misty hazed
wakes the sleepy
eyelids closed
you and I sleep...
and you and I are deep.

developing contrapuntal visions
as the wake
we ride, anon,
sounds deep;
ebbs successively;
wounded echoes repeat: guides
ethereal choices
in three separate sections note

whence we awaken,
the tides in gone
the short main theme
the exposition, completes itself. As the
moon goes around again.
now, we are as one.

my pulchritude me
petrichor my visage
Of me in a puddle

felicitously adjectively
so not well drafted nor composed
my bald spot showing

in the mirror if I turn my head and look sideways
terse a wrong hair rightly covering a bald spot of imagery

like black paint on a pink scalp trying to be
visceral, I comb the ugly away,
I think.

and he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him you'd think he wan's worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him, he was a different dog; his underjaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bully- rag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson which was the name of the pup Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze on it not chew, you understand, but only jest grip and hang on till they thronged up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off by a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a ****** for his pet bolt, he saw in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 'peered sur- prised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for him to take bolt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius I know it, because he hadn't had no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.


Mark Twain

for all his life he stood alone
observing
a sovereign being he felt uninvolved unmoved.
He had the intercourses in community college
humanities and social sciences, he still felt
separate.
He had a very neat flat, on the commons.
Kept it, oh, so neat. He kept on seeing all others as
being another course. Then when a day came he felt,
he saw a girl get hurt, I won't go into details, but,
his education did not help him.
He had to intervene. So he took his ball in his hand, bowed up
became a man.Was a hero for a moment, then.
He turned out dead with a hand full of nuts.
I am proud of him.

where does this longing arise from?
I have a yearning
has everything to do with ***
and passion

it seems to evolve in the *****
the ***** hanging
and  has  a manly scent and a
obsession

I have seen my Labrador
get in season
and my black and white
cat, it's the reason

we all are bred and why we
have feelings

Let's write like water
prose a tome so vivid in its
clear and cool
make fluid words that flow drip
down from gashes mountains pure
from eyelashes say clouds gush
every grain of sand dirt clod
of clay may bow down glistening
pump its substance from wells
drilled deeply into our hearts core
lakes of poetry filled with crystal beauty blue
but that is the sky coloring
its clear
right there in front of you
tension keeping her
round
about
see that tear?
it is there
on a cheek
in an eye waiting
to flow

on the moist spot the sheets curl around her
make for indentions in my head
memories unforgotten all these years hence
still I picture long legs
in the air
hear her crying my name
Geronimo be mine
I should have told her
my real name

all I can do is weigh all the available inputs
on a scale of
hell i forgot to knock the **** off
and that white powder
it throws off any judgements

How well it seems
I get to know your scenes
in the tug of nights darkness
in the realms of touch

blind innocent still
along the edges of
shadows still peeked
and viewed of both sides
now and wondered aloud musical
how I might find
the right touch the soul
the very nature of calm
I have searched for
so long

and on that edge, I pose
balancing hope
and juggling desires
a heartfire
and a cold ice juggernaut
fiercely holding
hope's eternal flame
in hands of clay
of mind's worthless
qualms

worry no more my fruitless
search has ended
along the edge I
fell headfirst in;
in love in peace into eternity;
into a vast new you and me.
Into love forever....
I stake my claim.

I walk no more alone,
eternally.

instead of sinning there would be a recess
where people all over the world every three hours or so just stopped
and played kickball or  slid down the icy slide cataloguing how far
down the playground they slid
tied rubber bands together , thousands of them , attached a small
plastic airplane to it , stretched it far as it could go,
and flew it imaginatively, then went back to being grown up?

style; perhaps my frenzy unedited
kind of poetry contrasts with
those whose whims are more whimsical
a four line acbd or my liberal taking of conjunctives
and splices my way
contrasts ;
tell a story is my parody
give a scene make it half real at least give character
with ambiguity, let the reader finish it:
prose a theory argue it halfheartedly
when the theme is never that ,
between lines is much of
the daily things, so in my poetry.

I  give me you my all
rock roll
  give gave to all
it gonna be all right
i feel it tonight   right in my bones
  what with whynever
falsetto high keys
vibrations  
come here pretty babay
   echooooooo so low in southern tones
get down with me
          feel warm
as long
as   the   hard times does.

the greater view is,
too long the disciple
of pessimism will live

down on all fours
down a mountains
contours
across a cool creek
dog-paddling
with stickin' thickets
sharp mystery
as darkness approaches
I proceed down
and down
on all fours
searching a passionate
write is a mission
crawling down
down
like a Spring-rat of unknown
to the valley below.

never a doubt my preference
for dreaming of a muse before paying the rent
or walking along the river and seeing
the nymphs I dream of playfully naked singing
a tune
instead of going to work
again
hiding in the bushes to watch
birds coo
or climbing the highest tree
to view an ocean in the middle of Alabama
I make up
several  mermaids populate this sea
along with serpents
vitriolic pirates sailing away to rob the
scalliwag English
in the Pub about midnight after visiting regions
of my mind
I take sense and remember last time
I had my last pint
too early,
Friday was a scant paycheck, so...

were I to lose myself tonight
nowhere else could it possibly be
then in your fine skin your sweet smile
your embrace

were I to find heaven
I don't think of any afterlife
I would not see your smile your kind eyes
you and beauty

were I to die tonight
with your memory I would smile
brightly forever more like a sailor
welcomed home

after his long course  
his long time without love
his long journey without shore
be he parched and full of scurvy

the sustenance
without a kind
life without meaning
there on a shore

of little hope
just barren rocks
and harshness
sand piling up in heaps over
his head

so I said my piece
my welcoming
I await yours

less love to suffer
I give you my all
the tragedies the utmost
for you I sit silent
listening
to the broken calls all the hurtful
triumphs the cat calls
the boastful
slaps in my face the rants the
insaneness
but stay
steadfast
in my hope for you
my love is like a dogs
no matter how far away you go
or to whom
I await
and when you return
I will leap up on you
lick your face race around \
wagging my tail for you came back and
I was worried

Ten years after or
ten minutes late
for my own funeral
and my wake;
ten too soons ago
and one sun too late
and ten to be a'comin'
and ten more
in a row I live
not ten seconds before
anticipating
or ten seconds afters
regret....
Just now and then
and ten more;
just like that.

Spheres and nuances seances discordant melodies
played in the atmosphere
hear chords that seemed wrong
without the balance he shared
Ludwig my long lost genius hero
I listen now

Such a dingy
     dusky night might be because
I seem ripe
     with a belly full of gas
can't help but belch
      and **** continuously
trying to write of love
       and stars.

So, please if you will excuse
         me, cause that was ripe and even
clouds my view, watery eyes i see
         bitterly smelling
anything but sweetness.


***
I never thought of  
of status quo

I just went
crashing
against the walls

logical had
nothing to do with me
it was for real

abstinence
of every rule
out of eyesight

I caught afire
drew the fire on
drew me amidst

a flame
and went
completely

******* mad
like Syd did
sang on

shined as
long as I could

Brianna Love in Minnesota and I in Alabama wish to announce and share with all a new addition to our family.
So far one beautiful kitten has been born to babygirl, Brianna's cat, who for eight years lived in the wild. Last year when  temperatures reached 30 below zero babygirl decided to adopt Brianna and move inside. Today she is gifting us with beautiful babes!  Hope this link below shows off our newest pride and joy!

my no faced poker playing partner
her hands held so close to her chest
I don't see a bluff don't know if
she has a flush or a king
in the hole

Can't even read her when she lays down
a straight to her king
or has two pairs
to my one queen.

She antes and bids so calm
always, I guess I sometimes win,
but I know,
the odds are stacked way so far
against, me.

I breezed thru and coalesced in reality
reminding me that i said i did when
virtually I did not, I a stump over many months
like a hibernating bear(ish) bore
ask to  cleave unto your remaining wisdoms
and plus I love you more.
so, claim me, frisk me to see I am(mo)
unarmed,
play me tunes of desamor or elvis
I don't care which.
Watch at me whilst I peek you
say hello when you mean bless you
stray from your regular course
meet me on the 18th hole
of the country club after your other goes
homes.

a text to solitude-
    I send- over an  internet  un-wired
for a life I no longer
    can survive,

But survival is hard-wired
   within, it is why
my hands need to stay busy
   being

creating a floor or rebuild a vanity,
   make one real dollar.
peace, from what I truly need
   like human touch.

It follows, that I like
   the muscles I build doing real things,
between my ears seem to be
fulfilled
   when i create and build

just one dollar in reality.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.

Her blacks crackle and drag.


Sylvia Plath

into fragments or memories pieces
of this
shards of that
Many broke
*******
yellow
yell
black

white
sight
blinded
sighted
in tiny remnants
on the floor.
It is a travesty
or comedy
trying
to puzzle
this interlocking
riddle, or
solve
and paint the whole
picture.

A poem
is quite like,
a life.

suppose peace gonna overcome
someday?
I've tried to help old ladies
bums
been a **** drunk discovering
the bottom
my self
given my heart soul and money
to orphaned animals
try to give forward

draw peace signs
in hidden places
and all caps LOVE
I hide in library books about the
holocaust
at times

I've sat giving lectures to the birds
to ants to trees, leaving traces
of my heart at their
root
and they seemed to listen
be aware of man's atrocities
clap applaud at times

I've been a minstrel
self-ministered
drawn on theologies
and  pathology
drawn and painted every self-portrait
I could while seeing
nothing

deeper
or wiser than
a sunbeam through limbs on the green
soft grass  near a calm stream
hearing her flowing musics
and cried among the bird chirps
and watched for hours
ants toil

trying so hard
so hard
to recognize

Do not stand at my grave and weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.

sans elegance not trying for
just words told in the daily
senses a tale told when
tall trees make their escapes
and long faces

on the streets concrete
stealing the sun buildings blind
all shadows
hiding in alleyways and parks
not there

the greens taken westward
nothing left but fake plants
wild roses wild anythings
a **** growing is a
miracle

there in the neon blushing the
iron closed gates the broken windows the anythings
foisted down can be rusted old told
as  the factories old men
on the corner left
forlorn

***** stolen drifting as well as can be
as could be known or told told by the swollen
ankles unkempt sides of the boulevards
running

not to here
but through
and how did you expect it?

I learned to sleep
   with the constant scratching
at my window pane-
   unnerving though, It got.

Tap, tap, tap
   the evergreen raps
its boughs on my glass
    rap sharp

almost breaking it
    I hide beneath my pillow.
I barricade under
    my blanket.

Screaming silent,
    imagining again,
your fingernails
     down  my back.

Upon a dale of dandelions
running his tongue 'tween stems and leaves
to pluck the carpel
tunnel
syndrome of nectar.
Pollinating without any bird
or bee
paying the slightest
attention.

data
all arranged collimated
in neat rows columns
speading sheets all laid out
on rooftops with SOS
written in red paint calling hecilopters
help us it says
water is good unless it inundates
and is ***** with sewage and the government flies by
looking but doesn't do it
before it ends there are accountants
adding tallies costs against lost lives on
a white sheet a
gamma line
going steadily up to the right corner
of a clean paper sheet maybe a posterboard for added
emphasis
etchy red line exponentially  rising up up away
in that line are lives against costs the government
sitting on markers
red crayons calculators
basing missions against costs like lives are expendable
how much can we spend for a bunch of creoles or  ****** in New Orleans,
someday white folks you gonna be the minority.
I'm
red
I'll rate in the minority
no matter what.

on dreamy elves and better things
fortuitous it may be, lifesaving,
more constructive  in the scheme
of things, better suited to Knights
and Maidens so long ago may
be
things like dreams and visions
hopes and purpose,
love and romances, dances
under the arms of willow trees,
softly flowing brooks babbling, the calling
of a whippoorwill
the seance **** trance you put me in

I asked a thief to steal me a peach,
He turned up his eyes;
I ask'd a lithe lady to lie her down,
Holy & meek she cries.

As soon as I went
An angel came.
He wink'd at the thief
And smild at the dame--

And without one word said
Had a peach from the tree
And still as a maid
Enjoy'd the lady.

- William Blake, 1863

I burnt the bacon
and the grits have lumps
the biscuits are cold
broke the yokes
out of butter
and burnt my finger
and wasn't as hungry
as I remembered

me, and all, covering up
the true essences
the real me, the real you,
the night's passionate
echoes the smell of Wisteria
left on sheets, there in the
soil, dark life giving moistness,
the furrows plowed,
the rows and rows tilled,
belongs me, belongs you,
emerging, sprouting,
beginning to love, and justness,
just as our roots push down, emerges,
from the loam, a new
song a, new me,
a new you.

oh you
the you shining brighter
then any sun
you must take this day
in memory
recall it
one day
long hence
for you have innocence
it is  not so bright
come September
unless on a
whim you can call it up
with that snap
of your fingers
red  paint lasts
what a day or two --
even the sky
ages into
horizons--
without
chipping?

Eyes do see the mystery of stoic conceit
an acoustical noodling or youthful brooding
never given back to me,
my craggy voice
precocious rise,
never the less a leach upon the dead
I
sacrosanct lie,

decomposing words of dead poets
horrific:

an aura of
trance in elements of infantile exuberance
my lyric prose a protuberance,
an instrument
played at least as much
as i sought the rhymed.

laudanum nights orbiting
grey names missing of souls
pale sleeping
delighting
in a slavery
of
shame
tendrils tuned
to no
heaven
herself.

In deep sleep forget
fall into
remembers
shimmer in repose
somehow see the known
like a minaret mimicking
a place
of prayer
a parakeet saying what
excavates our ministries
until a foundation is reached
a truth
build then upon the prayers.
Build then
a truth.

free thoughts on my day the universe
the guy with a sign on the corner a backpack  
his life on the side of a highway just wanting to go to
Dothan -his sign says

I turned the other way ,
I had my day all planned.
Two jobs to do make enough
dough for my weekend party.

I thought about him
for the next ten miles
heard his loneliness sing through
my tires

I turned around went back
glad I had found a care a heart
concern for someone other than I

And got back to that corner  
empty , it was. No man no sign no backpack no worldly belongings
alone on a corner of a highway in Alabama.

I rode my way back home. decided to take a day off
and think.

and all do when clarity becomes ambiguity
it might scants be hyperbole to say all do
as four operations can be found by classical
rhetoricians or any half-assed poet can
as any all assed assumption always is
addition by subtracting or transferring
an omission into permutations which scholars
proudly do , ironically.

I thunk or did or said or thought or knew is
in the middle of a guitar string chord plucked
with a background rich of bass drum
the ****** of a cymbal the beautiful
voice of a beautiful band where beautiful
girls dance sensually writhing in tune  to
my heart throbbing a voice singing
as no instrument ever can
trembling my
everything
crying
samba
me

Gonna
After a second
Examining the rise of her
Breast the darker
Pink of an ***** ******
Extending
The length of a second
The wealth of a lucky man.
Gonna
Just take a look slow all round the peak curvatures
Compare the pink
With the almonds the mauves
And cinnamons drink
Of  pallmall nicotinic
Sweats and long pauses
Now
I cull
Annihilate
The culinary incarnate
Etching with a
Claw on rock  her
Taste
Pawn her
Platinum diamond
For a soda and chips

Believe in the real creator
who within dark
and dreamy seams
inspires the shrubs and vines
and leaves, who shines the sun,
conspires with the atmosphere
and devours ******
sacrificial the creatures
to feed the progeny.
She runs wild, her appetite
inventive, insatiable
archaically from the time
any one thing mated, grew
leaves or breathed.
Bless her. The Mother.
Her calamities cause
change, rearrange the game,
her strength, her holistic songs
inspire in wind and storms.
Bless Nature, eternity long.

Another day playing chicken
in my head on the tracks
laid out strategically rich
through fog .. woods and city.
I follow nothing but the tracks
today, a few times hitching pretty,
sitting in an open car to smoke
and watch the land and water flash by,
now sunny, then rainy ..
I stay south in the summer climes.
A fight with a Wabash Cannonball
wore me out enough to make me smile,
hands on hips, I ran a mile to get hit
but the train lost again.
Having fun in my head, wanting
to be dead tired, and I am.

just as if you were alive
I get at times just like in real life inspired by
immortal words strung like pearls on your pages
just like life get ashamed at how your
vision your virginal good intent gets *****
torn apart by those who feel the need to fight
you just don't have the choice but to
reflect real life.

when words have wonder seem to
glow like the dawn over a mountain
a soft hush lush forest growing slow
on the edge of the portrait
and a meadow calls to you
out of the corner of your remembrances
cautious you tread the
path  leading on to not misstep
go beyond the boundaries
of the essence
very soft shoe mocassin
crept
tiptoed holding breath
to see nature's beauty unfold
there right there before
you in all it's glorious
colors smells glory
what stories do you tell
your children young
the myths of a theocracy
or those of the mountain queens and forest kings
the wise brave animals

note to me
limit the coffee
from now on to one
***
i've been hand shaking greeting everyone at wal-mart
all day
even the store manager and security
trying to shoo me away
but i am , doing I am , I AM
such a good job the people
are gathering around