What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
They are neat as a wallet,
opening and closing on their coins,
the quarters, the nickels,
straight into the crapper.
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and moon the executioner
as well as paste raisins on my *******?
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and show my little ***** to Tom
and Albert? They wee-wee funny.
I wee-wee like a squaw.
I have ink but no pen, still
I dream that I can **** in God's eye.
I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.
It's so practical, la de dah.
The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place.
Not all the books of the world will change that.
I have swallowed an orange, being woman.
You have swallowed a ruler, being man.
Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.
Jehovah pleasures himself with his axe
before we are both overthrown.
Skeezix, you are me. La de dah.
You grow a beard but our drool is identical.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass., Middlesex County,
U.S.A., and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.

It begins:

Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?

Anne:
They were tired.

Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.

Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.

*

My undertaker waits for me.
he is probably twenty-three now,
learning his trade.
He'll stitch up the gren,
he'll fasten the bones down
lest they fly away.
I am flying today.
I am not tired today.
I am a motor.
I am cramming in the sugar.
I am running up the hallways.
I am squeezing out the milk.
I am dissecting the dictionary.
I am God, la de dah.
Peanut butter is the American food.
We all eat it, being patriotic.

Ms. Dog is out fighting the dollars,
rolling in a field of bucks.
You've got it made if you take the wafer,
take some wine,
take some bucks,
the green papery song of the office.
What a jello she could make with it,
the fives, the tens, the twenties,
all in a goo to feed the baby.
Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,
la de dah.
I wish I were the U.S. Mint,
turning it all out,
turtle green
and monk black.
Who's that at the podium
in black and white,
blurting into the mike?
Ms. Dog.
Is she spilling her guts?
You bet.
Otherwise they cough...
The day is slipping away, why am I
out here, what do they want?
I am sorrowful in November...
(no they don't want that,
they want bee stings).
Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.
Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.
If you don't get a letter then
you'll know I'm in jail...
Remember that, Skeezix,
our first song?

Who's thinking those things?
Ms. Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.
Milk is the American drink.
Oh queens of sorrows,
oh water lady,
place me in your cup
and pull over the clouds
so no one can see.
She don't want no dollars.
She done want a mama.
The white of the white.

Anne says:
This is the rainy season.
I am sorrowful in November.
The kettle is whistling.
I must butter the toast.
And give it jam too.
My kitchen is a heart.
I must feed it oxygen once in a while
and mother the mother.

*

Say the woman is forty-four.
Say she is five seven-and-a-half.
Say her hair is stick color.
Say her eyes are chameleon.
Would you put her in a sack and bury her,
**** her down into the dumb dirt?
Some would.
If not, time will.
Ms. Dog, how much time you got left?
Ms. Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?
You better get straight with the Maker
cuz it's coming, it's a coming!
The cup of coffee is growing and growing
and they're gonna stick your little doll's head
into it and your lungs a gonna get paid
and your clothes a gonna melt.
Hear that, Ms. Dog!
You of the songs,
you of the classroom,
you of the pocketa-pocketa,
you hungry mother,
you spleen baby!
Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.
Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.
Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.
Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.
There's power in the Lord, baby,
and he's gonna turn off the moon.
He's gonna nail you up in a closet
and there'll be no more Atlantic,
no more dreams, no more seeds.
One noon as you walk out to the mailbox
He'll ****** you up --
a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.

There's a sack over my head.
I can't see. I'm blind.
The sea collapses.
The sun is a bone.
Hi-** the derry-o,
we all fall down.
If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.
They fish right through the door
and pull eyes from the fire.
They rock upon the daybreak
and amputate the waters.
They are beating the sea,
they are hurting it,
delving down into the inscrutable salt.

*

When mother left the room
and left me in the *******
and sent away my kitty
to be fried in the camps
and took away my blanket
to wash the me out of it
I lay in the soiled cold and prayed.
It was a little jail in which
I was never slapped with kisses.
I was the engine that couldn't.
Cold wigs blew on the trees outside
and car lights flew like roosters
on the ceiling.
Cradle, you are a grave place.

Interrogator:
What color is the devil?

Anne:
Black and blue.

Interrogator:
What goes up the chimney?

Anne:
Fat Lazarus in his red suit.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Ms. Dog prefers to sunbathe ****.
Let the indifferent sky look on.
So what!
Let Mrs. Sewal pull the curtain back,
from her second story.
So what!
Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.
La de dah.
Sun, you hammer of yellow,
you hat on fire,
you honeysuckle mama,
pour your blonde on me!
Let me laugh for an entire hour
at your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,
because I've come a long way
from Brussels sprouts.
I've come a long way to peel off my clothes
and lay me down in the grass.
Once only my palms showed.
Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,
drying my hair in those little meatball curls.
Now I am clothed in gold air with
one dozen halos glistening on my skin.
I am a fortunate lady.
I've gotten out of my pouch
and my teeth are glad
and my heart, that witness,
beats well at the thought.

Oh body, be glad.
You are good goods.

*

Middle-class lady,
you make me smile.
You dig a hole
and come out with a sunburn.
If someone hands you a glass of water
you start constructing a sailboat.
If someone hands you a candy wrapper,
you take it to the book binder.
Pocketa-pocketa.

Once upon a time Ms. Dog was sixty-six.
She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.
her portrait was nailed up like Christ
and she said of it:
That's when I was forty-two,
down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,
and Barbara drew a line drawing.
We were, at that moment, drinking *****
and ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,
although it was July, and she gave me her sweater
to bundle up in. The next summer Skeezix tied
strings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.
(It had gone into the lake twice.)
Of such moments is happiness made.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Once upon a time we were all born,
popped out like jelly rolls
forgetting our fishdom,
the pleasuring seas,
the country of comfort,
spanked into the oxygens of death,
Good morning life, we say when we wake,
hail mary coffee toast
and we Americans take juice,
a liquid sun going down.
Good morning life.
To wake up is to be born.
To brush your teeth is to be alive.
To make a bowel movement is also desireable.
La de dah,
it's all routine.
Often there are wars
yet the shops keep open
and sausages are still fried.
People rub someone.
People copulate
entering each other's blood,
tying each other's tendons in knots,
transplanting their lives into the bed.
It doesn't matter if there are wars,
the business of life continues
unless you're the one that gets it.
Mama, they say, as their intestines
leak out. Even without wars
life is dangerous.
Boats spring leaks.
Cigarettes explode.
The snow could be radioactive.
Cancer could ooze out of the radio.
Who knows?
Ms. Dog stands on the shore
and the sea keeps rocking in
and she wants to talk to God.

Interrogator:
Why talk to God?

Anne:
It's better than playing bridge.

*

Learning to talk is a complex business.
My daughter's first word was utta,
meaning button.
Before there are words
do you dream?
In utero
do you dream?
Who taught you to ****?
And how come?
You don't need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.
Somewhere a man sits with indigestion
and he doesn't care.
A woman is buying bracelets
and earrings and she doesn't care.
La de dah.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

There are stars and faces.
There is ketchup and guitars.
There is the hand of a small child
when you're crossing the street.
There is the old man's last words:
More light! More light!
Ms. Dog wouldn't give them her buttocks.
She wouldn't moon at them.
Just at the killers of the dream.
The bus boys of the soul.
Or at death
who wants to make her a mummy.
And you too!
Wants to stuf her in a cold shoe
and then amputate the foot.
And you too!
La de dah.
What's the point of fighting the dollars
when all you need is a warm bed?
When the dog barks you let him in.
All we need is someone to let us in.
And one other thing:
to consider the lilies in the field.
Of course earth is a stranger, we pull at its
arms and still it won't speak.
The sea is worse.
It comes in, falling to its knees
but we can't translate the language.
It is only known that they are here to worship,
to worship the terror of the rain,
the mud and all its people,
the body itself,
working like a city,
the night and its slow blood
the autumn sky, mary blue.
but more than that,
to worship the question itself,
though the buildings burn
and the big people topple over in a faint.
Bring a flashlight, Ms. Dog,
and look in every corner of the brain
and ask and ask and ask
until the kingdom,
however queer,
will come.

A little bird tried to fly through the screen door and I thought, 'if only there were more air up here'.

The view from the second story deck encompassed miles of low scrub hills, piñon, and was daily growing less hazy as the fires subsided. The little bird was dead. Was not even twitching or rolling or whatever idiot birds do to fight or hold onto life. Or maybe it was unconscious. If it was a head impact, it could just be out cold. I could take it in for a bit, see if it revives. But the brains of birds are very small... maybe not large enough to switch out of consciousness without damaging the whole system. It could wake up brain damaged: amnesic, whistling gibberish, unable to collaborate or co-worm-locate or sit on eggs or whatever other higher functions birds perform. Angry, all the time. Likely a burden and a danger to the community. Condemned to either death or a life of lonely suffering. I'd rather not be culpable for that.

Prospective buyers are arriving at four, the realtor as well, for a tour, so I grabbed a broom and swept the quiet body into the shaggy juniper that surrounded the house. Swept up with maple leaves that had settled on the porch since this time yesterday, together a mass of decomposing matter, under the railing and into the dark.

I'd spent a lot of time alone in the house on Grand. Watched nature slowly creep through the iron fence and into the faux-pond, up under the patio bricks, purple flowered and needley plants growing taller and more hostile daily. Increasing numbers of little brown birds mistaking the reflected sunset in the plate glass doors for real sky.

"If only there were more air up here." A little joke I repeat out loud while sweeping broken bodies into shrubs. The thickest places, where they wouldn’t be seen when (if) someone ever dropped by to view the house.


I don't live here, the house is soon to be foreclosed. But a friend of mine knew I needed a place to stay and offered this, his third home, empty of everything except a coffee maker, some landscaping tools, a few boxes that had yet to be moved. I have a twin sized mattress in what must have been a child's room: a strip of Denver Broncos wallpaper runs the circumference, every other surface painted complimentary blue.


The couple arrived at five. She wears a salmon coloured shawl over a white blouse. They’re performing the theatric act of young couples in love (with the idea of a larger house): she ecstatic over the seven jets in the master Jacuzzi tub, he hesitant about the people-paths in the wall-to-wall-carpet, the everpresent pastels we know were once in vogue but will take weeks and at least two layers of base to fully eradicate. It’s the realtor’s job to showcase the place but I often stand outside the plate glass windows of the living room, keeping an eye. Playing the role of groundskeeper because hitchhiker is so much less glorious.

So far it’s been the same. Always she with a genuine smile that will be gone forty minutes after she’s left the driveway. He, always in t-shirt and “trying to be casual” jacket calculating the square footage of each room, the viability of the fireplace. Opening cabinets, but not concerned with storage space. He wants to see if the brass hinges really have brass pins. Is it wood, linoleum? Look closely at his eyes and watch them dance across a virtual blackboard, adding up the gallons of primer and paint needed to cover up the colour mistakes of a before-his-decade.

  2

You can almost watch his eyes dart across the blackboard. A house is a house but the home must be shredded, burned, before making it yours.


But they all do this. A dozen or so now, this summer. And I spend a lot of time alone. Injecting my thoughts into people who think they know what they need next, before getting in a small car and checking out a properly closer to town. Making little jokes to myself as I sweep the porch. The isolation even maybe altering small parts of my self. The social parts, perhaps. I feel good, most days, but find myself repeating the same phrases: “****. Shower. Shave”, “If only there were more air up here.”, “I could learn to love a leopard”, even recently a little Old Testament, which like a ******* I’ve been taking to bed with increasing frequency and a growing selfish guilt, repeating,

“As the sun was setting, Abram fell into a deep sleep, and a thick and dreadful darkness came over him.”


They won’t be back, but for the first time now there’s a deer in the yard. Meaning there must be a hole in the fence. A doe, and fawn too, and I can sit and stare with my broom in hand because my job is to sweep the deck. Dead birds and maybe rats, leaves of course, but with all the water the bank is wasting on this waste of a lawn, come deer: come all ye deer, come and eat. Maybe you will even eat the frighteningly thistly things. Regardless, in exchange for this room I was given a broom and deer are far too large to sweep.



When my student visa expired in Canada I left the country with no identification, five Canadian dollars, a five litre backpack mostly occupied by a camera, and in my mind some distillation of the romanticism from On The Road that I’d managed to power-read in a Heathrow bookstore four years before (lacking the pounds to actually purchase the book). I crossed the border via ferry, and entered the country without identification. I thought this was impossible but it turns out that when you have no time but your whole future ahead of you, and nowhere to get to anyway, insisting “I am a U.S. citizen and you need to let me into this country” does in fact work, if you repeat it enough, and are willing to wait. In my case border patrol even gave me a twenty note and a pat on the back before sending me on my way.


How I ended up sitting on the floor watching birds die, backlit by a desert sunset, in the mountains of New Mexico, is a long story, and to be honest the details have largely escaped me. I do remember I was reading Hemingway. “The Innocents Abroad”, and trying to find myself in any character I could lay my hand on. The word “Innocent” in the title, I suppose, far moreso any actual character, struck the most.


It’s the middle of The Great Recession. Or The Great Depression. The Great Compression. I can’t remember any longer which economic period this particular episode occupied (why can’t they name them more sensibly, like hurricanes?) Call it, then, The Great Introspection, as I narrated myself through the dozen rooms of a million-dollar house: the material self still alive and thriving inside in a self-congratulatory spiral over the personal ROI that left Canada on five dollars and put me, rent free, in a home worth that multiplied 200,000 times. The home where I first had my own key. The home where I learned to drink a glass of water before my morning coffee.

(Five years and $98,000 in college expenses later that was, easily, the best advice I’ve ever received.)


Eventually the phone was disconnected, the water, the power. The jacuzzi, though dry, was still a good place to lie and read. And the piñon and snakes, cacti and juniper, then inklings of pine trees came in steadily. When you would look at them they would freeze. But every morning something new was growing, some new pink flower popped up promisingly to crack the mortar in front of the door. Sweetly at first, then growing thorns, and I walking the perimeters saying “if only there were more air out here”, saying, “can not feel her anymore”, as if the decadent madness of the lawn could be silenced by speaking out loud. Trying to walk the edge of the fence, increasingly losing it in the encroaching bush, then resigning myself to the living room, the **** carpet flattening into a forest path while I impressed miles into that offensive floor.



words. seeds. thistles. marvin morales.


Sleeping on that filthy mattress, the Denver Broncos looking down, still optimistic about their upcoming trophy, or cup. Whatever it was that a bunch of cartoon horses could win. But the sweeping gave me solace, even though the growing thistles made the bricks uneven and caught in the bristles of the broom, leaving little shards of transplanted pink flowers emedded in the yellow polyethylene. I loathed them, but looking back I can see I played straight into their plan. Transplanting little seeds to new weak places in the cement, where they could grow tall again and **** up what little good was left of the land. Bring deer to eat them. Bring little idiot birds to pick the seeds out of the faeces, recycling with pure intent, and flying off into the bright light of sunset. Then crashing broken to the floor.

And like the lawn, like the porch, like what happens when you read Twain, something in me changed. “If only there were more air”, yes, but there is never enough air. Piling up among the deer, among the doe, among my now all-consuming pacing and talking to ghosts who don’t live here anymore, among the many birds who ate their worms and went on to hatch a dozen more, flew into a plate glass sunset, and were ignored.

You transformed my freckled neck

Into a strawberry field

Last night
Transplanting puckered lips
Into planting pink rosy kisses
Across my skin
And down my chest
Like
Cherry blossom petals that

We picked

Because we  
Just don't believe that they could be
Anything more
That how they feel right now

Its too inconceivable for us
Its too contrived   


I mean
Its like
Trying to grow candy apple love
In greenhouses
Or just houses 

Painted green
With synthetic sunbeams
And pesticide ridden wishing seeds
Planted with high doses of expectations
And fertilized by things like
Movie Scripted
Kissing in the rain

And all the other high fructose corn-syrup cliches
That only let you come down
When your brain washed loving
Is washed from lusting
Trusting only the sunlight
Rising in the morning
On a clear day
Because thats when you can see
Whats real and fake

But it doesn't matter

Because we just don't believe in things like that
Its to synthetic
For starry eyes filled with falling satellites
When its still too cold for sunshine


So we
Just believe in things like
Twisting our tongues 
for the fun
Of seeing
How quickly we come undone
When we touch

And breathing

Out then in and in again
Breathing uneven breathes
Into each others mouths
To feel what its like
To come to life
Then let it go again

And we always
Always
Color outside
The rib cage lines

(and heres why)

Because ribs
Keep people out of our hearts

And cages
Keep us out of their

And lines
*******

Lines are for strictly straight people
Who can only see one side to everything
And everyone
Knows
Rules were meant to be broken
And lines were meant to be crossed

Cross eyed
Crooked teeth

That can never be bent back straight
Or scraped pearly clean of
Imperfection
Because they are already
In perfection
Everyone is just too blinded
From staring into the sun
To see it right now

But tonight
Tonight
We are two crooked lines
In a foreign vineyards of twisted grape vines

Fermenting into a wine sweeter than our lips
And we fit
Together
Like two broken puzzle pieces
That wont ever complete each other
And you know what

That's ok

You are not my missing piece
And I am not yours
Because we are not
Puzzles
We are people
And puzzles are just broken paintings
To be put back together
And we are not broken
There’s no completion left

To who we are
We are infinite
Never ending in our potential
Never lacking in what's essential
All we are doing is adding colors
To each other

And tonight
You color me inside out

Crossing every line on my skin
With you paint brush lips
Like strawberry red rows of
Red wine
Dipped lips
Planting painted
Red lipstick kisses
In each others mouths
The way
Sweet-bay Magnolia petals
Are pictured in puddles
When they look down
Seeing their own refection
And letting themselves fall
Getting bruised by the gravel
We are each both petals and pavement
When we fall into each other
Tonight
And I remember one night
A while ago
We found an old telescope
Made out of plastic
With this incredibly inaccurate scope
That focused in sudden little jults
And it took us forever to find the moon
But when we did
And zoomed in
With one eye squinted
You
Looked up
To the night sky
And I
Have never seen anything like

The way the moon filled your eyes with stars
After you peered into each others faces


All the way across the atmospheric dimension
Sendings whispered apprehensions  

Of a pretentious existences into each others eyes
Every line had a wink at the end
And every wink had
A sly smile in between the chimney and the roof

So heres a little truth

Sometimes I wish that we
Could telescope each others sunsets
And find our own sunrises in each others eyes
Behind every blink
Orbiting

Fixed fastly to this axis
Through outer space time lapsing
Across boarder lines
Even though 
I know
We already beam every time we see each other
Like spring sunshine on icicles dripping drops down to
Oil spilled rainbows

We bowed our selves

From the glowing belly
Of our laughter induced paintings
Coloring waves of light
Overlapping though space

Traveling
Faster than the speed of sound
In our own directions
But our travels are soundly set
To inter-exist in this second
And I dont want to let go yet

But I will
Because we cant believe in things like this
It too much risk  to trust the
Daffodils blooming in the brisk
Frosty March mornings
Between bits of icy earth

So we pick them
And put them in little jars with stones
In our kitchen
And smile every time we walk by
I dont even really know why actually
I guess

They are just so pretty
And they smell nice too

Right next to the stems of
The white cherry blossoms
Which bend across our wooden window sill
Next to our sudsy little sink
And we know
That they wont grow anymore
After this
That this is their only glimmer
Of existence
So we hold them close
But time alway slip through our finger tips
Letting go
Of what we cant hold on to
Pulled farther apart
And I havent seen you 
In a while

The other night

I tried to telescope your eyes
Across boarded boarder lines
But I couldn't find you in the skies
And the moon only winked in my direction
Leaving me

To plant wishing seeds

In the ashes of 

Every wished on fallen satellite
I could find
Grown
In green houses

When its still to cold for sunshine
On a clear day
I still wish
That maybe
After
You’ve cleared away all the dead daffodils
From our dusty windowsill
And planted a orchard of candy apples
In the ribs of your new lover

That it will still make you smile
Every time you see
Sweet-bay magnolia petals bruised by gravel
And it reminds you of me


                                    The End.

(oh, if you don't like lengthy-reads, do not read any further.. thank you)





how I long to hear you
I am silent now
just like you


1.
from the curtain rail, hang paper-butterflies in gentlest-breeze
you made for us in vacation-time
we loved living and being with you
      so quiet and so serene
never loud, nor ever shouting
you gave us the love we often had to steal at home


2.
dear lady, when our parents couldn't cope
they dumped us at your door
you took us in for days on end
and how we flourished in your care

momma in her perfumed get-up.. always out and about
I couldn't stand her smell
she hardly took the time of day.. to get to know her own
they quarreled all the time
one time, we saw her pull in ugly-anger, a knife on him
      and he punched her hard in the face
      we-took-it-in.. the three of us
      they saw us standing there, looking on
I tried to shield the younger ones' eyes
but the lesson sank in.. thickly


3.
so, off to you.. we got bundled, like hastily-wrapped parcels
and you took us in
and we gleaned the worth of stability

you spoke to us in quiet-tone:
right, now we will read.. alright, my dears?
    we responded with three silent nods
    eyes up at you.. like open-flowers
    our smiles inside slowly blossomed
as a powerful-routine came to life

sit us down near koi-pond in the yard
     after milk and choc-chip cookies
     green dappled shade-cloth overhead and potted plants
she opened up a book - Gift from the Sea.. and she read
     we listened with rapt-souls, open and accepting
     drinking in the delight of her well-intoned voice
she tempered that sickly-void with deep-respect and lasting-admiration

how we filled the hours with your special-technique of patience
        we discover life.. along with title and the author
        one buck to read the first sentence of a new book
        two for first paragraph
        five for first page
we earned a keep to last a jolly ol' lifetime
looked forward to the end of every weekend
when we'd spend the week with you
off to school, you saw our tiny-feet and welcomed in the afternoon
      warm greetings with firm hand, discipline fell in place
      but when chores are done and homework, too
that's the time we'd settle quietly into the routine you set so well

cushions at the koi-pond and each one gets a turn
granny-dear, granny-doer.. you took the time
you read to us and we read to you
and then, we read to one another.. while you did your tasks
        we learnt of the classics and many obscure artists, too
        writers' names became familiar; we discussed at length
        and from your fine library, came three very well-fed beings
who each had a jar filled with love-pennies and mind-notes

tranquil-nap in dimmed-room in the afternoon
eyes sunlight piercing through in stippling-slants on polished wooden-floor
we fell into peace

thinking expanded beyond the lore of words
you'd engage the width of our seeker-imagination with so much
         drawing fine-lines into the unknown
         and paper-mâché and Rorschach-ink
         and let us see how earthworms could be useful
         and transplanting our seedlings from disposable egg-cups
by my teens, my special botany-project grew: orange saplings
how the time, it flew.. weeks and months.. years..


4.
then, one day, our momma said.. no more time at granny
          we questioned and we queried, but to poor avail
          evasive-looks met our searching eyes
and vague answers, even poppa with the *****-glaze didn't talk
we failed to swallow their awkward-energy

the three of us could take no more: affection interfered
      and I took two buses and snuck out to her place
I crept in silent, found her resting
but her eyes were covered up
      her face had blue blotches and cheeks were puffy
sharp-inhale!
      I shrank perforce and cried inside.. and softly touched her hand
she woke up, startled and turned away
     but she knew it was me; she'd learnt my smell so long ago
bowing my head, I gently wiped her brow with unscented-towelette
and I saw her shoulders shaking
she quietly accepted my comfort


5.
the routine continued, thankfully
after we got wind of what really happened
how you were mugged in the subway on your way to work
you've lost the use of one eye and you now slump on one leg
this fall in health did nothing to dampen your ardour
       we read for you when you could no longer see at all
       and when your pensioner-status made you penniless
       you rewarded us with hugs pressed into the psyche
       our night-time pitter-patter slipping to you from nightmares
       and you stitched our broken-pieces and sealed our cracked-assurance
never finer devotion bred from hands so kind


6.
you let us read and it sparked the mind
the penny kept on rolling with great success
long after you left
    my brother now lectures in languages
    and guest-speaks at many places of higher-learning
    and my sister became a lawyer
I became a drop-out early on, but I never sold my dream
I struggled with their help.. yes, I know.. I was always slower
and melted-crayons still do yield.. colour in the twilight of cool-eve

yes, and I bought a farm not long ago
and I tend my own keep
granny, you'd be proud of us
three silent nods to an angel in disguise


now, I stand here.. quiet in my beautiful-orchard of oranges
              stare at the leopard-changing shadows on the tiles
and long to read for you
so, I open up a dream lying next to my koi-pond, an auburn-tail flicks handsomely
and it all spills forth in reams..



can you hear me now?
in silent-vow, I unveil the finest of my heart-words
to you..




S T, 2 January 2013

words fell
    like broken
        glass
                from
your lips
                onto
bloodstained
                       carpet
lacerations
              searing your
bruised heart,
      transplanting
              its jagged rips
into mine
  beats sharply feathered
like injured
                wings,
angel eyes
   pigmented my color,
    blinded by a
cool sheen
hiding behind
                 tears
You are but a child,
young fresh entity
yet know the weight
of heavy
    and suddenly
nothing else
       matters
only your light
in my world,
however
         dark you get
nothing material
can fix it and I will
stop it all
to press
the button
          of time
and give
you
the
       world

When we move from Texas to New York,
my mother’s smile slowly wilts. But she’s
smart and plucks it from her face before
my father can see.   
    
Do you know why I agreed to uproot myself?
My mother promised me a garden of my own.
My father allowed me one windowsill ***.

Now, I tear my hair out when I’m all alone.
Maybe if I plant it, a better me will spring up
like Venus from the water. For, as I am now,
I am no goddess.

My mother doesn’t stop me, only takes me
by the hand to walk through the city. Her face
is mottled purple and blue in the bright lights.

Plants can’t cry, you know. But they can bruise.
My mother watches videos of her and my father
when they were young. She asks: “Do you love me?"
and he laughs.

Upon the precipice
Between the two of us
I see the darkness
Eyes like black veils
Curtains that cut through to
The void inside of you
The one I have to
Stars shimmer
Dreams simmer
Set to a soft boil
As we toil in our despair
One day I will meet you there
For now
I set the scenery
Put poetry between you and me
Making our agony
Transparent
Transplanting
Your words into my mind
And putting my words
Upon your thin
Diaphanous skin
Allowing me to see in
While your wonder
Flows out faster than
Light from a dying star

Every so often he
swings through town and makes
his way into my bed,
broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress
reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone,
which is most.

I appreciate the infrequency with which
he comes to visit,
my door kept ajar,
my heart kept  comfortably closed,
as he strolls in in his designer
sneakers or boots,
the noncommittal conversation flowing freely
between us.

Once I recall he rolled over,
his hand sliding up my forearm,
wrapping himself around my
frame as I pulled out my phone
to show him a photo,
and he noticed his number wasn't saved,
guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his
permanence,
or lack thereof.

I like the way he laughs
and the rare moments when we exchange
something deeply
personal about ourselves,
complicated words and phrases transplanting
simplistic nonverbal communication.

He is handsome
without being too ****;
he is smart
without being argumentative;
he is wealthy
without being ostentatious;
he is shy
without being withdrawn;
he is a lot of things,
my finely filed fingernails not even
beginning to scratch the
surface of his otherwise
intriguing layers,
having tied my own
hands
behind my back.

I need the way he doesn't
need me,
and him I.
Sometimes I need his body heat,
the gentle weight of a
man's arm hanging on
my curvy hip.
There are moments when I need
one of our witty but empty
texting conversations,
simple enough to read after
too much Bordeaux.

I need the something that
exists in the nothing
that he brings
me.

you were a reckless tearaway arriving
to take the heat with a debt reckoning
in Sunday skies marked for duckbill clips
of dark filled entries on its balance sheet
a challenging force I felt I had to account for
a raincheck that I wanted to cash in on
before the heavens opened and blew me away
knocking at my door for a riot of rebellious
adult licence needed
love to be let in

you agree we meet outside in the gathering storm
for there's a multitude of conflicts to be resolved
stark contradictions and that's what excites
with you there's upsetting imbalance involved
upending equilibrium with blunt direct questions
and reactions like a Luddite with the mind of a librarian
so that I never quite know where you're coming from
but know the answer is next
written bold on the sheet
which has your signature on
I predict with a scrawl
but that you think
is kinda neat

"throw me every strain of emotion you can pick up"
and you do and your wake never lets me down
propelling a wet film wind machine
should I withstand its crazed delivery?

those sheets of rain that blew in
off the bay
you always try
your best to tear
across
I feel them shooing the air
into my lungs
winding up branches faster and faster
like a toy plane rubber band
dancing in my hair
this way then your way
until it stood on end
scared
to not go on and on
the way of so many plucking ideas
drawn from the spoils
of let's-play-chicken arts
found on the tables of tattoo parlours
when the shades roll down
and pages flick quickly as dices roll out
extremes in exfoliating salon sport
close shaving loose leaves off every hairpin bend
and scratching the bald patch
ever more bold
as if you liked transplanting bulbs
follicles in deep crimson beds
of eye poppy temperatures gone wavering

impossible to ignore in a flash of eye shadow
from a bouncy bobbing weaving
pony tale conductor
keen to take on electric vaults
showing me a pair of high heels
whatever
I ****** at your scurrying reins
my grasp like a wind slipping
through a shake of tussled vanes
black curls of wild abandon
whipped up into a shift dress
in shades of grey flight
centred in misplaced miss red
lipstick outline worn to a fade
over the top of the roots
rushes **** the breeze with pollination
as full on as a full Brazilian headdress
collected from a gazillion dipping flowers
a rainbow opening to shower off
it's end in privacy
high pitched screens

little cover in those shorts of ours
from a summertime blanket of rain
which you turned up to cloud my thighs
always thrown over and folding your way
ace-of-***** cards played torn
and ragged with bare laced love
thrown down with on-the-river sneers
cornered with those winking semi-colon smiles
open ended to point out the end will be fun
but I get your gusting gist in the mean time
determined to wheedle the worst in me out
which looking up is on its way now
and when the lightning will stop dancing
is a rough reckoning I'm not ready to say
but in the eye of this exciting storm
it's clear
not tissues not anything
need wipe these slate skies clean
from our trail blaze
my tearaway

The odd thing was
she did not cry.
not once that year.
I remember the army chaplain
standing in her doorway.
Knowing at once the sad news.
Her son was on active duty
overseas with the Marines.

That summer she worked
tirelessly in her garden.
Day after day
from dawn to last light.
but not a single tear.

Transplanting pruning digging
her shears like a cicada in August..
I do not think
I have ever seen as much beauty.
Flowers everywhere
the whole garden an explosion
of the brightest colors.
but not one teardrop.

Roses hollyhocks hydrangeas
filled the air with their fragrance.
And on the fruit trees
lantern shaped blossoms hung
downwards to earth.
drifting in the breezes.
Falling like the tears
she could not cry.

my loves, the many accumulated mn-
eumonic responses play'd on future
women. ideas based on the poiv-
rottes of idealized affectation past.
cesspools emptied by the horse-tanks
with stelth in the night, but the-
re couldn't be much stealth for a target
reeking of **** and convalescence.
sadness and that odor would
hang heavy in the first cold rains
of winter. transplanting thoughts,
always transplanted emotions of
subjugation. she was waiting for
someone, this now past but once
future poivrotte. feet to be
knock'd from under, body to find
lulling embrace. mind the levitat-
ing affect. mind, the missing
portion of our feint'd love.
and
  - I was always empty and
    both sad and happy
with a third-class train ride, at
mon poivrottes' expense of mentality.
we could used to lay together talk-
king in adult tones through our
child mouths. remembering to poc-
ket fruit to retain our breakfast
from freezing. speaking no truer
words than those utter'd while
embraced. words from the mou-
ths of us children. truer words
never could be counterfeit, never
could be spoken without loss of
conscience. Cezanne-dreams of color,
Impressionist subconscious,
j'adore mon poivrottes. feasting of mo-
vement and staining all around with
the strong cafe au lait. follow'd aper-
itif, following digestifs, following back
to lie. to flow words from our child mo-
uths, we would walk paths through the
woods in the Autumn twilight. the trees
were sculptures having their leaves
stripped bare. walking alongside, we walk'd
ourselves down the same separate path.

I want to become a diver
like the scuba guys in the Thai cave
risking death to save life,
going deeper into convoluted passages
of darkness to pull life from it.

I want to become a heart surgeon
transplanting energizing mitochondria
into babies’ dying hearts
to revive and save damaged cells.
Oh to receive from the gods of creativity
an infusion of fresh energy
into this old body
and renew flagging cells
with a flowering fragrance
as sweet and unique as Plumeria!

May this diving deeper
be as fruitful now as it has been
in the decisive moments
I was able to conquer pride and self
to reach out to others
whose spirits had frowns
whose life energy was down.

I know: thinking, reading and writing
are not quite enough to reach and taste
the fruits of angels.
Like the classic tension
between “faith and works”
“deeper” means a marriage
of information and application
to get transformation.

And so these moments of writing poems
and diving deeper, rising higher
for the creative spirit
are not divorced
from kindness and reaching out
in friendship, intimacy, and love,
from taking time and spending energy
beyond these meditative walls
embracing life where it calls.

I am a diver and a surgeon
a spark striker, a flame keeper
always desiring
to move
deeper, deeper, deeper.

Programmed to destroy 
Any inclination of affection,
A mindless drone, with no satisfaction
Losing ourselves
In a planned reaction
Where one cannot feel
Or understand the cause
That brought us
To the bed filled with flaws.
Is this our only chance
To possess each other?
Undress each other
Under the covers,
To deny the fact we are our past lovers.

The clouds are here to stay,
While the sun tries to shine
In this town that resembles
A snow-globe design.
The people are tormented,
And she is drunken in her disease--
A welcomed guest,who begs and pleads
For a savior that can save her.

The wind has died down,
It was once as sharp as the gods.
Cutting flawlessly into our memories,
And dancing away in the leaves.
Our bones remain, while our brain decays.
We used to stay up all night
Transplanting stories of when we ate the moon.
Creating boundaries, and passages
In the dark valleys of our past.
Where hatred is all that we crave
When we have made new homes in our grave.

The movement is rapid,
Going in all the wrong directions.
Overflowing promises
That only result in silhouettes of
All that I’ve tried to forget.
Trying to take hold of all that goes on,
But all that is in my grasp is the gun--
My finger already on the trigger. 

Now the demons have conspired,
They
          have
                    already
won.

I'm really sweaty.
I'm really sorry
I read you such a heteronormative poem.
I thought it was beautiful and short.
I forgot
if I was a lesbian.

If it is trendy for me to like my same ***
I don't want to do it.
Some of us argued, on Lagrange, in Polish Village,
about whether I wasn't shaving because of ideology or
because it was annoying.
I said it was annoying, but I meant that the whole thing about it is annoying. Everything is annoying. I'm annoyed and cold but still sweating.

Sometimes I feel the same as when I am transplanting
fragile cucumbers into the ground with clumsy rubber
gloves, very graceless. I feel tenderness toward you
and disdain toward myself that I subtly impressed upon you.
I am sorry about that. I don't want to do that,
to her. I don't want to do that again.

I felt good when her and I watched raindrops drop into a pond.
Both our natural tendencies were to lie down in the grass,
maybe she was thinking about our muddy bodies,
but I wasn't thinking much. My thoughts were warm.

Today we're going to ride in my ticking time bomb car,
fifty-five miles per hour for a couple of hours,
forty-four degrees is the high and *******, we are going to feel that high. Embrace the peaks of the weather and the pits of our lonely, young, emphasis on the young, but still rather manic feelings.
I feel better doing that with you,
but I don't know if I want to touch you
all the time.

The odd thing was
she did not cry.
I remember the army chaplain
standing in her doorway.
Knowing at once the sad news.
Her son was on active duty
overseas with the Marines.

That summer she worked
tirelessly in her garden.
Day after day
from dawn to last light.

Transplanting pruning digging
her shears like a cicada in August..
I do not think
I have ever seen as much beauty.
Flowers everywhere
the whole garden an explosion
of the brightest colors.

Roses hollyhocks hydrangeas
filled the air with their fragrance.
And on the fruit trees
lantern shaped blossoms hung
downwards to earth.
drifting in the breezes.
Falling like the tears
she could not cry.

broken handle
   setting in the grass
bleached

how many holes?
     how many holes?
scrapping ice
transplanting flowers
holding soil

white fibers lay in the green grass
      the shovel
has become
handle less –

Transplanting is sometimes devious
Removal of what was supposed to work
Powers being re-situated hurriedly
None of us really understanding why...

She did not cry.
perhaps that was the odd thing.
I saw the two soldiers at her front door.
one with a chaplains uniform.
Her son was on active duty
in the Marines.
I knew at once
what the bad news would be.

I remember It was late springtime
and all through the days that year
I could see her
working non stop in her garden.
Trimming,transplanting, weeding.
until the evening light dimmed
Into darkness.

I have never seen such
An abundance of beauty.
Flowers and shrubs a color scape
a complete mass of bloom.
The snipping of her pruning shears
never ceasing
like a cicada in August.

Lantern shaped blossoms
cascaded down in multitudes
from the flowering trees.
Like the tears
she could not cry.

Blarnask-A feeble-minded joke that elicits cackles from dumb people
Rentgourge-To be surrounded by people that manipulate you especially for harms sake
Ritonique- The audiovisual sabotage of clarity by mind-numbing subliminal technology
Rallendork-Someone persecuted because of political gamesmanship before an election
Regnongell-A normative fear that is provocative of regress instituted by cultural conformity to debauched ideas arising from pedigree
Blaskerg- henpeck affectionately at some desire whether personal or relational
Whink- a covert attempt at seeding chaos that benefits one tribe more than the others
Allonker- an idea that is hoisted as popular only because of mediagenic creation which is in fact highly inflated but still has efficacy of determent or enlistment to a flagging cause
Warspark-to provoke lewd riots to engineer hatred
Dralley- a disreputable person that earns a pass by moral docimasy because his or her life is opaque
Wramplizer- someone who outstretches their moral virtue as a badge of honor only to be greeted by exsibilation because of prejudice that works counter to that moral pedigree
Flabbernounce-to gabble an entreaty that is otiose because it defies pragmatic logic too much
Rettonkle- to impose manipulative conditions as stipulated by froward formant demands to impose clarity over confusion even when a pretense such as this is not tolerated by many
Ellambore- the sacrilege of sacrificing a useful person or strategy to relinquish any appearance of ignoble intent when something becomes poisoned by association alone.
Lickerstein- a contrarian genius isolated because of knowledge of controversies dismantled by the witticisms of concealment
Revalsion- a temptress of opinionated people to conceal their true mettle in order to seem weak or manageable to manipulate their superiors into more justifiable treatment (Suppression of vocal intellect to gain job stature)
Qurathe- the inarticulate rejection of a creed, person or ideology based on prima facie observation or cursory observation
Wraster-To wrangle with timberlask disasters with poise rather than cowardice as in sensation-seeking that is dangerous but yields great rewards
Elkoove- The dormant nature of peaceful animals who like the attention of human companions but simultaneous feel alien to us and thereby withdrawn
Tinjowl- a rapid seed of malcontent that develops when heresiarchs exert too much sway over the commonplace blockbuster and ingeminate evil traits as exemplary paragons to be followed without slippage
Slaverners- slaves blind to their own reflection or free of conscience about commiting heinous violent crimes because they never consider the consequences beforehand or even afterwards
Wreffalaxity- a state where intermediary representatives incur little damage for overseeing federalese they didn’t write because the opaque nature of the government absolves them from any malefaction and thereby leads to lenient public opinions even about incumbents
Tregounce- bartering with the margins of stupidity forever estranged by the periphery of consideration to belittle them with patronage which reinforces redominage and stultifies societal change as dangerous to keep the status quo at bay by spotlighting irrelevant issues of strife to diminish the whittled down spearhead of invective
Delanvey- a cartoonish complicit foofaraw in a bipartisan government designed to reduce the fortunes of the deliberate action of self-sabotage to help the component gain leverage over the vote to a greater degree
Wrapkilt- the exultation of shibboleth as an aswallone gamesmanship that is diminutive to other religions, creeds and races because the specious believe of differing birthrights grants power to that fringe
Slimpontune- the tendency worldwide for people to neglect musical lyrics in popular music because time shelters its own destiny by being reserved only for the attentive ear of masonic subservience to the grand plot and a state of the universe to preclude the popularity of mention of future events to a standstill while invoking antecedent properties that pivot off of the reverse phenomena.
Waretreen- manufacture even in destruction negligent of environmental conservation
Yettle- a match between the mettle of character and the expectancy of outcomes outsized to fit between the lines of history and destiny
Groterk-The gross termination of kinship through estrangement that relies on technological paralysis to diminish the common sphere of the nuclear family
Wallcreak- a prodrome that a prophylactic system against any maleficence is riddled with visible elements of skullduggery reprehensible for those who watch even with guarded banausic purpose
Jopeyainge- a prolific adversary armed with persiflage that is also your friend because he entertains a crowd with raconteur wit
Flowder- the vicious cycle of cartel violence that depends on a high velocity of money at a high risk premium which endangers civil society
Drampover- The histrionic recursive irony that the most maudlin members of society are the most susceptible to popular verdicts rather than maintaining a core anonymity which eventually culminates in a foofaraw society where the aberration is celebrated as the exemplar rather than the disreputable outlier
Affloresce-To grow in fame in a manner that upholds integrity to God but not necessarily the Law that lead
Witchbloke- someone who bloviates about the grimgoire and the taghairm because of an unsteady superstition in the specious dark arts that is mocked at because his rudimentary allegiance the invisible is both pagan and turgid
Escorrhagy- The phenomena of transplanting primal conditions upon civilized people and expecting them to thrive without experience at the casualty of the people exposed but not indemnified from consequences
Cavelletto- a swift fleet of mobilized military personnel that are discharged from normal bounds of duty to exact vengeance in vigilante justice and practice roguery because they get away with it
Treeflow- the endless recursive cycle of harvesting the Earth for financial gain in an unsustainable way that favors the freebooters rather than otherwise.
Nockerslug- an invidious cyberattack aimed at one person who resembles a dignitary or whoever has credentials intermediary to that luminary
Griddorean- that mapping of spacetime which prizes current conditions above future conditions and appraises the behavior of minor particles above all else.
Imporchurge- the compound celebrity backing behind an ideology or position on the political spectrum which might be fractionated but identifiable on the spectrum of considerations as inhabiting a coherent sphere adjacent to other spheres
Yoppyhead- a profoundly sensitive person that gets overlooked by society who is fickle in decision-making that usually isn’t very astute and therefore prone to the ravages of instinct bulldozing ambition
Profingerine- The march to the oblivion of the ineluctable truth that the tittup of the sardanapalian crowd or any other group of perdition and seditious simultaneously will lollop the final destiny upon the intermediary stages of arrayed tolerance for encroaching evil
Retorminity- the capacity of one entity to enhance the size of his impact on the carbon footprint by exigent action or the weight of the shadow of titans
Filagersion- The overall footprint exercised by a person of authority of subsidiary authority that has the capacity to magnetizes and motivate a captive audience to commit proactive deeds
Versamily- the natural good fortune that comes from pancratic mastery of affairs
Scrongifical- Very precise at ****** emulation with high emotional mastery of deliberate aplomb in taxing situations
Anomalesque- A rare pedigree that shows no marginal weaknesses in the overall constitution of character that refines brittle people into magistrates
Wrask- to risk rashness to prove the lucidity of the stranglehold of contemplation above the retches that sour with hackumber to the resilience of comparsion
Tilkongue- The overall barometer of acting flexibility combined with photogenic appeal that buoys the actor into a suitable situation of leverage and finesse over the industry.
Elangownage- The ability clothes have to make people appear more photogenic or less photogenic depending on the color, size and makeup of the costume
Slimpergerence- The availability of a person to attend to responsibility hinging upon his motivation to catapult above the esoteric fray the resorted asylum of the propriety of long-lived generativity and reninjuble characteristics that ensure livid vitality to invigorate audiences rather than bore them
Stiltanimity- The oversolemn decorum of those whose entire professions depend on sacerdotal appearances that strangulates vibrant creativity because of the imperative humility required by people like the Pope to be restrained in festivity and slightly too moderate on moral extravagance
Succorrhea- The earnest entreaty of enslaved or understated figures to rise to prominence enough to earn the respectful discharge of their submission to earn an honest keepsake of mobility beyond derangement
Kanyeance- the free-spirited rodomontade of success flexed to a pinnacle of pride above the frazzled delusions that sink ships but flexible in posture to pander to crowds about controversy without recoiling into normative statures because of a belief in integrity above dramaturgy
Swiftmanger- the betrayal of cantabanks from stages of exaltation to the faltering complicity of investment in schemes that are dishonorable that betray vicarious friendships because of vested interests in profligacy above the serenade of virtuosity
Alpononetial- the swift gainsay of a nimble creative ****** to mobilize people in growing numbers that cause the snowball effect especially when applied to religious affairs that don’t rely on grounded grandstands but more on moral integrity
Quincetownage- The petty leverage of epithets to derail an upstart man from his true ambitions because of embedded  envy that catalyzes an uproarious distraction of hatred rather than an embalming love that lasts forever
Recuddle- to invent a farsighted song to embrace a farsighted destiny directed with affection to both establish the pedigree of the songwriter and establish the dignity of self-reference in magnified acclaim
Overblow- the ability to scintillate with magnified attention that suits a higher audience than the demotic temperament allows to amporge with titans rather than sulk in brooded pettifoggery common to politicians
Wambreach- the disclosure whether partial or full to allegiance to an unpopular ideology because of deep-seated convictions that run a countercurrent to the oleaginous rhetoric of demassified convenience and a stake in radical deformation of integral virtues
Flickow- to audition for a role in a company or a stature in society when you are swimming with tough competition and yet still maintain an advantage as the biggest fish in a pond with many big fish
Flamber- to exude the preened plumage of excellency that showcases a pancratic regard to amaze talented bastions with emulations of hortoriginality already catapulted into center stage but lacking the grit of officialism of compromise necessary to cadge the motatory majority of mouchards
Reechowl- the facetious lies of the majoritarian sculpture of the human psyche that deserve glowering recompense because they belittle human virtues and stake everything on attenuated virtuosity of a stalemate compromise to uphold the hackneyed lowest common denominator to a stage earned by pedigree that verges on laziness because of treacle
Thunderlust- the peremptory catalyst to pedigree that touts ****** conquest as a badge of honor that is overweening in its ability to proselytize people to the notions of ****** profligacy seen as a virtue rather than a hamartia based on the pedigree and pulchritude of the dating scene you captured
Flampy- weak in acting ability despite high honors of success/ Acharismatic because of a soberminded serious disposition that is rarely rattled but even more rarely ebullient
Krageon- the ability to harness the motivations of the enraged into prolific proactive action that actually becomes a contagion in society rather than a slimmerback of vocal dissent not gravitated towards any outcome but the ludic ventilation of the disarmed rampages of free spirit
Kraginkle- the ability to harness rage to lead to violent reprisals that are characterized primarily by bellicose demonstration that leads nowhere and inefficently stewards society to a compromised position of succor rather than a self-motivated bootstrap into grandeur
Flamdagger- the comparison of one person’s photogenic appeal to another done purely in jest so that a rectiserial organization of prestige can be predicated on pulchritude that depends on the overal physiognomy but specializes in ****** carves that provide the lineaments for the handsome and the winsome celebrity of acclaim
Grombang- a short-lived burst of ****** charisma that is so charming and winsome it achieves great efficacy in sustaining short-term appearances of mystery that galvanize ****** appeal
Grombangor- someone who is naturally rambunctious and skilled at flirtation that has a chance with the vast majority of women because he combines a flair of charm with good looks propped up by intellectual sufficiency to match the wiseacres of elitism needed to clamber to rundles of prestige in dating
Eskalatron- the ability of economies of scale to combine with economies of scope to minimize the liabilities of debt leverage and optimize the public prospectus of rampant forerunners to prosperity
Weednangy- a tolerance for Marijuana smoking if done only occasionally and done with modesty of dosage rather than the plunge into succedaneum of narquiddity
Swampbloat- the rigmarole that enhances government control and centralization based on federalese impenetrable to outrage because of crafty diversions that eventually trample on the principles of Democratic Republic
Fizzgragger- someone who swims in an ocean of attention but manicured for subsidiary roles that are the rites of passage to someone deserving a promotion but begrudged because of impediments to the compromises of nominalism and capitalism
Flavormasque- exuding so much charm that people forget your stature and invest in your upstart vibrant character despite the disdain of the naysayers among an oppositive crowd with enough leverage to traindeque the sluggish into acquiescence of appeal
Pandemble- a complicit arrangement where the praise of one luminary results in the luminary being praised to be amenable to issues of discord and overlook travesties in their fiduciary obligation to create a recursive cycle of allegiance embedded in character even when there might be mismatches in ideology in some respects
Axiolative- the conceptual ability to turn axioms into monuments of  creative triumph that supersede crudity with elegance while in the process inseminating the fluminous streams of those with wit and ingenuity to follow your example to create evolved axioms siphoned through the lavaderos of slimmerback
Repugnasket- a pornographic film or picture that deserves comstockery because it perverts the sanctity of the youth to have proper opinions about *** rather than outmoded debaucheries that fetch the niche appeal of ******* but contaminate the world with lewd excess
Wrabble- the highest spiritual praise earned by a combination of moral fervor, prophetic insight, mutual harmony and a conclave of the elect praising moral valence with adoration of vicarious charms leading to power and friendship
Renegasconade- the arrogance of people that believe in the nulliverse scoffing at the opinions of even lettered religious men because the thanatism of death scares them more than the sanctity of life preserved sustains their lacking moral virtue
Fringorge- the gulfs of opinion that separate people with radical axioms from people with normative virtues that has the capacity to appeal speciously to the epicurean manicures of some pedigree but has an overall bumptious affect on vast majorities of people bolted to a different model of inspiration
Magnihemption- forgiving righteous people who are sensation-seeking because they obey all the other tenets of religious law that are worthy of praise and using kind castigation rather than strong deplorable invective to mold people slowly away from overindulgence or verboten indulgence
Skillamination- the pancratic summit that evaluates all skills owned by a person or a group of people and then quantulates the degree of their roundedness to implement action rather than lull into acquiescent debasement
Scravengeance- the fulmination of envy to turn people against each other because of a lacking talent that provokes insecurity that transmutes into vile dishonesty and slander that results from inferiority complexes that seek to dismantle the edifice of the successful because of a regress of the weak
Nazemotor- the improper direction of propaganda to lead to persecution based on superficial dissonances between racial groups that runs contrary to the gallop of egalitarian motions that sustain the brunt of moral support
Marxallenger- a radical ideology of communism in the eventual culmination of affairs that hides with maskirovka its evil idolatry because it is indifferent to religious scruples of contention.
Earnshomp- a wasteful extravagance of temporary wealth to earn temporary pedigree among the audience of  bachelors and bachelorettes to maintain an unsustainable lifestyle
Preenjury- a diminished reputation earned by a mismatch between effort and completion leading to dismal appropriations of convenience.
Anvilpsychompism- The cartoonish caricature of primeval psychology maladusted to modern thrusts of cultural temperament to put the weight of burdens on the wrong lineaments leading to a dismissive verdict of decisive weight in diagnosis
Flawgraggle- The obsession with the faults of people rather than a celebration of their virtues based on a snide disdain for their political affiliation and nothing else
Ebosculate- to foment confusion incidentally in an attempt to swoon persnickety audiences with emulations of belletrist that alienate societies rather than redintegrate them

She did not cry perhaps that was the odd thing.
I saw the two soldiers at her front door
one with a chaplain’s uniform
Her son was on active duty I knew at once
what the bad news would be.

I remember It was late springtime
and all through the days that year
I could see her working nonstop in her garden.
Trimming transplanting weeding.
until the evening light faded always working
in her gardens.

I have never seen such an abundance of beauty
Flowers and shrubs everywhere.
a complete carpet of fragrant bloom
The snipping of her pruning shears never ceasing
like a cicada in August.

Beautiful Lantern shaped
blossoms hung down
from the flowering trees
like the tears
she could not cry.

She did not cry
perhaps that was the odd thing.
I saw the two soldiers at her front door
one wearing a chaplain’s uniform.
Her son was on active duty
in the desert war.
I knew at once
what the bad news would be.

I remember It was late springtime
and all through the days that year
I could see her working
nonstop in her garden.
Trimming transplanting weeding.
until the evening light
faded into darkness.

I have never seen such an abundance
of color and beauty.
Flowers and shrubs everywhere
a complete carpet of fragrant bloom.
The snipping of her
pruning shears never ceasing
like a cicada in August.

Lantern shaped blossoms hung down
from the beautiful flowering trees
like the tears
she herself could not cry.

Love you just enough that you know love was there.
Within your mind.
Within your heart like a cold chill trembling down your spine.

Hold you just as tight that you feel all this warmth.
Transplanting from every touch of my arms that you know all touches was meant to leave an impression upon you.

I'm gonna kiss you just enough to deliver my affection to you.
A deep of depth connection that you grow to understand just the many ways I admire you.

Yes, just enough.
With ever kiss and every touch.
And if you need more than just that.
I have hugs for days for you.

If the Earth really was dying
and we took every microcosm,
every spore, every seed, every insect, reptile, animal.

Then we transported all to an
inhabitable planet far, far away.
Transplanting the old to the new.

Would it become second nature?