i am a party-crasher,
a spider web across the face.
around me, i hear the
chitter of birds and the
nervous giggles of people
scurrying under my wet
confetti, my glitter bomb,
as i write my graffiti
everywhere

i am a party-crasher.
though, i'm neither invited and don't
know those around me, nor
do i care about their
awkwardness or petty
concerns and desires.
i'm here to party, but more
importantly, i know how to
celebrate.

the lotus rises from the muck,
while orchids take root in the
most inhospitable of places.
other plants are born out of dung,
but love can only subsist in
the human imagination.

my yet un-born baby daughter
dances **** in mother's waters
a wild child, she, who loves to play
while i must hold the world at bay

What love you about summer camp?
I can bet it was not canned food,
Nor being the archery champ,
Nor the crafts, which were often glued.

Though pancakes always made you smile
And swimming would have many laughs,
It wasn't like home, by a mile,
Nor were there always happy staff.

Perhaps you enjoyed riding horse;
There were climbing ropes and hiking.
You made at least one friend, of course,
But the fish were never biting.

So, what about camp did you love?
Certainly, it didn't feel like home!
But it was indicative of
That, at least, you were on your own!

land lines, phonographs, telex, and hatracks
cassettes, telegraph, tape drives and 8 tracks,
pagers, zip drives, typewriters and ****,
floppy discs, slide projectors, and mainframes,

boom boxes, slide rulers, pagers and portable tv,
laser disks, cartridges, matrix printers and CRT
pdas, walkman, fax machines and reel-to-reel
and you now tell me, my love, your love is real

I remember fondly
Those raucous chlorine days
Of shriveled hands
And laughs with friends,
Under those hot summer rays.

There, we played pirates,
Jousting with our noodles,
We walked ship's plank,
Played shark in tank,
And dove for treasured jewels.

We made great whirlpools and
Had  submarine races.
We belly flopped
And caught the "croc",
With smiles on our faces.

I took your dreams
Your secrets
Laughing away the hours
But when I left
I had only emptiness

birthday candles blaze
before you and someone asks,
do you still stay mum?

does telling goals trick
the unconscious to believe
it's already done?

are there flower signs
to tell the bees another
has already come?

Moisture of branches chyles and weeps
                                      chyles and weeps
                                      chyles and weeps
Shedding tears into the stream
Pilgrimming towards Sybaris
Wending
Streaming
Migrating as a breath in the cold
Sweeping
Prowling
Writhing
Gilding the shallowness
Snaking
Writing
Straying the depths
Echoing
Metering
Foraging among the starched garments of winter
Corybanting
Jauting
Evoluting
Storming
Lapping

A rock is kissed
Sending sanctity to the heavens

Emerging, seeking
Emerging, gentle
Emerging, aggressive
Emerging, thrusting
Emerging, violent
Emerging, fulfilled
Emerging, satisfied
Emerging

Prometheus, the joker, he
offered Zeus a choice of tributes:
An egg, a chocolate covered
With foil, the delicious covered
With the inedible or
Chicken wings; perhaps they were ribs,
The unpalatable concealed
Within the gratifying and
Delectable.

And, when given the same choice, I
Choose the charming, the beguiling,
The delightful exterior,
With unappealing core, rather
Than attempt to find that nugget,
Hidden within its thin veneer
And certainly worth the effort.
I find lusciousness is much more
Pleasurable.

the comfort zone is not a place.
you can't touch, hear or see  it.
instead, it's that amount of grace
the universe will remit.

but, if you should be found outside
this determinate that's not 3d,
there is one truth that can be implied
you're with splendid company

After some sunsets
Even the coldest winter
Often makes me smile.

It's always been such:
Yin is a part of the the yang;
Yang's part of the yin.

When horrific death
Rises, so does the laughter,
For spring remembers.

I only feel myself being pushed
            over several feet
        and then being spun around.
I see a bright flash of light,
   but I've lost my sense of direction.
My instinct tells me to stomp on the brakes,
   but it is too late.
What should I be doing?
It's too late for what?
As I slowly regain my senses,
The sound of metal scraping against metal
   plays continuously in my mind.
And, when I finally hear silence,
   I swear I hear the ****** of headlights
      falling to the ground.

Love is not a one-way street.

father woke me at 5 o'clock  
with donuts and chocolate milk.
later, we packed out to the dock
with rods and reels and all our fishing ilk.

with hooks and every fish delight:
worms,  flies, spoons, minnows and crankbaits,
we were well prepared for their fight,
but the hardest part is having to wait.

you should know i put on my own worms
though i can't pretend it's not gross
it is not that i'm afraid of germs
it is that i hate slimy things the most.

i waved my feet over pier's edge,
appreciative of the world's flow,
but please hear my sincerest pledge,
if we caught fish, i probably wouldn't go.

How sad it is to kiss and part.
The morning fog must know this.
It comes in the stillness of the night.
It settles, caressing its beloved,
And leaving with the break of day.

The fox is not an evil kind.
She's just mostly misunderstood.
She's not a dangerous canine
And at times she can be quite good.

You've heard she raids the chicken coop.
That's certainly baneful indeed,
But that's so much water soup,
'Cause feathers make her sneeze!

You've heard that she's conniving,
But she tells me it's not true,
She is just a fun-loving thing,
Who has a heart that is true blue.

She loves the wind's feel on her face.
She's really a country girl.
Her favorite pastime is chase,
Though she's quite elegant in pearls.

But she also likes to snuggle.
That's one subject we both agree.
I'm glad she chose me to nuzzle,
When you're a hound dog, such as me.

Curtains, blown by an evening's gale,
Applaud movements of the Coryphee,
That sentry for everything frail
And the things of beauty put away.

She dances to melodic chimes,
Which haunt the summer evening's air,
She leaps, turns, points, and spins in time,
Unmindful of her sentinel care.

She ignores forgotten keys, rings,
Bracelets, pins, a small glass hummingbird,
As well a wads of necklace strings,
She keeps on dancing, without a word.

Still ballerina dances,
Doing pirouettes to some refrain,
Ignoring her audiences,
Never seeking any other gain.

Yet, with time, every life must fade.
When this life, by key, has come to end,
She answers her death unafraid.
The chest is closed by a gust of wind.

i cannot remember the first time
i found myself in a line.
perhaps it was queuing up for lunch
and had to stare at someone's haunch

of course, i waited for concerts great,
though, i quickly learned of that mistake.
but the lines are long at the DMV,
the apple store and the grocery.

however, i find the greatest crime
when waiting patiently in line,
and this cannot be overwrought,
is honking in the church parking lot

the most that i had ever cried
was not when a loved one died,
nor with the loss of cherished pet,
nor with some profound regret,
nor when i gave my marriage vows
nor with friend's loss I espoused
nor when i found that i was broke,
nor when plans went up in smoke,
nor all the inevitable harms,
but holding my newborn in my arms
but holding my newborn in my arms

Change happens very slowly, on our little farm.
When the boss called us in, we were a bit alarmed.
I admit to my chagrin, I didn't have a clue,
But the boss still insisted there was all good news.

He started off by saying how we'd all done our part,
But one had really taken his job to heart
And never had forsaken his very post
And for this reason, he should deserve a toast.

I looked at everyone, but no one could guess,
Because that's one quality we all possessed.
With sentimentality for his ineptment,
Scarecrow's been promoted to management.

a road is a line
with infinite points
of departures but
finite number of
destinations

a road sometimes has
flowers on the side
but occasionally
one grows in the road
against all odds

but just because you
do not stay on the
line neither means you
are lost, nor that you
are not on path

I too came to a fork in the path
And also took the less trodden lane,
But one misstep put my arm in a cast
A low branch badly hurt my brain.
I  didn't miss the poison sumac site
Or the nest of swarming bees,
But it turned out to be a splendid day,
When I met my wife in the pharmacy.

it is wistful to know
i've only words to show
my hopes or my desire,
not having smiles or glance,
to stir your heart or wet your pants

the world, cloyed in an expanse of white,
looks to gray skies for consolation

somewhere critters
   sleep, even dream,
      perhaps hope
but only humans console

The test for innocence is happiness.

The test for truth is whether it exists outside pedantries.

The test for a fool is how much how much he must hold on to his ego.

The test for love is silence.

I could tell you the test for happiness, but it would make you less human.

The tigress stalks the jungle.
Her muscles ripple to testify to her strength.
Her eyes and ears are keen.

Is she looking for prey or is this a game cats play?

I wonder if she knows how dangerous she is
(She already own my heart)
Or does she know how willingly I give it?

You shall think of this fleeting
World in bites of chocolate,
In sips of wine, in friendship,
And in a few smiles.

Ah, passion -
   That stay awake,
      Go-without-eating mania.
   What other feeling can
Make a person feel so alive?

Then, there is longing -
   That helpless sense of incompleteness.

Give me comfortable love -
   That gentle expression of companionship.
      Give me safe love,
         Free of juvenile fears and
   Exaggerated
Expectations.

But...
   Give me contentment
      Some other moment.

i walked into the tiki room
of some resort hotel
to find a guy most gloom
who'd been caught by some woman's spell

when i said that "she's not worth it",
i got the strangest look
but when i asked this misfit,
if it felt like love
the fella' knew that he'd been rooked

while all feelings are indeed real,
a product of our brain,
whether star-crossed love, raw deal,
perhaps poor timing,
or doing something one might deign.

but, if some day, you do find me
in the tiki room of
some hotel, please guarantee
that you will be kind,
when i cry about my lost love

while (true) {
   if (in (time-space))
      raise(vibration)
   else if (in (space-time))
      raise(consciousness)
}

How can I tell you
That all I once desired with you is gone -
Faded into memories
That, now, I can say goodbye
Even though there are questions
Which are still unanswered.
It isn't what-might-have-been
Only morning fog awakened by the sun

To be in love with love -
Yes, love about all!
What could compare
To the passion of love?

Passion intensified
By the desire to give up all else.

I could live without
Security, relatives
Friendship, community,
But not without love

The way to measure affinity,
Is not looks or femininity,
Or how she speaks, or what she might say,
But how she makes you feel each day.

For she, who makes you feel alive,
With passion, delight, joy, love, and pride,
Is one who shares your soul's true light,
And she'll always that's kept well in sight.

So do not be fooled by outward show,
For affinity is deep below,
In the heart, where love and light reside,
And where your soulmate'll always abide.

ok, so you're not a fake person
you're a deceptive, fraudulent,
cheating charlatan

you're a player, a phoney,
a counterfeiter,
a feigner, a pretender, a he-vamp,
telling me what i want to hear

you're tinsel and
i took that gleam in your
eye for something else

so, you're a real person
but that doesn't mean
you're not plastic

I'm an active volcano.
Sometimes, I slowly expel
My ash and steam; then again
I erupt to litter all
With my fiery core from hell.

Sometimes I poison the air.
Other times, I castigate
Those, who would subvert my goals.
I demand sacrifices
Of innocent and guiltless.

Bring me virgins, more virgins.


Maiden's Answer:

Dearest sovereign of this mountain land,
Your humble servant, accepts your hand.
To save ken, friends, and our countrywide,
I gladly consent to be your bride
For, in a sense, I'd become your wife.

I'm vestal, as the day I was born,
My integrity is not wayworn,
My righteousness is a source of pride,
But I shall promise to be your bride,
If you may grant my one small request.

Your strength, your wisdom, are beyond compare.
You have spent an eternity there.
So, I must ask a simple query,
Before I promise us to marry.
Might you be overcompensating?

My warrior poet
Laughs at your
Warrior priestess
And then runs for cover

some say there's beauty
in the colors of sunsets
or the panoramic view
from a mountaintop
or in a sip of coffee

some would say that there's
beauty in the wonderment
of random acts of kindness
or art or dance or
or just sitting in silence

some might love the sounds
of waves breaking the shoreline
or laughing till you sides ache
or conversations
with a stranger you just met

perhaps you revel
in contour of female form
or some other luscious feasts,
relishing manna
or things worthy of regard

what is beauty for?
beauty's not harmony of
form, color or perception,
but without our minds
beauty would have no purpose

chasing white rabbits and
   knights in shiny
white armor
white dress
white nights
white hair
white houses with
white picket fences
white oaks
white roses and a
white dog beware
of
white lead
white flames
white wash and
white lies

i need your tisane
your tiger milk
your snake oil
your physic
your chicken soup
your therapy
your cure

let me inhale you

and abide in
your officinal

you're a songless earworm,
a mind loop.  you keep bubbling,
percolating, rhythmically
strumming my ability
to think of anything else.  

i can't get you out of my mind.

a secret is a wild
   climbing vine,
      which consumes
         slender cracks
      and early mornings
   with scandent possibilities:
      first of familiarity,
   then affection,
then intimacy.

a secret needs
   very little
      to support it
   neither water
      nor food
and only
   a modicum of  truth.

i want to be the one
in whom you confide.

have another glass of wine
and spill your secrets.

When the zombies soon awaken,
If I'm not quite mistaken,
They'll seem like they're kinda ******.
Now, Snow White, for example,
In a story most dreadful,
She just needed to be kissed.

And Rip Van Winkle also
Was a long sleeping fellow,
Lost twenty years and felt gypped.
Instead of all that blasting
And small-minded type casting,
Pucker those ruby red lips.