count every second second, punctuated by tocks.
With each, a twitch, conscious nervous tics.

Titan tool boxes hold spare screws,
on Coeus’ threaded axis, we spin and tighten.

Terne sardine cans filled with mercury,
pollute our science tests, killing tern.

Tied red string around our pinkies so we don’t forget
when to go to the beach looking for clams at low tide.

Tacks pin talented teens to cork boards,
alongside instructions on regretting the harmonised sales tax.

Tire prints border the country,
left by jeeps that never tire.

Tails directing orchestras,
swarms of swan swim, tattling and telling tales.

Oh my god is she beautiful
As serene and true as death
A wonder in the eyes of many
Wishing to be fresh as her breath

I want to walk with her,
Hold her hands entangled with mine
And whisper silently in her ear
"I love you, I am thine"

Could you ever believe that,
It would come this?
A beautiful soul,
Would give you eternal bliss;

I am buried in her eyes.
Enchanted in her charm.
Bewitched by that smile,
That strikes my heart and causes such harm,

That the most wholesome flowers could not heal.
A slit that would give me pain so sweet,
That even my senses could no believe,
And take me on a ride and sweep me of my feet.

She turns towards me and smiles,
Ever more tattling, ever more playing with her hair,
That rest above a face so sweet,
Like a grapevine of golden mare.

And in my mind does one thing exist,
To hold her and make her mine.
Such elixir of mirth and jolly,
Mixed with such beauty divine.

I’m giving birth to a kaleidoscope of baby blue hopes
she’s green gelatin under me
breathing cerulean clean like a newborn baby and
she’s free


to feed from fire and ice
her fingers find distant dips deeper than webbed ligaments
dripping pearlescent beads to be placed over her beating brain
too many aged grapes
the violet light tying her tongue from spilling
secrets held together by straw ribbon


Stuffed cheeks of fluffy pink confetti cake
the shuffling of young hips
lift the veil of cream to brand my face with
your bubbling lips


O, belittling eye
Beat me blind until I shy divine
let’s live within the interior of the tattling tulips
who shush each other sweetly
Poor petals
silk with their speckled sickness it’s
sickening to beckon forgiveness


Bronze with wooden eyes and apple cheekbones set high
she slips into the figments of my imagination’s creations of her and I
I and her humming low
damp breath decorating the faces with indigo
Her opal fingertip prints mock fossils on the window
whose fingertips once tossed rusted coins as a child
pennies from nineteen forty eight stained with wishes that
may or may not have been cast at all

Gritting my teeth to the chalk of a smile,
I ******* tongue-tied tipping
points of platitude and innocuous
glances. I’d like to take
a dip into the powerade
of an eye—poison
my electrolytes and throw
up the unconscious effort to keep it all
down. Bellow
the belly of this
bending in binary is the mending
of mind
body
and soul—the syrup to my cynicism.
I’ve been bundled
together tight enough to taste the tingle
of anticipation just before the
fall
into cool, quiet cotton
candy. I could scream if I cared
to. My madness mumbled and muttered
mulled through and muted—
passed from eye to mind—
mind to measure—
measure to mechanism.
The hum of
impetus. The creak
of rising action. The screech into
final release.I’d like to
plunge my plasticity in a pool of electricity—
singeing all but just the edges.
Rattling rails of self imposed righteousness.
Tattling tales of presupposed hypocrisy.
Only I can mold my moment
at the peaking of this pinnacle
to whatever my mind would
make it out to mean:
a death
a daredevil
a daydream.

The hour is long and the darkness soul deep,
Utterly isolate in an ocean of souls,
Our tryst has become, by you, anulled,
Without you, bereft of my Heart's gold,
No more indulgence of my bliss,
No more imagining your luck's kiss,
But imagining still your lilting songs,
Which stir the air amidst tattling throngs,
Cleft in twain now, I bid thee farewell,
And pray you soar, not fathom hell.

my arms and legs, motionless, extended, floating, ahhh, with friends, in a canoe, rowing rowing rowing, the noises coming from everywhere, eventually upstream, moonbeams, the silences filled with the occasional boom boom, the jealousies, jealousies eating up my insides, but still my head extends out like branches, folding in with one another, thick and matted with bark, with birth, tattling over the spokes with claws, breathing and dipping into a pool that is freezing, let me start with something new, with a machete, cut the twigs that are dying, I collapse a vessel, stuck out of time, reaching for the next high, churning in my gut, home made ice cream, too thick to ingest, too light to cut

can you tell my teeth are clattering?
taking your hand by the wrist, placing it
on the soft underside of my stomach
where only soft tissue lies between vital organs
and the negligible possibility of your cruelty,
i am letting you know: this is enough
to make the old animal of my body shake in fear.
keep your hands right there until they’re warm.
you can have this. you can have me.

will you stay after the curtains are down?
after taking their bows, i swear,
even the greats still look like people.
the well-dressed stranger in front of you at the checkout.
your cousin’s old piano teacher. and there’s a reason
why celebrity gossip sells more than the local newspaper.
here's the thing. you want to bare the darkness, the cancer;
to be loved, desperately, despite the horror of it.
but no one's ever willing to be the emperor --
you want to be the child, clothed.
tattling fingers forever raised.

it's always just been fog machines and fitting costumes.
your eyes, sharp and weary, search for a way
past the infinite charades, beyond the gaze of the winged,
half-lion abomination.
and i think i finally understand.
because your hands are shaking, too, as you tell me:
neither of us are destined for godhood.
next time, i’ll call you when i’m sick.
next time, i’ll take you grocery shopping.
tomorrow, i’ll kiss you in the morning and it won’t taste like mint.

1.
Pink carnations bloom
in stenciled flower boxes,
looking down on Bruges'
grand canal. Locals say they
live in the Venice of the north.

Tourists speed by on guided
boat trips, rigid, peering straight
ahead. The carnations sigh:
They could die from such
indifference. The boat leaves

a white, frothy wake, which
whisks away all the passengers'
woes until the next hour of
ennui sets in, restless for
distraction. I see no need

for speed as I wander the cobbled
lanes laid from the 13th century
to the present age, signs of Bruges'
vast prosperity and pride as the
exquisite lace capital of the world.

Luxurious wares for a luxurious price,
more valuable than the goods
the city once traded as the bustling,
commercial hub of northwestern Europe.
Sundries bought and sold at bargain rates.

I have not come here for
commerce, but for Bruges' late
medieval beauty, for its religious
miracles, for the marvelous making
magic of Belgian lace. All legendary,

all fine, all the subject of tall
tales, of tattling to history about
what can be found and what
can be lost. All draped in gold leaf,
expertly pressed into regal crowns.

2.
After a hurried and forced
lunch break, I scamper to the
Basilica of the Holy Blood
in search of a glimpse of the vial
of, well, said blood with its cloth

that Joseph of Arimathea used to wipe the
blood from the body of Christ. Preserved
for centuries, the vial and cloth made their way
to Bruges from the Holy Land during one
of the unholy wars of the cruel Crusaders.

I have to push my way through throngs
of the faithful to reach the room with the
relic that has mesmerized travelers for
centuries after centuries since the Crucifixion.
Like so many vessels of the supernatural,

the vial disappoints. How can one verify
the holy, the sacred, the miraculous?
The divine element eludes us, remains
hidden, designed to try our faith, to test it,
to measure it against the rule of genuine

devotion. Satisfied that my presuppositions
have proven sound, I squeeze back onto
the streets of the main square and head past
the edge of town toward the windmills and ****,
holding back the sea and its myriad mysteries.

3.
The windmills whisper, "Holland," while the
****, stoic and stolid, remains mute. Sails
whoosh above me, ready to fly from the
Earth, ready to slice the wind into pieces
before it swoops past the city tower and onto

the square. The breeze bears a message that
I can barely decipher. Written in code, it declares
something about the efficacy of the Holy
Blood as a salvific force to bring peace
to the true believer, as open as the windmills

to the wooing of the Spirit. My antennae rise up,
although nothing more seems said. That is
not possible. So I hike the **** of the ****
toward the gray, billowing clouds that herald
their own message of rain, of storm, of baptism.

Such struggles sting more severely than
ennui: Conflicts lack resolution. Resolve leans
on the arms of faith. Arms carry the weight
of the world. The world whimpers in a
whirlwind stirred up by muscular clouds

of doom. These dark thoughts hound me
as I make my way back to the cobbled
streets and the security of the familiar city.
Soon I stumble onto a paint-peeling
open door boldly illuminated by a long

rectangle of light that washes over a group
of older women, their bobbins and
thread and rapid-fire fingers flashing
in a blur across their velvet pillows,
creating magic with skill and aplomb:

the confidence of hard-earned experience.
There are no presuppositions against such art.
Lace making resounds with the spirit of
blessed endurance, with a sanctity of
purpose, a sanity of mind that only

the vial of Holy Blood provides for those
who believe, who see the divine in the failures
of the mundane, who worship a vulnerable deity.
"Only a suffering God can help," Bonhoeffer proclaimed.
The carnations grimly nod, hang their heads and sigh.

prevaricated forth write Declaration!

As most every girl and boy
taught back in the day,
learning base sic life lessons,
when going to Zerns,
(now permanently closed,
but once upon a time one
bustling, flourishing, thriving
Farmers Market formerly
a year-round farmers' market located
in Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania.

It was located along Philadelphia Avenue
near Bartman Avenue,
close to Pennsylvania Route 100.

Two buildings located on the property:
a lowercase "t" shaped main building
and an "L" shaped enclosed
flea market building,
where characters across
all walks of life congregated
gabbled, regaled each the others
akin to golden age of story telling,

when rapt listening ears
willingly leant eager attention
to a riveting speaker
such as this jolly shop
o' horror keeper learned,
modest, and non
establishmentarian obliging self,
(who even now doth still yearns)

to spin a tattling tale, this ole codger,
who today more frequently, keenly,
and patiently plods along
volatile memory lane
visiting woebegone yesteryear
scores of orbitz ago,
those well worn pathways,
could be trekked blindfolded
so often by foot thee trails traversed,
(yet without ever feeling
a sense of duff feet) over hills

and thru woods thick
with wary, scary, nerdy,
and Rem: markably hairy
muppet like monsters,
the author, who wrote
10,000 Leagues Under The Sea,
(and other suspense
filled stories namely
the prolific writer
Jules Gabriel Verne's),
vivid imagination him,

would undoubtedly have experienced
a field day in seventh heaven
taking wooded rough hewn
rudimentary walkabout by turns
clear cut versus creepy simply to reach
a one classroom per grade school,
where masters did teach
being apprenticed asper Art Of The Deal
(latent within power
to sound convincing, though "FAKE,)"

but convincing legendary
personal myths repeated to bolster appeal
such as larger then life "Founding Fathers"
unquestionable brazen, brave, and brass
daring deeds across the Lake
(Atlantic Ocean, whose worsted weave
sub woofer - did make
the 6:00 o'clock news the evening
of July 4th 1776, and thus didst spake
(perhaps with the help of Zarathustra)

yet,...the under belly
of such bravura involved take
king (by subtle or obvious force) lands
revered by Native Americans
leaving a trail of tears,
destruction, and death
(more accurately genocide), thus my
(expected patriotism) moored
within wicked wake,
hence aye avail muted tone deaf

emotion on par with a charade
particularly, where deportees
of late awful treatment
force me to a give a low
*** slant (Failing) grade,
where home of the brave
land of the free (or visa versa)  
do masquerade makes a mockery,
travesty, sham parade
AND this chap feels as if,

he too partook of
murderous indigenous raid
venal business complete,
when every once proud
“Red man” violently slayed
or displayed as token showpiece
bartered analogous
to bustling art house trade
unless demise snatched
uprooted human property
subsequently conveniently waylaid.

say in the vast emptiness
of my masculine repertoire
it befalls me that my significance
is now tittle-tattling  about my neighbour's cooker
worst still even what I cannot see or confirm in essence

I would ask myself
where did it all go wrong
for better I will require of my senses
than old wives or young wives tales in acids
am I so bereft of ideals that the fulfilled male has
or so immature that I never left the kindergarten playground
or aimless diversions I now seek as my kitchen is ***** and span
but my self worth and proven ability is just a sham I rather not address

some minds never find themselves
other minds hide in obscurities fencing deflective flares
or even worse grandstanding in worthless schismatic narratives
because the bellicose ignorant male of the species
now proves his social standing and innate yang
by writing about the state of fittings and  culinary layouts
in other men's homes
welcome to what the new man of our times depicts....