His standards
No pole vaulter on acid could touch
So high

I wish I could decipher you
insufficient explanation construed
words may fail and logic falter,
the account I'd never alter

a beautiful culmination
purposed, intricate summation
as poetic as a psalter,
the account I'd never alter

transcendent, pleasant mystery
exquisite, written history
content, soaring past the vaulter
the account I'd never alter

I wish I could decipher you
the account I'd never alter

Backwater, *******,
ex show jumper, a bit of a show off,
part time pole vaulter and extreme skier,
also a good dancer haunted by libraries.
You smell the party vibe almost too late to kick the can,
that pass the swallow of kisses not meant a ballroom behind the meaning,
shut up or fall down are you dreaming,
or shang-a-lang meaning,
misdemeanor a pantomime curse that smiles and curses your evening,
hello, there is a light that doesn't go out now, now.

I just laughed a smooth laugh
Smooth like I imagine the landing will be
When the pole vaulter that is Earth
Sticks its landing and slides in the gravel. It doesn't pretend to make it look like you think you're glad You're here
No way did the dishonest cop actually tell you what was actually true
In fact, he regularly gave absolutely true rumors about me many times
Under a file called, "Open Spaces"
Going to the Rialto
Apparently
But this is not tonight
The name was reaching out like a junglecat

Even Buddha wouldn't tell you why I whispered these things in your ear
We worship everything accumulating at the foot of your door
You **** me with your laughter and you let me blackmail first and near
And then we'll end up with him and some new ones and prepare our spines for more

I felt stronger intensity in your words
Like the buildings were already falling down on all sides of me
When I'm left alone in the wreckage, who is there to dig me out?

And then as you crawl toward me the light of the sun will dance with the eternal sunset
The moon itself full and sparkling
And your heavenly form will be blessed with the color of God.

You appeared to me in some kind of a nihilism fueled dream
I am still walking through this living dream, and have yet to emerge from it
You were once a shade of blue
But have grown into lighter shades
As if reds and greens were suddenly added to your spectrum
Possibly tomorrow will break me from this dream and into the true world of all this business
But for now
I have to only imagine what it is like
To look you deep in the eyes for an eternity
Or to hold you in my arms as if you and I were heading toward oblivion.
Or to touch your body as it conforms gently to the shape of mine

Backwater,
*******,
ex show jumper,
bit of a show off,
part time pole vaulter and extreme skier,
also a good dancer,
haunted by libraries.
You smell the party vibe almost too late
to kick the can that pass the swallow of kisses
not meant, a ballroom behind the meaning,
shut up or fall down,
are you dreaming or shang-a-lang meaing,
misdemeanor a pantomime curse,
that smiles and curses your evening,
hello there is a light that doesn't go out now,
now.

The Doped Olympics

Why don’t they simply create a new branch
And call it the Doped Olympics?
By the laws of semantics
It soon would come into  language, legitimized:
Youth forgets past.
Soon the word would have lost its original shame,
While the name of the game
Would be guilt-free and blame-free,
And those who would qualify
Could have drug deliverance, muscles defined, bodies divine.
If they dropped dead at forty
At least they’d have entertained millions,
Fulfilled their ambitions,
Made lots of folk rich
And set records untold.
Let those few or many spend hours in training;
Let chemists develop concoctions so new
That the pole-vaulter flies,
The sprinter’s a jaguar,
The shot put is sent into orbits of space,
The long jumper jumps twenty meters
While men become fierce
And the women grow beards,
Which gives all of the chemists new projects to work on.
A yes to the ***** Doped Games.

The Doped Olympics12.2. 2004 revised 1.27.2016re-revised 7.25.2016
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin

The Doped Olympics

Why don’t they simply create a new branch
And call it the Doped Olympics?
By the laws of semantics
It soon would come into the language, legitimized:
Youth forgets past.
Soon the word would have lost its original shame,
While the name of the game
Would be guilt-free and blame-free
Free, and those who would qualify
Could have drug freedom, build muscles defined,
And have bodies divine.
If they dropped dead at forty
At least they’d have entertained millions,
Fulfilled their ambitions,
Made lots of folk rich
And set records untold.
Let those few or those many spend hours in training;
Let chemists develop concoctions so new
That the pole-vaulter flies,
And the sprinter’s a jaguar,
The shot put is sent into orbits of space,
The long jumper jumps twenty meters
While men become fierce
And the women grow beards,
Which gives all of the chemists new projects to work on.
A yes to the ***** Doped Games.

The Doped Olympics12.2. 2004 revised 1.27.2016
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin

Every 4 years I post this, hoping that the message, although lighthearted, will come forth.

             The Doped Olympics

Why don’t they simply create a new branch
And call it the Doped Olympics?
By the laws of semantics
It soon would come into the language, legitimized:
Youth forgets past.
Soon the word would have lost its original shame,
While the name of the game
Would be guilt-free and blame-free,
And those who would qualify
Could have drug deliverance, muscles defined, bodies divine.
If they dropped dead at forty
At least they’d have entertained millions,
Fulfilled their ambitions,
Made lots of folk rich
And set records untold.
Let those few or many spend hours in training;
Let chemists develop concoctions so new
That the pole-vaulter flies,
The sprinter’s a jaguar,
The shot put is sent into orbits of space,
The long jumper jumps twenty meters
While men become fierce
And the women grow beards,
Which gives all of the chemists new projects to work on.
A yes to the ***** Doped Games.

The Doped Olympics12.2. 2004 revised 1.27.2016re-revised 7.25.2016  Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Corwin

VOICES OF THE HATLESS: Where's your hat? Your head is very
wet. Stolen. Brazenly stolen by an insane vet. Where's your mama?
I ain't seen her yet. *****. Tenderly ***** by an ape pet. So let's all
pray for an hour to restore our restorative King Jesus Christ power.
The pole stuck & the vaulter died & the priest felt up a choir boy &
then he lied 20 centuries after Lord Jesus Christ was condemned to
an excruciating crucifixion by a Roman-era court after he was tried.
In **** Land it's **** & more ****: 4 rapes every 7 seconds & then
another 1. It's scary & hairy & worse than being gay-chick married.
In **** City it's 54 rapes for the bothered & harried; for the bullish
ones who shirk the responsibilities of being trans-Mexican married.
In **** Town it's back ***-ward ******* that makes burly-gay guys
burlier just as curlers make my curly hair fifty million times curlier.
On **** Road it's unrestricted ******* that makes me much burlier
while my pink plastic curlers make my curly hair somewhat curlier.
Last Christmas eve I had a terrifying dream that old politician Boss
Tweed entered into a 5-year contract with nutty Lou Reed to please
gay David Bowie who just sat there after shaving his genitalia bare.
I dreamed a disturbing dream that the Satanic demon-ghost of Boss
Tweed entered into a homosexual marriage with queer Lou Reed &
even gay David Bowie was there after shaving his round head bare.
I dreamed a scary dream that the demonic ghost of old Boss Tweed
desecrated the corpse of “Walk on the Wild Side” singer Lou Reed.
“Whilst seated firmly in the lap of a big **** *****,” Nancy Davis
related in chapter 15 of her Kenyan diary, “I became frothily foamy
for this proud tribal guide who would soon become my secret lover
in the jungle of the forgotten. It was only after I returned to the thin
arms of Ronald Reagan did I bear a crazy pickaninny called Ronald
Reagan, junior who'd forever be extra mean to senile Dutch & me.”
Stew McKnuckle opened the inner hatch to let Peg McMuffin in on
the last day of their sea voyage. Peg was very **** because she had
milky ******* & a juicy ***** that drove men wild with ****** desire.
Stew saw that Peggy's bikini ******* were snagged on a bent nail so
he deftly pulled up on them to free her. “Thanks,” Peg said as large
waves of salt water saturated her bikini bra. “Sure,” Stew replied at
the exact moment that a big shark jumped into the boat & ate them.
******* crop-failure! Where are your crops? They failed! Again? A
day doesn't go by that I don't dream of bountiful crops & tawny ***
princesses climbing up & down my ***. What are you talking about
now? I'm going to feed **** tramps & dress famished ones & then,
after my intestines simmer down, I'll build 50 armies of bus drivers  
who will rule the Northeast for eighty centuries or till Jesus returns.
******* mop-failure! ******* teen-angst at 90! Move in your deep-
est groove like you did after your fifth trans-orbital lobotomy when
you were mental-asylum sisters with exotic prancer Francis Farmer,
whose orderlies could never harm her before she drove alien freaks
madder: those clinging to the cracked rungs of the corporate ladder.

The pole stuck & the vaulter died & the priest felt up a choir boy &
then he lied 20 centuries after Lord Jesus Christ was condemned to
an excruciating crucifixion by a Roman-era court after he was tried.