a  kite thrives
on passion,
holding on
   by
      a
         thin
            cord
               that
                  only
                     one
                        soul
                           completes

but when the kite
becomes snared in
power lines of reason,
it is every lover's loss

lies: sweet
nothings, soft
soap, grease,
blarney,
bunkum,
wheedling,
praise,
beautiful
storytelling
pleas­e
tell me what
i want to hear

I'm just one of the thousands
Of monkeys, who sit
At their keyboards,
Typing away,
   Typing away,
      Typing away,
Foregoing food, water,
   ***, and even love
      Typing away
         Typing away
Not to create some masterpiece
   Which will immortalize me
      Typing away
         Well, maybe that
But, it is my hope that in
   This typing away
      I could capture
         The most elusive of prizes:
             Truth

60 seconds of heaven
60 minutes she loved me
60 hours on the run
60 days in the courtroom
60 years to life in pen
but it was almost worth it

I know Lonely Street.
I’ve walked its beaches,
Stared mindlessly at
Friend television.
I’ve filled afternoons
With sips of coffee.

I know all of the
Hiding places there:
Bars with cement floors,
Noisy ceiling fans;
City libraries;
Movie theaters.

There is no color
Here on Lonely Street -
Only replicas
Of houses ashen.
There is no music -
Reiteration.

I know its benches,
Where I tease pigeons
With my popcorn and
Chitter at tree rats,
Watching worlds go by,
Waiting for passage.

I know this safe place,
This sanctuary,
This holy sector,
This respite from feeling,
Where any feeling
Feels likes it's torture.

So, I hide or seek
Anonymity.

My spirit
Lost direction
When I came home
To find empty-house

microwave food or
conversations, but
lasting love is best
prepared in a crock ***.

Love is not a fortress.
It cannot keep us safe,
It cannot guard our hearts,
From the pain and strife we face.

It can't keep us from hurt,
Nor can it stay our tears,
It can't protect our lives,
As it can't hold back our fears.

Love is not a fortress.
It's so fragile at best -
So easily broken,
Even for those who're blessed.

Love is not a fortress,
It's the bridge gladly crossed,
It's the path we must take,
No matter what 'ere the cost.

i still dream of morning's past,
which i'd hoped would always last.
though i no longer sense your skin
and rarely am i invited in,
for me, the greatest sin
it that you still hold my heart.

I want to rip off your packaging.  

I want to feast on you,
   gobble you up,
      pig out on you,
   and wolf you down.

I want your nourishment.  
   I want your refreshment.  
      Give me sustenance.  

I want to nibble on your appetizers
   and sip your wine.
      I want your snack.  
   I want to close my fingers around
      your strawberries and partake of you.  
I want to rummage your confections and
   lay waste to your delicatessen.  

This is not the time for delicate bites.
   This is not the time to diet.  
      I want handfuls of you.  
   I want to play with my food
      and lick the bowl
         for dessert.

made you laugh,
made you moan,
took away you're being alone

made you frown
and say bye,
and for this you now make me cry

Romantic marriage is illogical.
Nobody is despised, who can
Successfully make marriage work.
Illogical people are despised.
Therefore, all romantics are not married.

In measuring affinity, there's so few ways,
Such as the depth of love that's found in a gaze
Or in its shortened breaths that come out with a sigh,
When with the one who makes your heart fly high.

Affinity brings a much quickened heartbeat's pace,
As well as the rush of blood brought to the face,
Sweaty palms and widened pupils when you are near,
Is a sign of the passion that you hold dear.

In those intimate moments you've shared between,
It's the mutuality where love can be seen,
Measuring affinity is more than words,
It is in the way that love ignites and stirs.

So if you're wondering if love is true,
Just pay attention to what your body will do,
For in the breaths, heartbeats, pupils, face, and more,
You will find the measure of the love you adore.

how should one measure pain?

in magnitude, as despair, dejection, affliction,
in breadth, as suffering, torment, sorrow,
in extent, as hunger, cold, want,
in frequency, as heartaches,
in degree, as a burn,
in duration, as a candle melts or in clock ticks,
in amount, as in platefuls of food or too much advice,
or in capacity of living?

individualists, freaks,
eccentric, ******, oddball,
offbeat, loser, not in clique,
we must be outsiders all

i know the taste of mud
its texture between my fingers
its acrid smell, like it
was puke ejected from the earth

why choose mud to make man?

perhaps harder stone protested

her acrid smell revives me,
animating my dreams and
arousing my slumber,
enlivening my spirit.
she then cuddles with me in
in the brisk morning air.
she partakes breakfast
and inspires me to be
someone better than myself
without saying a word.

my clear cookie jar
filled with cutout men,
my chocolate friends,
moons and stars

a winter moon shines palish white
above her sleeping head a night
and there she dreams of sweet delight
of better days to come

my mason jar heart,
chipped, cracked, stained with wine,
has often been filled
with tears for those gone,
romantic picnics,
porch evenings on
swings or rocking chairs,
too many secrets,
but great memories.

I remember when my mother
Would get angry with me
And I would escape to a tall pecan tree.

I always imagined my mother screaming,
"Where is my dear boy?
He has left and I never got a chance to tell
Him how much I love him."

My mother never did.

So, I stayed up there, watching man-next-door
Mow the lawn or the postman make his rounds.

And eventually,
   I would sink into the strong, loving arms of that tree.
The tree never told me I was bad.
   It never made demands on me.
      It was always nurturing and caring -
         Ever gently rocking.

When I think of the greatest gift
   My child has given me
      It's the moments that she crawls into my lap
         And rests her head against me.

I've become a tree.

My old trunk is filled with
Baby shoes,
   But no one knows to whom they belong,
Faded pictures,
Christmas ornaments,
Spectacles,
Watches that no longer work
Tarnished silver,
A tennis racket,
My mother's false teeth,
Embroidered napkins, I was saving for company,
And memories.

I clothe this trunk
   With vestments of spider webs
And warm it with white sheets,
   As one would cover furniture
      of one departed.
And eventually,
   The trunk is once again
      Forgotten.

Life is a carnival,
   Filled with amusement rides and comfort food.
      But, no matter how much fun I have today,
         There will only be an empty parking lot tomorrow.

That trunk is my lifeline to remember
   There was a carnival.

My red wagon, in my youth,
Kept things some thought quite uncouth,
Like fishing line, crawdad bait,
A model boat, old door plate,
Copper rupees from Nepal,
Ancient skull, an old softball,
And I still wish I had them all,
Those fine treasures of my youth.

Though years have past since that day,
I, again, still lug that dray,
But I often can recall,
All the stuff I used to haul.
Though no longer filled with junk;
I don't use it like a trunk.
This lesson I didn't flunk.
It's filled with my kids at play.

(Verse 1)
When I wake up in the morning,
I'm often filled with regret
For all the things I wish I'd done
And the things I can't forget.

(Chorus)
While I can't unsay the things I've said,
Or take back the lies I've told
There's no one else instead
I want to be with when I'm old
If you could give me one more chance
I promise I'll mind my ways,
"Cause heaven only knows
I'm learning from my mistakes.

(Verse 2)
I know I can't change the past,
What's done is done I know,
But I try to improve my lot 'cause
It's from my mistakes I grow.

(Chorus)
While I can't unsay the things I've said,
Or take back the lies I've told
There's no one else instead
I want to be with when I'm old
If you could give me one more chance
I promise I'll mind my ways,
"Cause heaven only knows
I'm learning from my mistakes.

(Bridge)
I know I'm not alone,
'Cause we all make mistakes.
But regret can't hold us back,
Disappointments can't be our brakes.

(Chorus)
While I can't unsay the things I've said,
Or take back the lies I've told
There's no one else instead
I want to be with when I'm old
If you could give me one more chance
I promise I'll mind my ways,
"Cause heaven only knows
I'm learning from my mistakes.

All fears removed
All questions answered
All trust restored
Lessons not forgotten
But buried

We're off again to run the race

The first time I drove, it was in a parking lot.
I remember the damage of mowing the curb blocks.
And how my father, with his head held in his hands,
Didn't even bother to to scold in reprimand,
But, instead, he reached to give me a high fiver,
It was then I pled that I was now a driver.

i have a new job it seems.
it's at a funeral parlor.
it's not the job of my dreams,
but it will do for a starter.

i write poetry to keep myself awake,
and i need the job quite badly,
so i can't afford, sadly, the same mistake

it was last month i lost my gig
for drinking on the job,
but the jury was probably rigged,
'cause it's not like i'm a slob

it's drinking that makes me happy.
it's not like i take hard drugs.
though it may appear quite sappy
i'm not like those other lugs

the job is pretty simple:
each hour i walk around.
i check the locks, i punch a clock;
i don't even walk the grounds.

is there really need for my job?
it's not like the dead will walk
or there's anything to rob
'cause there's nothing here in stock.

the lights just flickered right now.
a thunder storm is approaching,
but there's not a cloud, i avow,
so is subject worth broaching?

today is tuesday; i return
from making my rounds and found
something strange. there were lights burning
when there's no one else around

it's later; lights were on again.
i'm starting to think i'm crazy,
'cause the doors are locked, but then
i know i can be quite lazy

later, there's casket in that room,
which was not in there before.
i do not want to portend gloom,
so i quickly closed the door

but i find that sight quite haunting
and i am more than a bit scared.
what is that lone casket wanting?
are my faculties impaired?

In the quiet of the afternoon,
When the sun is at its peak,
A gentle breeze whispers through the room,
And thoughts of a nap begin to peak.

The world is alive with vibrant hues,
But in the shadows, a calmness lies,
A beckoning call to take a break,
To rest and recharge, sweet respite takes.

Oh, afternoon nap, a treasure so dear,
A moment of peace, a time to draw near,
To dream of far-off lands and skies,
Or simply to let the worries die.

With each breath, the tension unwinds,
The mind and body find a new rhythm,
A dance of serenity, a gentle sway,
As worries and stress begin to sway.

In the embrace of a soft, cozy bed,
Or a hammock swung beneath a tree,
The afternoon nap, a gift to unwind,
A sanctuary where the soul can be free.

So here's to the nap, a cherished reprieve,
A slice of heaven, a touch of belief,
That in the midst of chaos and strife,
A moment of peace can always be found,
In the sweet, soothing embrace of an afternoon nap.

Thou yet unravish'd apple of the earth,
Had thou been the issue of a tree, most
Would swear thou are what gave evil birth,
As some kind of Mephistophelean host,
To entice the stressed, as well as bored,
With your crunchy, oily, salty snare,  
A potato-y communion slice,
Where beauty is truth, truth's beauty there -
The facts of which can not be ignored.
If only one could just suffice.

“What is the most intimate thing
you've ever done?”  she asked,  as she
produced a small kit and withdrew
a syringe, holding it between
her long fingernails.  She turned
up the volume of the music
to intensify the moment.

“You think *** is intimacy?”
“*** is a body function!  I'm
talking about sharing myself
and becoming a part of you,
with the very essence of me
racing through your veins.  Are you scared?”
Metallica screamed in background.

What is the most intimate thing
I've ever done, I asked myself.
If it isn't ***, what is it?
Give flowers, candy, jewelry,
pen a song, write romantic verse?
Achelous's daughter enticed.

'Course I was thinking like a male.
A woman would think of sharing,
beautiful sunsets, long cruises,
romantic dinners, holding hands...
She prepared my entertainment,
like a sacral ritual, and
I imagined Japanese flutes.

Sharing isn't intimacy.
I could've shared by dropping my trou,
but it was doubtful, it would been
appreciated, but no less
than her sharing was to me then.
"It's making someone feel special."
Having said that I slammed the door.

When I left,
I took your dreams,
Your laughter,
Your secrets,
Your memories,
Your love,
And left with only
Emptiness.

When Hamelin's least favorite visitor departed,
Many of the township were broken hearted
At loss of their youth, but 'twas not perfect justice.
But where to find another pack, swarm or mischief?
Did Washington, DC ever come to mind?

When I was a kid,
My favorite place in the world
Was a park bench.

I used to sit at the end of the bench,
   Dangling my feet,
      Pretending to drive mother-with-child and
         Man-with-newspaper to their appointed destinations.

There, my friends and I spent hours
Playing forts,
   And robber-in-jail,
      And church.

And, though my friends never complained,
I'm sure they never appreciated that wonder
Spot, as much as I did.

Often, I would do my homework on a park bench.
At other times, I would lay down and
Look up through the trees
Talking with Johnny Mac about life and girls.

So, it shouldn't surprise you that I asked my sweetheart
To marry me on a park bench,
Like the one I grew up with,
Or that I should go THERE, when my wife died.

Today, I tease pigeons with popcorn
And swap stories heard a hundred times before.

I'm happy.

I'm glad to have had such memories.
And I'm glad to have had the feeling
Of a park bench.

I am held captive in Plato's cave,
Forever, it seems, to be enslaved
To its wall-cast shadows, smells, and sounds,
Which we must accept as true and real
Because our own senses so expound.

But, how do we really know what's true
When perception can give little clue
Why anything matters or perchance
To know why this life is not a curse?
But, when words fall short, I choose to dance.

A princess eats not the crust of bread,
Rarely ever makes her bed,
Knows not the meaning of "old woodshed",
And there lies the problem

A voice travels
   On summer's stillness,
      Clamoring
         Against injustice
            Echoing
               Across the valley,
         But every
      One is so guilty
   Of something,
So, no one listens.

He is joined
   In his bemoanings,
      By lone wolf
    Atop a nearby ridge,
But no one listens.

Should naive Psyche have believed such
Her new husband to be a beast?
While modern woman have much
Perceived all men, unless deceased,
Propend to be just that way -
A truth that need't the light of day.

Should the pretty boy Cupid
Really have been so, so ******
(Or was he just being stupid)
For believing humans might insist
The truth, as human nature thereof.
Curiosity is much stronger than love.

i love myself: check
emotionally
available: check
financially
secure: most of time
have discovered who
i am: i'll have to
get back to you there

now bring on the poor
sucker

insaneness
behind sane,
and saneness
behind that
insaneness
are behind
insanity

renegade lady,
with your imperfect smile,
steal us away into the darkness,
if just for a while.
or
enchant me with a thread of hope
that only desire can bring
or
just remind that it will soon be spring

to those who do not like rhymes,
it does not mean that you're uncouth
or you're unsophisticated
or a product of your youth

it may mean you don't read aloud
to hear how the words might sing,
rushing words quite unabated,
to hear joy the sounds might bring

if you dare to heed my advice
and hear angels start to sob,
fascinated, captivated,
orchestrated, consecrated,
the poetess has done her job

Those who search after truth will be cursed with a loss of station
Those who would love will be cursed with reality
Those who would be humble or courteous will be cursed with pride
Those who would be reverent have a curse in the past
Those who would be self-denying will be cursed three times by others
Those who would praise God will be cursed with fear
Cleanliness is a curse in itself

Those that fear will be blessed in their ignorance
Those that hate will be blessed in their compassion
Those that lie will be blessed in their humanity
Those that envy will be blessed in their possessions

Rin Tin Tin,  Rudy, Charlie Gray, Sandy,
Dodger, Spike, Uggie, Maui, and the *****
Moose, Aleister, Comet, and Benji,  
Buddy, Spuds, Stella,  Mo: all the best,
But did you know they were shelter pets.

Which means they had been forsaken
For very good reasons it may seem,
But THAT someone was quite mistaken,
Because with patience, understanding,
And even love, each could be redeemed.

slow: gesture
caution: hint
wrong way: signal
detour: flag
poison
emergency exit

silence isn't an answer.
does this dress make me look fat?
have you sent your payment yet?

silence isn't a question.
it is neither a query,
nor some kind of conundrum.

silence is a place.
it is the mcdonalds for
finding even more questions.

sirens' songs lured
thousands to their
doom,
but i want to
meet the guy who
******
them
off.

hot pepper, soda pop,
cinderella with
a cherry on top,
i like coffee, sitting
in a tree, miss
lacy, will you marry me?
as the whole world whirls by,
there was just a moment
you thought that you could fly.

in the poorest parts of the world,
you will find smiling faces.
so why are there no lips curled
with those with many graces?

In the bleakest part of winter.
When earth is covered with snow,
A sentry of masculine gender
Stands without a sign of woe.

How is it snow men always smile?
The scenery isn't great.
Though they most often dress with style,
They are always overweight.

Magic silk hats hide their bald heads.
Their carrot noses aren't cute.
Beady eyes seem pixilated.
They don't even own a suit.

So, why do these guards always smile?
What can they all smile about?
To contrast, scarecrows are most vile,
With a look that's all worn out.

Scarecrows got the cerebral part,
But it wasn't an even trade.
For what snowmen got was a heart,
In the love with which they're made.