In the sweet of early morning
and only for a few precious moments
I thought of nothing at all
I stared blank at the dim lit walls
in a state between awake and dreaming
only until the startle of the first bird singing.

I saw the sun clinging to roofs and trees
light traipsing through the garden lilies
I heard the chirp and groan of frogs
newly green, all the unfurling fronds
and from the broad leaves
the dew fell sparkling in rivulets
and drank the carpet moss
softly green and splendorous.

Daisy Duke Danica Patrick dialogue

DANICA this is preposterous and an embarrassment to my career image

DAISY oh yeah ya think so

DANICA 1st off you’re simply a fictional character i’m a real live racecar driver 2nd you’re a hillbilly ***** who most likely had *** with both cousins Bo and Luke behind Uncle Jesse’s barn

DAISY who you calling a ***** you venomous ***** i did not have ****** relations with those boys (pause gaze averted)

DANICA bare-foot traipsing around Hazzard County dressed like a rural Dixie belle acting all ingénue

DAISY you ain’t got no manners woman were you raised in the south

DANICA Beloit Wisconsin then Roscoe Illinois for your bird-brained information

DAISY ya know in a vague way you owe me

DANICA owe you what you Appalachian Deliverance banjo ****

DAISY i was laying down rubber pedal to the metal gravel dust road in my ’74 yellow Plymouth Road Runner before you was ever born

DANICA what’s that supposed to mean granny i thought you drove a Jeep CJ-7

DAISY it means my fictional character put a seed in the mind’s eye i planted the thought of a female warrior on the racetrack you understand i trail blazed through Georgia back country all you are is just a graduated knock-off of me

DANICA you tawny scrawny pigeon-toed knock-kneed backwoods ****** wouldn’t know your *** from a hole in the ground behind the steering wheel of a Dallara chassis Honda engine open-wheel racecar and if you think i owe you then you must think i owe Janet Guthrie Lyn St. James Sarah Fisher also ***** you ***** *** rebel *****

DAISY girl you got a mouth on you bet you know how to use it in the dark i bet that’s how you got to where you are i know about those FMH pictures

DANICA what i beg your pardon i earned my stripes on the racetrack

DAISY on your knees with your mouth in the shape of 0

DANICA white trash redneck witch! i hate you

DAISY now Danica calm down remember to breath and remember i’m just a fictional character didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers so bad

DANICA all right ok maybe i was a little too hasty to judge and maybe we did just get off on the wrong foot you know Godaddy is looking for someone vintage yet lovely enduring like you

DAISY you’re sweet Danica but my acting days are done i think you look real pretty in electric lime green good luck at NASCAR but i think you do better at Indy that’s just my opinion

DANICA you just might be right Daisy i’m too independent can’t seem to get the hang of you bootlegging draft-racing good ole boys

DAISY amen

If fools could speak of geometry,
you would be the right angle,
while me, obtuse,
I find light in the darkest places,
where the glint of the moon turns back time,
I look back,
And find you cloaked in fog,
traipsing towards me,
with no rhyme,
strafing while they bleed,
we are cogs in the handset,
we are all lost teeth,
broken and shattered,
fallen to those underneath.

april 11 1952 Mom gives birth to beautiful blue-eyed girl Mom takes name Penelope from Great-Grandma Penny who died week after Odysseus was born Mom and Dad are not educated to know greek mythology and homer it is odd coincidence they picked Odysseus’s name out of book of names thought it sounded strong  anglo old money Odysseus is thrilled to have sister to share childhood with when Odysseus is 6 and Penelope is 4 Grandma Betty invites them to visit her house block away she serves them oatmeal cookies orange juice shows them her latest small painting of field brightly colored flowers birds in sky lower left corner is horse or dog painting is still wet she shows them magazine picture she copied from Odysseus realizes it is pony in lower left corner when they return home Mom yells at Odysseus “where were you? why didn’t you think to call or leave message with Teresa? do you have any idea what a nervous wreck you’ve made me!” she slaps hard Odysseus’s face reprimands “don’t i have enough to worry about without you pulling something like this? you only think about yourself it’s so typical of your selfishness wait until your father gets home he’ll deal with you now go to your room!" every time he gets caught in mistake he is punished the drill is Mom gets upset with Odysseus flies into rage yells slaps him around threatens him with Dad gets home has a few drinks Mom tells Dad explodes beats Odysseus Mom is judge jury Dad is executioner afterward Dad goes back into living room pours another drink sits in celadon green lounge chair Odysseus is trained to wipe tears put on pajamas go to Dad apologize admit fault promise to be good kisses Dad and Mom goodnight goes to bed that is the drill

Odysseus is barefaced curious exploring discovering tries to connect with Mom and Dad but they are unavailable they are his parents not his friends as far back as he can remember he lives in world of “it’s safe free here Mom and Dad can’t see us” children are smarter than parents think figure ways to self-protect something stirs inside Odysseus creature separate from Dad and Mom whatever psychological or emotional patterns are developing he does not understand obediently goes along

Mom and Granny Mattie take Odysseus and Penelope to browse shops on oak street at one store little statuette like kind Granny Mattie collects catches Odtsseus’s eye he slips it in pocket on drive home he takes statuette out to show Penelope she asks where he got it Mom Granny Mattie overhear ask Odysseus where he got statuette he confesses took it from store Mom gets livid steers car back to oak street Granny Mattie insists “it’s just a figurine let him keep it Odysseus meant no harm i don’t see why you want to make such a big fuss Jenny!” Mom replies “he’s got to learn right from wrong!” they all return to store mom explains to sales clerk what son has done Odysseus hands back figurine apologizes when Dad gets home he dishes out punishment years later Penelope remarks “that was the first time i realized Odys you needed to reach out for something beyond the family”

Odysseus wants to die he is 7 years old and wants to die he knows his life is critically messed up wants new different existence person he is becoming is too error prone ruined already he is way too ******* himself Dad’s temper Mom’s criticisms subsequent self-absorbed social demands drive him to ideas of suicide Dad and Mom are too busy to notice Mom always uses sleeping pills placidal nebutal seconal miltown whatever is the latest Mom says she does not dream Odysseus guesses she does not remember her dreams on account of those pills everyone dreams years later Mom remarks i need sleeping pills to forget about you Odys as Mom describes “i run a formal beautiful household” she delegates chores to weekly staff of brown skin ladies it is house of feminine décor matching pillows sheets pulled tight under elegant bedspreads everything put away in proper place furniture in precise order little dinner bell servant’s foot buzzer beneath Mom’s chair at dining room table maids in servitude once a week white woman with big shoulders foreign accent shows up to give Mom massage Mom is not to be disturbed during that hour Odysseus knows first names of each laundress cleaning lady doormen deskmen garage men janitors caterers at holidays tall black effeminate John comes twice a month on sunday to cook serve traditional american breakfast along with fried bananas apples afterward he cleans up shines silver first 13 years of Odysseus’s life are lived in buildings with elevators staff of residence employees

Mom’s closet is vast with colors textures ground level hundred or more neatly arranged clear plastic boxes containing pairs of expensive shoes walls of imported French and Italian designer label dresses skirts suits blouses top shelf fashionable purses hats other feminine accoutrements also two large dresser chests filled with drawers of sweaters scarves girdles lingerie hosiery more accessories Mom often wears joy by jean patou arpege by lanvin chanel # 5 Mom shops at saks bonwit teller occasionally marshall fields within several years most of her buying will be done at fantastico, exclusive import boutique on oak street clothes jewelry cosmetics are important to her but most important is hair she prefers bottle blonde color wears hair trimmed medium length fluffed up sprayed fixed as do many women of her generation social stature she visits beauty salon twice a week must enjoy letting her guard down with other women while being served by homosexual men her hair prevents her from driving in car with top down all other outdoor activities that might threaten hairdo Penelope mimics Mom though she keeps her things in less tidy fashion she is being groomed to be queen like mom maybe Mom is more sympathetic to Penelope because both innately share female experience Mom portrays herself as lady of elegance Penelope is different from Mom more earthy bumbling routinely scratches Odysseus’s records leaves her drawers messy Mom takes baths so her hair will not be disturbed Dad takes showers Odysseus and Penelope take baths together then apart as they grow bigger ****** is normal in Schwartzpilgrim household Dad hints reserve Odysseus follows takes showers Mom leaves bathroom door open while bathing she is constantly changing clothes traipsing around in robes slippers elegant silk lingerie

It is true darkness that congregated in the corners of my room that night
And I could not recognize it, only knowing its cousin
Who hovers by streetlights and candles

Deep down, I've always known that the fae dance across my face and talk about me as I fell asleep
I knew what this was, though I did not know enough to fear the messenger
I knew this was a summons
A summons to the moonlight world that shadows the world we know and love

Suddenly, we are far beyond my bedroom
Traipsing through an electric, thorn-filled jungle
My stomach begs loudly of hunger, but it barely registers
With the amount of static sounding in the air
We walk on pathways stripped from the northern lights, pinks and greens, without solid footing
Magnetized forward faster and faster
To destiny

My feet bleed and the true darkness closes behind me, devouring the evidence of my red-stained path

A mist that I had never noticed dissipates
And I see the mushrooms
They glow ghost-white, towering tall as trees
Standing sentinel in a circle, the guardians of such laughter and music as you could never describe-
The music!
It is shattering crystal, raging rivers, and the death song of birds all at once
The darkness pushes me into the circle, and I whirl and twirl to its sound
The erratic beat taking over my heart ryhthm
I throb with its energy, my hands begin emitting their own glow
And the fae begin to take more form around me, in silvers and golds

The music screeches and my heart skips a beat
The circle begins to rumble
Mortal girl comes the echo
My skin feels the kiss of acid rain
You should not have come here
This place is not for the likes of you
A fae with a wreath of thorns adorning its head steps forward
Darkness burning in the sockets where once there may have been eyes

I cannot speak, its stare melting my lips into my face
You have seen too much, you have danced with us
Tell me why I should not hold you here
I look away, desperately trying to gather my thoughts and my voice
The fae would not care about my family, my friends
It would not care about my dreams
The true darkness caresses my hair and I hear its sharp laughter

"I-" I begin

The laughter cuts away, the static dies and my voice hangs in the vaccuum
"I was brought here, by you I presume"
I dare to look the dark fae in the eyes
"I was a dreamer enough to follow"
"You wish to challenge us humans, your endless source of amusement"
"Our torture is your game"
The fae concedes with a thoughtful nod
"But there is no greater torture than to know this place and never come back" I finish
The fae chuckles, as I bite my lip

Clever mortal it mocks
Indeed, go home. I banish you from my lands
May you suffer it adds with a smile

And I am cold
I fall from my bed in a tangle of blankets
In my ear, I hear the wriggling of music
It never quite goes away
The darkness smirks at me from the corners
And I cry softly
For who has ever willingly given up on the fae?
But I hear my sister waking up and I start to smile, despite my sacrifice
For how very few have met the fae and lived?

I caught my eyes in the gold-flecked mirror
And paused to trace the diameters.
What should have appeared nearer
Developed its own parameters.

I paused to trace the diameters,
And discovered the golden flakes
Developed their own parameters
And coalesced opaque.

Upon discovery, the golden flakes
Formed a cloud inside my iris
And coalesced opaque,
A golden plague or virus.

A cloud formed inside my iris
And obstructed the view of the sun.
A golden plague or virus
Traipsing like a legion.

Clouds obstructed my view of the sun
So night seemed to stretch beyond
Traipsing across the horizon like a legion
And elicited in me a muted response.

past wavering lights
  B. Serrano and Bagong Ilog
love struck us down — sees no votive
clearing of the fog or a word sharper than any blade wrought from frays.

i have a photograph of you
somewhere in the ken of my silence
  and on it paints lightsome hue
and sometimes pale when it rains.
KM 24 on a blue alloy and underneath,
   a Baguio — some memories we keep
almost left by the last carriage homeward
   from too much fire in our hands
  only tremors could extinguish both
striking a balance and counterbalance;
the frequency of the electric and the
immense decibel of lions drowning
    the disquiet. some places or some
looking back makes you want
   to lose yourself in slight wonder and when

a memory comes back with the dreary
   weight of its forgetfulness,
we fall asleep traipsing the steeples
   of our dreams of each other
all-telling, still dizzy with the pirouette
  of some distant longing bracing
the fall, triggering our darkness
  and shooting out

   ourselves, small,
love striking us down. arraying a triplicate
    of hazy trails forking all roads
and we cannot find each other again;
  throwing stones rippling
multiplied waves by the sea arriving
  at separate mornings beneath
our feet,

   bends on the bludgeoned curves
of love and hate ascertaining something
   so unsure as a door agape and swiveling
  in tense wind, tender is the night

  and love continues
to smite us down, locking in, predatory precision,
            running away, and away, and away
   from the ache of it all.

Not a wanderer stuck on the crest of lonely waves.
Nor running ragged on the sands of time.
Traipsing wearily through the wracks of sodden salty ****.
As cold water laps over their feet abandoned on craggy rocks.
Not always at sea.
Vagrant migrants.
From rock to rock.

Hark,
Ungodly whistling, clicking and howling.
Wailing and bemoaning.
Poseidon knows that they're around.
They strut around the rocks, all knowing.

Their lives they live as one of two.
Choose their one for life.
Should you see one in your salty path.
Foreboding spirit, a warning of turbulence to come.
A past sailor boy seen in totem of bird.
Not so swell, an evil omen.

Moons long past, the only witnesses to a killing crime.
Saw Albatross have his feet cruelly hewed.
Tobacco pouch for jack tar and his pals.
Ancient mariners in a doctrine of distortion.
Sky sailors slept on the wing over night.
Such misdemeanour,
Their perceptions were not right.
The birds perished in the dead of night.
As they did not ever rest in flight.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

bare chested and open to the sky, I wish I knew what

it felt like to see the future. At this moment, all I know

is that the rocks are making grooves in my shoulder blades
and my ******* may very well be burning. It’s time to turn

over; try facing the earth and be captivated by ants
traipsing across the rock.
Minutae.
Mundane.
The tide may swell over and engulf me, fresh, to rock me gently

maybe underwater I’ll catch a glimpse of strong words
or the place where I die.
I’ll see my lover amongst the seaweed
and our children laying in shells.
But on my back, by this

sea, I hear friends praising each other in French
and see the sun’s outline when I close my eyes.
I am still 23 with purple fingernails and shaved legs.
I am no closer to the water.

My lambs wool jumper.

My merciless mind goes traipsing through my time bank of bad memories.
Other people's bad management, misuses from my past .
Coming from nowhere. Coming from everywhere.
The memories just keep on coming .
My brothers . My mother . My father . And my sister.
Not a nice memory . Not a nice word form me.
Egregious individuals. And a devastating pack .

Three letters came one school morning.
I was six and my brothers a little older
The postman posted three  brown envelopes
All a little weighty .
With a little bit of money .
We all three got a sixpence.
We all three got a letter.
So unexpected. A complete surprise!
The excitement of a letter.
The two older boys got theirs from God .
They were good boys .
Mine came from the devil .
I was a bad boy .
I was a humphy backit wee nyaff .
In writing . From the devil .

But thought I  was a lovely boy .
Big brown eyes brown hair and dimples .
I never felt bad .
I never sought danger or conflict.
But I was .
In the middle of a battlefield.
Theirs .

You are a bad boy . I am a good boy .
You are being a sook . I am being a good boy .
You always want attention. I am an ill boy.
You always show us up . I am a funny boy .
You are stupid and lazy . You are trying to break this boy .

There I was as their swords flew and I battled their rages.
In my armour.
Made from my grandmothers soft wool jumper .

So soft and gentle and protective .
She let me choose the soft lambs wool.
It wasn't jaggy .
It didn't irritate.
It  wasn’t abrasive.
And she made up the cost .
With every stitch .
She stitched with love .
With love for me .
Her boy!

The battle rages on inside .
The shell shocked boy now a man .
Still wrapped in the warmth of his gran.
And her protective lambs wool jumper.

Y'know whenever I go to my brother's to watch a football game
He always brings out a lovely big platter of cheeses, with a selection of crackers
This and some hummus, nuts and potato crisps
Along with a nice cold beer
He really likes his cheeses does my brother
Me! I don't mind a bit of cheese myself
But Him, he's a real connoisseur.
Anyway last  Christmas I was looking for a present to bring him
And in my local supermarket, guess what, they had these lovely big platters of various  cheeses
Wow! I was delighted, that was his present sorted
No more traipsing around shops, tiring my poor feet out
And this was a good present, something he'd really like;
So I brought the cheese home and put it in the fridge
Next morning I was up early sorting out the presents, who got what
Putting them in nice Christmasy type bags
I then packed them in the car and took off,
An hour later I'm sitting at their table and we're talking about some poor celebrity movie star who's just passed away
Their saying he had some Brain disease, just like Alcheimers except it wasn't Alcheimers
My brother's wife is there trying to articulate, to explain
"It's like his brain had holes in it"
And I'm thinking "Holes in the brain, hmmm... just like...like a Swiss cheese"
Then, of course, I remember. "****!", I say out loud in front of them all,"I forgot the cheese, I left the feckin' cheese in the fridge"
Really ****** me off
Then I start thinking, that's actually quite funny
We're talking about Alcheimers disease and it reminds me I left the cheese in the fridge
What do you call that, is that ironic or what ?

What's a Paradox ? Sounds like a washing powder.

Wait! Is this a poem at all or am I in the wrong place ? (LoL)

Traipsing through alleys,
Awash in an alcoholic glow,
We play Frogger,
Headed to our usual spot.

PBR's and Mai Tai's disguised as Powerade,
The night elapses
In a haze
Of elaborate bottle passes.

Aardvarks and Applesnarks,
filling in between the quarks.

Scratching and scraping behind the door.
Shuffling and snuffling all across the floor.

I hear them tapping, hear them scraping,
wonder where they've gone a traipsing.

Aardvarks on the move,
Applesnarks in the groove.

Looking like land sharks after the ants,
Make sure you don't get one up your pants.

Parading through these beautiful Hills..

--You, and your entourage of a mixture
   of dog-like,  well trained, egostrokes..
   and also of men..   whose tattered boots
   you are unworthy, of even tying..

Traipsing across the Badlands--
your long  red hair, flowing..
giving off a stance, (as if)..

--You, and your entourage of a mixture
   of dog-like, well trained, egostrokes..
   and also of men.. in tattered boots
   that you are unworthy, of even tying..

Raining down havoc,  on the Beautiful People
simply for their having  within them ;;
  
Faith:
In the Great Father.. and Substance of Spirit;
Neither of which your cowardly Egostroke
will ever garner,  or ascertain..

But oh, you could steal..

And pilfer..
And destroy.

You will pay, oh General *******-boy
Your long, curly locks..
will take on a whole new color,  red
There will be a gathering..
A showdown..

A Holy Reckoning--
In that Montana field,  between the Hills
Along the Little Bighorn..

The River of all Beaten-Down  one's, dreams

little feet dashing across the playground with light-up shoes and arms raised and poised to hold our weaponry. swift movements mark the territory with memories of traipsing through our makeshift castles. when we’re children we gallantly save princesses with long tresses who cry from the tops of towers, fearing uproarious dragons and the darkness of the sky. we protect the princesses from terror, and some of us grow up to become them and learn to protect ourselves. the tall dragons shed their prismatic scales and flinch as they feel the girth of our swords. after much opposition, we face our fears and instantaneously make the final strike and become victorious. we turn and look through the binoculars of our hands and spot nimble thieves stealing the shimmering scales in exchange for their own greed. they climb medieval walls and we try to catch them. impulse clutters our line of vision and we go because there is no time to waste, we don’t want to lose them. sometimes they return the stolen treasure and sometimes its a lost cause. we learn the latter later, through long sighs at lonely 2 ams after seemingly infinite words have spilled out on paper and out loud out to those who can’t come back and those who can but won’t. but the former fleshes itself out when we experience moments of kismet. these days where we share conversations with people who satiate the hollow corners of our hearts and walk outside and breathe in the petrichor just as the sun has wriggled its way into the sky. we learn life is as vivid as any story we become momentarily enchanted by. people come and go as fast as the pages that inspired our childhood adventures turn, and everything happens at once. we face demons as beastly as our dragons but we have our warpaint on no matter how hastily drawn it is, and we convince ourselves of our strength until it’s real to us.
we were the heroes of the story then, light-up shoes running across the playground, and we are the heroes of the story now, playing and living in the light-up world.

i

there does seem to be a lot of nosey parkers
things can rapidly become darker
a momentum of their own
soon,again,be traipsing across broad

fields of fresh bone..intellectuals are
usually the first to go the written word
suspect decadent art the smooth hand
and on till we are all looking over our

collective shoulder..work worshipped
lord what we believe in the name of
collective security and a bigger better
future..!?

ii

the goldfish in our park pond however
seem very happy together
they patiently wait their turn
and take a small bite as required..

they know they are many small smaller
all the various colours and the big ones
but there is the sun and there is suffice
they will circle love and say ola..

*
inspired by executing society

head sways
from left to right
arms swinging
back and forth
walking traipsing
treading
the careful
surface of your
teacup filled with
the bitterest coffee
no sugar
no cream
no teaspoon
to save you from
falling
do
     w
         n

I had an Indian Fakir come
To stay, from Uttar Pradesh,
I was doing a friend a favour,
I don’t, as a rule, have guests,
I couldn’t make out a single word
He said, and so my friend
Provided a written commentary
To guide me, in the end.

It seems he was naming my furniture
It’s something that they do,
In places that are incongruous
Like the depths of Kalamazoo,
And he wanted to give them English names
So he asked my friend’s advice,
In case I couldn’t pronounce them,
Well, at least the thought was nice.

My armchair became Albert
And my settee Gunga Din,
I suppose he thought it would be okay
As it was from Kipling.
The tallboy was called Gerald
And the wardrobe, simply Joe,
The polished table Cheryl
And the kitchen one was Flo.

I’m glad that he wrote them down because
I can’t remember names,
Just that the bed was Susan
And the kitchen sink was James,
Some of them were portentous like
Ignatius, for the desk,
While each of the kitchen chairs was given
A name that ends with -este.

Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste
And then of course, Ingeste,
I couldn’t remember which was which,
My friend was not impressed.
We bade farewell to the Fakir
And the Wardrobe flapped its doors,
And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’
From between its mighty jaws.

Then voices rose in a chorus from
Each part of my tidy home,
The names had given them each a voice,
It was rowdier than Rome,
The voices were accusatory
Trying to lay some guilt,
And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe,
‘He’s looking up my quilt!’

‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied,
‘I’m at the foot of the bed,
You’re flashing me with your silken sheets,
It’s doing in my head!’
While Albert grumbled in voice so deep,
‘Do I have to be a chair?
Each time you plonk on my tender seat
I’m gasping out for air!’

Then the kitchen chairs were out of place
And James was choked with suds,
The carpet, name of Emily
Was sick of traipsing mud.
It seemed that the polished table top
Was scratched, and she was mad,
The desk disliked my keyboard so
To each, I answered ‘Sad!’

‘You’re going to have to get along
I won’t put up with this,
Until that Fakir came along
This house was perfect bliss.’
I did away with their English names,
Replaced them with Chinese,
But they couldn’t speak a word of it
So I brought them to their knees!

And peace returned to Grissom Place
Just as I thought it would,
I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe
‘You’re just a lump of wood.’
While Susan smooths her quilt right down
And tucks her sheets right in,
And James just blubs, he’s full of suds
As I nap on Gunga Din!

David Lewis Paget

An unexpected caller came
in the middle of the night.
Had me traipsing downstairs,
guided by candlelight.
(I’d suffered a power cut
sometime earlier in the day,
A temporary arrangement
until I arranged to pay.)
“Who is it?” I calmly asked,
trembling behind the door,
Cold striking up my legs
from the clay-tiled floor.
“Who is it?” I asked again
with cautious trepidation,
Fighting back the fear of
an unwanted confrontation.
No one answered back,
not one single, solitary, peep,
from the unexpected caller
who’d ruined my beauty sleep.
The letterbox then rattled again
giving me something of a start!
Jumping flame-lit shadows
jumping in my fluttering heart.
The identity of the caller rolled
around my searching brain.
The ghostly rattling letterbox
then startled me again!
Carefully, I opened the door
with safety chain in place.
Prepared to slam it shut again
you know, just in case.
What greeted me was not
something that needed sorting.
Just my amorous cat, returning
from a nights, hectic courting.
(Lucky thing.)

©Paul M Chafer 2015

poetry isn't just for white people, Vivian
isn't a girl's name, and I will
wear these white jeans past Labor Day.
we forget that we could
touch the stars if we *******
tried, but instead we are
here, drowning in atmosphere,
choking on our inhibitions.
there are ten pills tucked
in the very back of your desk;
you love them but
they're about to become a
crutch, and you are frightened.
I don't **** with that
new ****,
but it's not like you care.
I'm still the same *******
idiot, total trash, I
deleted your number
and I won't send you
snapchats,
I wonder if you
deleted my dickpics.
lost intimacy, windowsill
cacti, a Ziplock full of ******* stuffed
inside your pillowcase;
I went for a run, your
name traipsing about my
prefrontal cortex, smashing
memories, beheading roosters,
screaming incoherently about
subprime mortgages and
credit derivatives.
the government is lying about
9/11 but no one really cares;
the government is arming oppressive regimes in
Missouri but white people don't care;
would that I had such
willful ignorance, the right to
ignore the slaughter on our
front lawns.
my parents started from the
bottom, they survived in
America, decapitated birds on the doorstep.
I do not have their strength and I am
washing Xanax down with Gatorade and
refusing to apologize.

Stirring the lemon balm and spearmint
carpet with naked feet , traipsing the nine a..m.
red-tipped grass to the Pileated beat
Drenched , rolled pant legs covered in
seeds and hitchhikers , emboldened morning
rabbits and Apricot skies , Alabama tell tale
breezes tilt broom sage on rustic homestead
drives* ...

We fell, for what was thought to be Love.

We held, on to what was thought to be Hope.

The Days went into Months and the Months went into Years.

We even lost count of those pages in the book of Promises we dogeared.



Those summerdays we spent traipsing in the sun

and the starless nights spent watching life slowing down in motion.

All these time we shared and get involved in each other's emotions,

The Youth we spent consumed wondering about our actions and reactions.



The carefree times lovers should have were filled with paranoia,

Even Freedom was robbed by another person's act of denial!

Disappointment and Hurt, tears and Sadness;

the desperate pleadings of the Heart were taken and thrown into the wilderness.



The bank of tears has dried up, the Heart has gone weak.

The Mind stopped working and the Body has lost its Spirit.

Finally, it is time to say goodbye.

So goodbye, goodbye. I end this with a sigh

MrRight or maybe now or later
Dear Mr.Right,

I think I understand now.

And I get it .

We sit waiting.
Seconds.minutes.hours. days.
For the someone in our life to complete us,

to wrap our wounds and mend our hearts.
To laugh at the jokes  we tell even when they aren’t funny. no especially when they aren’t funny.

To challenge us and to make us forget, but allow us the space to remember.

To know when we want to be held,

but don’t know how to ask,

a mate,

a lover,

a friend.

And we wait.

Believing and hoping they will come and rescues us from the tower,

to fight off the demons and the dragons of the mundane day to day life.

And to win our hand, for rescuing us.

And we sit and wait as we expect them to tear down the walls of our imprisonment whether mental or concrete,

as we become less,

we become dormant,

when we have been given the same tools and opportunities to tie up the bed sheets or cascade our hair down, to escape,

to be free, wasting away in the waiting

I want to warn you

I am not sitting on my bed waiting,

do not look for me in the kitchen making the pies to appease your hunger,

I am out collecting treasures,

and having adventures,

and making memories

with hook and finding my way with pirates,

and traipsing with sinners while believing in saints,

you wont find me with apple scented skin but maybe lemons,

or grass,

or the sea salt ocean

or dandelions,

because I am lying in the meadow looking up at the stars breathing in cold air,

and thinking of you

but you will not find me waiting for the world to be put back on its axis or ask atlas to put down his burden,

im not running away, but Im not waiting in a tower held high above life.

Ill be among the disciples and the hipsters, brushing off the mud of my jeans and rolling down hills with children,

kissing boo boos  and fighting my own demons.

And one day we’ll meet and I ll ask you where were you when I was waiting and maybe you will say looking for you. or maybe you’ll say I was waiting for you. And we’ll be happy to find each other.

I will not let life pass me by while i am waiting, but Ill put pieces of me in all my letters left to tell you of my adventures,

If you thought Id be less pirate more princess I’m sorry to say maybe it’s better this way. I am not dormantly waiting,I want too much for that, I  want to know me before I find you. I want to be single and appreciate the entire bed and not having to share, to look in the mirror and to know my own worth and beauty, and maybe these things will come later in life before or while you are around. I know not your name or the hour in which we’ll meet but tonight I’m thinking of you. Catch me of you can.

He’s trick, like enrapturing
Wherein lies the paradox of his pantheism parapet’s paragon
Extraversion embezzlements and euthanasia extortions
Embark embargo extraditions
Diction’s enunciation echoes of opaque opulence
Its redolence a savory waft
The evolution of psychic clarity’s id conclusions
Bizarre dichotomous augur the singer’s aural austerity
Gypsy Queen, his guitar’s moniker, romanced aimed intention
Elaborate elliptical empathy endeavors for posterity’s predication
Pandemically  phatic  propriety venerations
Their apex crux axis beyond finite solution
Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma
Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix's vertex vortex
The individual must remain sacrosanct
Traipsing through the fallow furrows of assimilation’s synthetic synthesis
Like capillaries' capricious and intravenous intrepid
Incalculably sensual beyond emotion’s expression
Impetus intrigue's intuitional verve
Ethology’s entelechy, theosophy’s theophany
Zoomorphic zoolatry's social contiguities
Futurity's corporeally preternatural fatidic
Elan-vital's apotropaic apotheosis

Last night, so enlightening
the full flower moon, illuminating
somehow brightening our words
the sun had gone, taking only the birds
leaving the sky of red mars, the alluring stars
you and I, naked traipsing through the woods
the blazing moon of firelight through the trees
a splendorous love potion, we drank the night, celestially

aimlessly stumbling
traipsing through gardens

A bruised and softened pear
a lump of clay
dented with fingerprints

Fixated between fixtures
hair made a nest

It collects the evidence
to place beneath the gallows

The incense drifts outwards
and spells out denial.

I always believed
Not in Bigfoot
Not fuzzy footage that's revealed as fake
Not traipsing footprints in the hillside
I always believed
Not in megalodon
As though I could believe in all sincerity
A forty foot shark roams the ocean unnoticed
I always believed
Not in ancient aliens
Living under oceans since the beginning
Atlantis sinks and the Bermuda triangles curse
I always believed
In you
God how I hope
What I believe is truth

I close my eyes. Feel your words inside my head. Whispering carefully they say the sweetest things, on my thoughts they do tread. I feel the beat of your heart, it pushes from beneath my skin. Oh. My. Lord. My saviour. I cannot withstand this heat from within. I feel no breath to breathe from, no more. No ending, no beginning of my hand to your lips; from where the waves meet the shore. Tender music is made and formed from the shell of my ear. No-one will believe the symphony I hear. I crave the touch of your fingers. Thought I should let you know. You lie with me, myself and I. I am addicted to the very idea of you. You became my labyrinth, my torso, my rabbit hole. I tied you in a knot around my neck and left you there to hang.

And he held my head in his hands, looked at me and told me that he was at home. He took my eyes from the world and gave me a universe to see. It’s a miracle. I was blind, now I can see. Take my breath and I am still free, to breathe. Where does the time go when I am laid in your arms? I could be here forever and never know the sunshine, the air, the rain or the wind. No night will seem so dark. I watch you talk to me, and I am lost in your words. I forget myself. I forgive myself. We conquered the world that night. We made new revelations with our silence, and killed the silence with the laughter. Oh my god the morning after. La la laaaa la. Sorry do I cry tears right now. Do I look at you and make my vow?

Phe-nom-ne-nom. I sing along to you in my head. Reliving our moments. Rethinking what you said. Jefferson Airplane never said it so well. Woodstock was where this moment was born. I cut off my locks, I was reborn. Samson was not I. Running round walls I never thought were there, catching the moment before it was lost in the air. I listen to music before I never knew how to exist. To love, to cry, to believe, to fly; I was kissed. Traipsing my hand across your back, I listen to you. I try to hear what you’re saying. But all I can hear is myself. I revel in my wealth. I was lost, I was lost, I was lost. And , man, it feels so **** good.

Before hearing about your death
I began a novel inspired by you
and your struggle with the truth--
The truth of who you were,
what you wanted of life and of me.
And it became a journey
into the past, into a life
that had happened before
we met, decades ago,
and after we parted for good,
I wove a new life out of remnants,
of things I knew or just supposed.
And like a good researcher,
I told of your parents' failings,
the darker side of love.
Of your grandmother and friends,
and even your cousin who
brought you to me,
Luring you out of the homogeneous crowd
and into our perfect valley--
"the land of spires and dreams".
I even spoke warmly of our artless love
and our drifting apart like ghost ships.
After our second parting,
when you left the mortal coil,
I tried not to reminisce about us,
for the story was yours, not mine,
But I fear that a mirror kept
cropping up behind me and
around corners, erasing mystery.
Narcissus caught me time and again.
Even so, I created times for you
that I had never seen or heard.
I have you swimming off La Jolla,
traipsing on mountain paths
in the wilds of British Columbia,
or arguing with your wife
in that mansion you dreamed of.
I invented a girl you would like
and two kids who loved you
in spite of everything.
Your memories of me became
less urgent, locked in a chess box,
in songs or on film, hidden away.
I analyzed your youth, your vanity,
lust, boredom, mistakes and age.
And when it came time for you
to make a decision: to stay or go
again, either west or east,
I stopped and looked over your life,
rolled out flat, like the American plain
from western crags to eastern city
and like a broken record,
the choice shuttled back and forth,
not letting me decide for you.
Glancing at a photo
of your childhood home,
I realized at last,
not that you had died too soon,
but that I really never knew you.