Listen,

Listen, a lot of people 
hold a truth in their heart 
that's at odds with God's 
words and it hurts.

They can't seem 
to understand how grace 
is loosed within us like 
a beast with in infinite 
leash, tearing

And rending with gnashing
teeth at any bad self bad truth
bad want bad need it can 
surprise upon with angry
pounce! While simultaneously
at the same time, nudging 
and nuzzling up for 
cuddles and scratches 
to all our good self good
truth good want good need, 

And loving every minute 
of the attention we give it, 
willingly and warily, greater 
of heart so gratefully full,
mind so carefully blank and
clear, thinking no bad thought
no bad thought at all oh dear

a change of ailments

She used to get butterflies all the time.
They'd hatch in her stomach and chew 
through her food, and grow to cocoon
and burst out fine. Flying in a fluttering
sighing yawn from her mouth as a sign
of promise and truth sublime. 

Now all she gets is moths, 
and she coughs
up dust.

Anxiety has lost 
its shine.

the setup

Two jokes walked into a bar.
The bartender was a riddle.
She said "What'll you have?"
One joke said to the other

"That is quite a riddle isn't it.
What'll you have? One of us
lies and the other tells the truth
so what you order I'll either
do the opposite or

the same

That will be the solution"

Then the bartender was like
"We only serve one drink here. GUESS"

The first joke replied "Knock knock."
"Who's there" replied the bartender.

"A certain number of light bulbs,"
replied the second joke. "Guess"

the perfect mark

The perfect mark upon 
your face has always led me 
to your eyes, despite its 
fascinating stamp. I must 
confess no otherwise. 

This is it

Existence is fucken tite 
and tuff.
And truth? - is
how we get into that shit. 
And shit is 

an anagram of this. If

that ain't the shit
I don't know 

what is.  

good faith man

When I speak.
There are no lines.
There is no thought! Just
mean and mark and aim between
sings magnetized as words unbidden 
fly to fit
and fit to fly
trip forth in truth
to mean. Truth honestly
is side-effect, and afterthought.
There's not
much lie in what I mean. 
Sincerity brings all of that, or else 
brings naught. It gets a bit 
obscenely fulsome, as I weigh 
how it all feels in measured tell, as well. 

I sometimes feel 
too much I fear.
And so sledge
hammers
out!
To ring doorbell. 
'ding-CRASH!' 

ah-whoops 
my bad 
my dear.

...and then interpretude
slips in. Not always - most times
no. It doesn't.
Much. You see
though, I

am

focused keen 
on just one meaning
I have got - 'cause that's my jam! 
but
then
my words
swerve to my ears. I realize

that what I said just then
bore more potentially

than only one. The one I meant.
Shazam. It's cool! 

We clarify at need. In my
experience, we can. 

Well all it takes is clarity,
sincerity and good faith, man!

fulsome candor

Fulsome Candor's 
not my name, and not
my game, just
what I got. 

If you say "fulsome" 
I point out:
that insincerity 
it's not. It's just

Some full sum/parts whole give!
Perhaps more full than one
expects. One might intuit
motives in: 

"Ulterior! To sway, I bet!" 

Give up.
I've been on full expulsion
mode of all ulteriors for years,
and weeks and glorious 
days. Still, let's:

Take no concerns askance! 
No accusations dissed at glance! 
O let's receive all charge full-force! 
As Fulsome Candor aims the course. 

He sounds like some adventurer, with 
bullwhip, slouch hat, ball gown on. And
no one knows who he is not!
Just who he is.

They're seldom wrong.  

between meals

I am making a meal
of graham crackers and brie,
and coffee gone cool, while
awaiting awaiting the next 
of this symphony.

Oh I putter about, and immerse
in serene - but it isn't a patch
on whatever and all that it means

in each moment one wave of baton
two dueling conductors pass back
holding forth well over the heads
of joint orchestra bells, timpani, 
first violin, oboe, bassoon and all 
such impeccable swells of feeling
response, as a new movement comes
and begins with a start, up to swoon,
perchance - or wherever goes art. Risen
up to attention, and so to bear down! Bear
in so to set upon all thought and sentiment 
flailing or waving or wheeling around,
all wrought across staves and by note!
In precision and play: extracted
and spent in the air. To be caught now,
in ear, heart and mind, and perchance
to keep. Or to stay. To be saved, and
so saving all days wherein so fine
a passage replays. as memories prize 
more than ever, we find. These concerts 

run long.

We don't mind. The program's impromptu;
the orchestra clowns, but somehow
the crowd won't grow antsy, or blue,
or get down. Except

in the funkier sense. Somehow all this deluge,
uplifts all our soaked and foundering boats,
and the crown never drowns.   

past comparison

You and I 
are of kind and order 
different as two 
peas from
 
their pod. 

I am
an order of magnitude! 
- and you

are a kind
of uneven odd 
that binds and aligns 
all unevenness, 

without any undue undoing 
of the odd you are. 

Most peculiar. 
It's as if you're a law unto 
something. 

every day I try

Every day 
I try to get my guitar 
from the case and play. 
Three hundred songs 
are in inchoate form, 
refrains
stored on my phone. 

I know I should
do justice there. 

I also know 
I should just play. 

My guitar doesn't 
should at all. It's me 

who reasons why
not play 

To a friend

That is absolutely beautiful.

but

bur

First off: you are beautiful, but
why do I find only crappy poetry
online? Do you search more diligently,
or have you the eye, or was it just

not my time?

the wouldn't mind

I wouldn't mind 

if right now were
the afterlife 

I wouldn't mind

if I could live forever
like this.

I wouldn't mind
if what it is is just 
what it is, I wouldn't 

mind 

But I can't quite make 
that
wish 

find what I need?

How do I find what I need?
I look for "cannot do without." 
And thence for what then "must 
needs be," and thence to do. To find 
no doubt in ordering: break loose make
fast set free the thing I need! The it. The
ultimate! But 

if
must needs
are no can do's,

I settle in resentment's fit. And
busy my self in mere wants.

These, I find more bountiful. For
every where I look some lack
jumps out at me! To feel amiss
about the hole, and plumb what's
empty in the scheme, imagining
if it were full - now what could
fill that gap? Most everything?

But not just any
thing. 

There seems to be some tooth 
and claw and instinct mixed 
in wake and dream to goad 
us so insufferable. Well, 

It needs fixed. And

Need is animal.
Just so. Our wants
are what makes
humans being 
best they can,
and are, and wish, 
still in this hunt 
'til all our stars 
fall slumbering.

Let's all 
die rich
indeed,
good
man.

We might as well. 
For lack of want 
guides heavenly, 
while lack of need 
is death, and
bloody hell.

If we 

could only split 
the difference, 
it might come free.

And maybe you
plus maybe me 
could even tell
if it was worth
the pitch to sell.

the price we've paid
on rents we've made
in break-it bought-it
carousal
and
carousel

requiem for Harry

This dog 
brought out the best 
in everyone who ever 
petted him. His heart 
outweighed his tiny 
form so uncomposed:
less bones and skin, and more
of fur and crazy hair. With
nose and eyes and one
last fang! And
stumpy tail 
to wag awhir 
perpetually 
emotional, 
this late last 
spark 

has gone far out 

has shot to stars, 
to hang above
and shine and bark
to promise everlasting
trust, and to remind
the best in us. Which
he brought out
when fussed
and mussed
and loved.

Dog please, 
remember us.  

dabblers

Let us dabble now in absolutes. 
We've known too too and thorough use 
of every attitude once wrought to overwhelm
man's wreaking thought, and goose us up
the fundament! Past practical to some ideal,
past practice in some perfect pace
we ought to know is more than real.
We know that moderation whelms
more thoughtfully, and goes down fine.
For once though let's go all the way
from mine to yours and back, one time.
And I will be the fatalist! As was foredoomed. 
It had to be. These afterdooms of mine fall flat. 
There's always more cause yet to see, eventually.
Events transpire, and prior cause discovered
lame. I'll limp deterministically to prop,
uplift with crutch and cane! And you
might play the nihilist? To void and null
such premise cracked. Let's flaunt
in strictly rigorous display such might
as right and fancy fact, and good, and
evil reveling would turn up noses
one and all
upon

or 

at.

girl in yew

In very, very ancient yew
sits very fresh and real mature
a you not ever so ancient at all.
This girl still trees herself galore

blame transplant

It is your heart 
that pumps within 
my chest, and so 
I'm blaming you 
for every sin 
in consequence 
of what you pump
that blood into. 

clenched pacifist

Enough of your feats 
of puissance, your deeds 
at arms, come use 
your hands for once. 
As used to be your wont. 
Take moment in both, 
and see what it wants. 

hypothetical tactical reconnaissance

If anybody wanted to find me alive 
in the middle of an active battlefield, 
with live fire, 

artillery blown from 
the sky - they would have to be 
a moron! I'd 

long
since
die

untold kisses

I don't tell kisses or confidences, 
shared privacies,
I don't name 
names,
but you'll know 
it's not me. Pretty free 

With that one. Somehow, 
but the rest? It's not principle 
or scruple, just comfort and joy,
for the best. 

If we have not wits

Since we have not wits, 
between us we 
get by on wit 
exquisitely 

antisapiosexual

You know what
irritates the fuck out of me?
'sapiosexual.'
Its adherents all pose and flaunt
and frown-serious in hot bother
claiming it's some posed-as queerish
sexual preference for intelligence, but

sapience is wisdom not intelligence.

They ought to be all horny for wisdom
Misnomer to the point of borderline
hypocrisy! Put on for self-aggrandizement
purposes, since they heavily imply,

"Oh, it takes one
to hard on or squee
in heat over intelligence.
How would the stupid even
comprehend the appeal?" 

Unwise. Wise up, grow up 

what you've got is no 'sapiosexuality.'
It's just good old fashioned Dunning
Kruger syndrome, misdirected
as a kink fetish to flatter yourselves
and all prospective partners. "He or
she sure turns me on! HEY. HOW
SMART IS THAT? How smart

of us! Them
to stimulus and me
to response! How deep
this instinct goes. I guess

I just can't help how horny my brain is. 

PATHETIC

Testy

I feel like my IQ is about 120. 
But it fluctuates. Some days 
I am ENFJ, other days, Linus. 
See I cop an amused attitude 

with these tests, but 

it seems like every one you take 
you get a different result.
The whole thing seems 

about as reliable as a salad 
you've only just met, 
and forgot to say 

dressing on the side 
please

comic iconic.

The figure she cuts with those cons
On her feet and the way that she struts
Missing every half-beat plus the shirt
And the skirt and the leggings and vest
Has convinced you she's kidding herself
As a test of your own sense of humor
And heck, self as well. Do you take the bait?
Or just say what the hell

reciprocity

It wouldn't crush me flat 
to find I pester you as much
as you
do pester me
so welcomely. In gentle 
suffocating crush. But 
it's a lie I'm pestered, 
here. Or now, or any 
where or when that you
come in to do just that. 

It doesn't wear, nor break 
nor even bend the way you 
bend my ear, inpouring all 
these spark-bright thoughts, 
which I return forged into 
stars. The difference should, 
but shouldn't ought. 

Confess! Confess I pester 
you! How can we know the line
too far? When merrily we romp 
in play so right across 
just each and every line 
that sense or reason limn, 
or would - if we weren't just 
the way we are?

a treeing

We too are treed. And us, 
as well. Albeit 'poorly' works as well
as well, for this context. We find 
we've gone a-treeing, further up 
in mind we've climbed than e'er before.

To e'er in such resplendent climes
is natural, and blest. I bless it,  
anyhow. Now we 

look down, 

from separate perches high 
on high - to find the ants 
look just like people, there! Let's see
them scurry out in rows to sigh,
rehearsing themes
that never play.

So down on ground,
not looking up, just feeler-forward
after trace, they hie

themselves towards something
once laid down. 

Perchance to sup.
Hey, s'up! Yo ants! Howcome
you're all so clear from here? Oh 

we've just stooped 
to genuflect. I guess the climb 

was yet to be. 

I reckon we will rise to it. 
But sometimes earth is oh 
so free! And lying down 

makes truest fit. 

grinding sparks

The grim and whirling grind of days 
shoots sparks of everfailing light

behind us strewn to flickering maze.
Ahead, one's shadow looms affright 

as straight we turn. Unvarying course. 
Behind, so many cornered turns
diverging off to bring
us here. Despite

it seemed 

that we have learned
there were no turns.

A one-tined fork 
at every seeming cross,
we take. To shovel 
into yawning maw 
the coal that spills 
before it bakes. 

There's some mistake. 
These paths
behind 
in hindsight-only
options branch innumerably, 

while we have found the center
of the labyrinth expands
forever straight ahead, and growing
deeper maze behind.
In ever-since and slipping
darkling ways, we see

the freedom we shall find.

For it is now our turn. 

The only turn we ever had
is on 
and on,
and into, straight
- with never any chance. 

Too bad.

I have to laugh, 
or else I'd cry "Where 
is thine sense of humor, 
dudes?" Avast! Alack, 
I'm on such ride! I love
this ride, not to be rude 
or bold, or vulgar grinding on 
- such merry lights dance back
behind. Such scary shadows dance
before I've lost my everlasting mind 
in contemplation of the wheel. Grind 
on! O sparkling firework! Reveal 
in behind-spanking light 

that shoulder-glimpse
of nonexistent jerk 

and push and pull, 
we had but every step
down lengthening fork. 
One damn good tine, 
we've had to choose
at every turn. O such 
is life to love, you dork.

the tough customer

I like my bacon done
on one side. Sunny-side 
eggs, and half-toast bread. 

Potatoes I can't even specify. 
They just do their best, wishin'
I was dead - since I only eat 
half of what I'm served. Keep 
the coffeepot coming, my mug 
half full, and the tip that I leave

will be well-deserved, and about 
twice as much as you thought I'd

pull. 

But come on, here's 
the very last diner in town 
that will even seat me, during
breakfast time! And breakfast 
is served all day, here now. 

Do you think I'd mistreat this
sweet spot of mine? Yeah the staff
and the cooks all think I'm square. 
Albeit a bit on the cuckoo side -
except for that one waitress, right 
there.

Took a fancy to me! You believe it?

Sigh. Yeah I didn't myself, but 
the dates went great! Until she found out 
how I like my women done. It's okay, 
we don't blame or hate. Compatibility 

is a son of a gun 
 

God's infinite lawn

You say God's in His heaven 
- naught's right with the world 
as He rocks on his infinite porch. 

His infinite lawn

upon which we get off's always greenest
wherever we don't sport and scorch,
but it isn't allowed. To go where we shan't.
At least we feel some prohibitions apply.

We play catch

and we tag, and we seek what we can't.
We do landscaping, skylarking, flailing, we lie
- on our backs, or in stance! With bald faces bold,  
we set ourselves proud, as we pound in our stakes.
Tent pegs driven deep and as firm as
whoever we've been.

We pitch tents, and we pitch ourselves in!
So to make, so to shape. We are fraught,
caught and sold. So intense in our tents!
Such pounding of stakes makes us strong
and unflappable, guilty and wrong, or
decent and true, but also old. 

This is not our lawn. There's a hill here 
to die upon, waiting for you. But perhaps 
before picking such battles, a white 
picket fence or two! To claim, subdivide
and lie in the shade of a tree that we'll say
grows figs no one ever has seen bloom 
or fruit! But there's plenty of wasps 
around - who knows?

It is all pretty cute. 

In patches and stretches,
God's infinite lawn spreads out
far and wide, while the old grouch
looks on from above and says nothing
in ages. Thank God! (I suppose) we
have some few divine or profane
class ventriloquists handy  

Their voices thrown high,
they pitch low and mean, casting
thunderbolts vain, fireballs so sincere,
and they speak (they will all
have you know) for
That Guy. 

How odd. 

While in infinite distance, that shining porch
awaits. Lemonade and iced tea in cold pitchers
bedewed, and all the best people who ever made
play on this lawn are there waiting, rejoicing.

Subdued. 

We'll see. 

Let us play.
Let us pray, let us dance
- there's a time for everything
under today's hidden sun! Let us
bask in the shade, and frolic 
in rain.

For this is the day the Lord has begun. 

Let us finish this thing, and call it well-done.
We have taken such gift. Its wrappings we've
stripped, its pretty bows cast upon heaps unbowed:
ripped paper and twine, all tangled amess
with nothing amiss. We have missed not a gift,
not a one this everyday Christmas morn.
So we mourn through our grins. Is there
nothing more? No more fun tucked around?

So greedy, we kids. But inside: we suspect
we have found and known all there is.

We've poked and inspected with fond
probing prod, we have taken in everything fit
that could fit, and plenty of misfit and unfit
and odd. We have found and known in it 

all the good of it. Oh, maybe some more
in this crack, that corner, that hole? But mostly
we know and suspect: just more of the same
we know. Whatever we've found

is all ours. All its worth. 

But this lawn isn't ours. Let's get off 
you and I, every day 
every one, 
while we can. Let us make
every best of this earth and this birth.
Which we shall not no matter what 
we'll have earned, have ever deserved.
It is given, but just. To the unjust 
as well, so we'll make and we'll shape 
ourselves to give back to this gift. 

That's swell.  

Some "gift"! A gift come without strings 
or tags! No "To:" and no "From:" such 
confusion! Such flaws.  

So I will be it.

This is just, you and me. 
Let us take as our givens 
each every effect, with
such good cause. 

Catch now if you can!
Stuff me and all everything else
in your bags, and run back
to touch base and yell, "Home Free!"
if you please. Let us find our fit
without let, or hindrance 

or pause.  

We punish the dead

We punish the dead 
by deem and seem of deeds
and needs they lived out here. 

We burn the squeamish. 
Turned to ash: an urned 
reward to stash on mantel;
scatter in some picturesque 
or sentimental place adored. 

We bury the indifferent deep. 
To feed the worms and grass 
and trees we plant and tend
to feed on them. 

The rest? 

We improvise with ease. 

why real prophets are always reluctant

I have been talking
to God in my still small voice
and God coos back

God just wants to be
friends. Just friends
with me. Just friends
with everyone. How

Can I proclaim the news
of God's infinite
friendzone?

And 

is anybody surprised 
to hear this? I think 
we knew already 

thanks God 
No, friends is fine 
nobody really needs 
to cross that line

misogynists: let us not misjudge

misogynists are willing 
to make an exception 
for any who meet or exceed 
their modest womanly ideals. 
I assure you, their ideals 
are both womanly 
and modest. True, 
unassuming, beautiful 
in good shape and pure, 
and naturally willing 
to bestow all of this 
on a misogynist. 

It's pretty ideal. 

Plato believed in ideals, but 
these guys don't want his kind 
of love. They're sick of it, it's all
they've been offered for far too
long and frankly, too pure
for their taste. They want 
the ideal yes, not the ideal no. 

They want the ideal they say 

is untouchable, they cannot realize 
- they want to touch it! And for it 
to be real for once, and touch them,
like so many doubters and deniers,
they teeter painfully precarious

on the brink of any miracle
they could collapse into, some
living and breathing but undeniably
real physical object, come as if
in defiance of all prophecy
to the contrary to redeem
their disbelief with a granted 
much-made wish: in a sudden 
moment teeming with go-time
promiscuity that matures in courses
to short to time to a permanent bond,

with naturally, each
in their proper place. Loving it 

As is only right. The misogynist 
(most of them anyway - the ones 
who seem to want women under
some pretty heavy conditions) does
not "hate" women. He only "hates"
the way women do not live up 
to the classic ideals of womanliness
- forsaken for an emphasis on modern
mores, and the pole position in a cultural
stakes winner-takes-it power jockey
race she stoops to conquer. He "hates"
her in the sense he reveres and craves 
with a craven reverence 

almost touching 

all that she could be, but she
would prefer not to. Incomprehensible
to him that she could abandon such
lofty and storied station, leaving him
standing their with two train tickets
in the rain - and no note. Women
know all the moves in the parts
and plays they eschew, and he
- honestly, a man - is left

to kick high and moan in chorus 
with his hated fellows: "O woe 
and I are old good friends, etc."
Do not 
misjudge
the misogynist. When
It would be so easy not to 
misjudge. I mean, how much
more evidence could a case like
this even bear? Image coming to
the wrong verdict, when they've
already taken the stand and said 

so much 

in their defense, I don't think 
we could really misjudge. 

Watson, bring the gun

Holmes has a big old foot in the game
again, and this time - the clues abound
like hounds up trails, down alleys in play,
while Sherlock ascertains it sound.

For now.

But we come to a crisis, John.
Have I called you John? Never
mind. This is one
of the wickedest men
England has on tap.
Bring the gun, John
please.
Glad to have you along, you
darling chap. 

cowboy boats

She's stepping out in cowboy boats.
She'll walk on water, one step two 
and doe see doe in sailor suit
of buckskin fringe: a she-galoot.

A bright first mate in search of ship! 
She'll pace and mosey seven seas
to every harbor, through each storm 
she'll tack her hat and set her face, 

And squint into the wind with ease. 
Sometimes with glee. A rover born, 
and raconteur. But all she wants 
is one fair ship - seaworthy, fine 
in cut of jib and so much more

- to hie in view by windcaught sail.
To hail, wave hi, so high on wavy
hill, to see the ship tack back and in,
and towards - for lil' ol' me? A hand
reach down and grasp with will, and pull
for her. To let her step

out of these seas, to live.
And find worth living still.
A journey undertaken, bet
and dare and guess rolled
on one wave.

Two tied-first mates,
to sunsets set. Out on these seas, 
this rolling range, there is no miss 
in misbehave. 

hand-picked deal

If you and I had a hand-picked deal,
and ours were the hands,
and we'd alternate picks
from all of reality's features that crash
or could crash in waves -
we'd choose what sticks. 
I wonder if what we'd choose 
would be anything like this deal 
we hold now in our hands?
Card after card we've played
as dealt. As if destiny
were a place to stand.  

the law firm of

Why do law firms seemingly
always
go with
a string-of-last-names
naming convention? Unless they're punk
ass one-lawyer shows? Even then
it's the last name trick. Why doesn't

somebody

open up a law firm and call it
"Bad Al's Law & Grill" (because
Bad Al grills the opposition
on the stand) or "Discount Suits
& Cases" (implication obvious) or
"Tired Old Pizzeria" okay maybe

that last one's a no-go. Point is.
I feel like it would be refreshing.
Picture a public - pissed, scared,
intimidated by laws but needing
a champion. An advocate to take
their side maybe. To meet with
at least. To hear them out and
tell them whether what's-what! 

A lot of people would say, hey
it's called "Law Dogs LLC!" or 
"Beat-Their-Ass Law." "Bad-Ass
Law." "The Law Rats." Maybe

try them? This law firm seems
less stiff like a corpse, less
distant, like we could be pals 

and they would win my case. 

That's what it's really 
all about, right? 

Are people who hate missing out?

People who hate each other are 
missing out. It's like 
Don't you two love each other?
Wait, WHAT? Oh, you hate
each other. Why? Oh
they did things to you? Oh 
you BOTH did things to each 
other. Well of course, they 
started it clear enough from 
what you say.

Hate it is. 

And it makes sense and shit, but -
I mean you can't fault them either 
way what with some of the fucked
up shit like that. Still

you kind of walk away with a small
headache in your heart because
you can't help feel they're missing out. 

Somehow. 

Maybe not with each other per se 
Maybe just in general 

Maybe not

How to make fire with lightning

Stand under the tallest tree in the world, 
and wait forever for you to return to me. 

sense of code

His sense of code 

so cold so pure. 

He cannot crack 
it anymore. Oh
pshaw he never 

could! As if? It's 
too obscure. So 
what's the diff? 

But if you've any
tips, please share. 
It's kind of fun with 
secrets bare. As pieces

shake
and puzzles fit -
If this code breaks,
he'll just keep fixing it.

a good ghost story

I love a good 
ghost story as much as the next. 
The trick, they can't be tricked. 
Either they 
or you 
must open up. Soon,
or now - when the ghost shows up.
Would be a good time. Wave 
a hand
to some seat - let it pick, 
give it the choice. It might 
surprise you! Let it sit down if
or however it wants to, but
sit it must. We cannot begin
until
we are seated, and ghost
house rules is the ghost
sits first. Now, 

Meet its gaze 
unblinkingly, stay 
your eye (whichever) 
fixed upon just one 
of its milky or misty pupils, 
and do not flinch. The ghost 
will not begin until you 
do not flinch. The ghost 
will not begin, and while 
it is not beginning - do not 
interrupt it whatsoever! 
The ghost must be the one 
doing all the not beginning.
Simply 
hold
slow. DO NOT HOLD FAST -
a ghost can sense your resistant edge 
and it will split like the ghost 
of a dove from a dovecote 
discovered ages hence, 
since abandoned! Do not
hold fast. Slow, and breathe 
in even, soundless, easy calm.
The ghost 

will begin. 
To clarify, it may not be 
a good ghost story - I never 
guaranteed that. But it will be 
a ghost story. This was what 
you wanted. The real thing,
warts, chains, a parodic
translucency of flesh 
and those insanely 
fixed, intent eyes! 

They aren't always pretty,
ghost stories. Not always
neat. Not always good
- some are evil. Quite
a few are evil. Even more
though are simply dull 
or senseless, meandering 
like a spirit lost its way 
in the telling - and probably 
did! Many of these ghost 
storytellers are literally 
making it up on the spot! 
Trying to hone their craft, 
since they no longer remember 
enough of life to make stories from.
Counting on the whole sepulchral 
voice and ectoplasmic form 
to carry the show. 

It usually does. Good thing too.  

Ghosts wandering dissolute and bodiless,
long years stretching countlessly, may
have grown somewhat lossy and incoherent
when it comes to basic principles of narrative
construction. They're very good at foreshadowing!  
Practically everything they say feels like it, 
even if only a dark hint or two pay off. Everything 
else, though. Pacing, clarity, you may find it
lags, or sags, or at no point makes any sense,
or lacks punch or bite at the end. If so 

Do not laugh. Do not clap happily. 
Do not express compassion or 
empathy. When the story is finished,
if you can tell (do not jump the 
gun), take it very seriously
and nod gravely, approvingly 
as if this was a most important 
story they have passed on. Convey 
this with face and manner. Perhaps
- it might be best if you don't
say a damn word. Dare greatly
if you like, but don't say you
weren't cautioned!  

I love a good ghost story, but 
being alive and vibrant and human 
still, you'll probably settle for 
a ghost story? You can always 
embellish it later. Maybe get
a good ghost story out of it.

Later.  

Psht to that

O! Ye faithless tribes
of chosen ones! Hearken
thine hardening hearts to
abominate the lord once more
in your practices and longings,
and surely the lord will smite
you yet again one more time! Then
reeling, smitten with the lord
as usual (all that abomination
stuff's a tiff pose at best), you
will lift your eyes from the desolate
wasteland and rejoice to find it
bountiful. I love the lord! You
will cry. The lord is adorable!
Then some jerk might be like well
why don't you act like it more
often? Psht, you'll dismiss. If
this one knew the lord truly,
they would know. Hearken not
to such false-wise scolds! Loving
their act more. You will know them
because they love fruit! More than
tree, or root which they know not
much. Act is easy for all to see, 
so do. Pose is easier still. Strike 
a vogue pose and all will know 
how you stance! These things smite
not us. We are smitten more deeply
in mind, heart and pants.  

risk recommendation

If you find a book 
and it's one you can read 
sometimes 
you think maybe someone 
else can read it too. 
You have to decide:
it's recommendable. 
It reflects on you if they love 
it. It's a thanks given gift, 
but what if they can't read it?
Then they know you're
incompatible. Your taste 
fails the sniff test. Their 
judgment foams over you 
in a thick lather and forever 
more that book hangs between
you like a barrier. You have 
to decide. The risk is too great
maybe not to risk, but 
that's on you if you don't. Maybe 
better finish the book
first. Then see how much
it grows on you

unmentioning

what do you do with a girl like you?
flickering ticklishly to bliss
wish I could give you a hand with that
and I don't even know what it is 
in fact it's a bit presumptuous 
on my part
to assume you do anything.
Some don't  
I'm told 
well
what do you don't
with you's really
no one's businessing. Please 
pardon presumptuousness 
on my part. What flickers 
ticklishly in mind is 
sometimes nothing 
to dwell upon. Don't
mention it! That 
is the trick, I find. 
Works, too. 
Well, I didn't!
Didn't I