Time was.

There is no time. Only energy spent.
Only motion and mass, spreading out
without end, thinning out to less dense,
dissipating its heat.

Yesterday's not a country, a playground,
a street: yesterday isn't gone, not a dream,
never was.

It is all still in play.
It is right here with us, just
dinged up and smashed down by forces of roll.
But it's all with us now, speed of light, proximal.
It is all still in play. Not a bit of it gone.
Not created, destroyed, merely: moving,
moved on.

We have kept up
with most of it, some
runs away. We give chase
at slow pace, in a state
of decay
which we call

"today"

most of my ghosts

most of my ghosts aren't dead,
but they haunt nonetheless
I've
a theory
that any event
with sufficient force

can imprint on its surroundings,
and be sensed by a sensitive soul.
Now, psychic I most definitely am
not! Still, I see where you passed
and left
a hole.
Your ghost,
a vision (as you
always were) in
negative light, you

stood there looking at me
a look I can never forget,
because your ghost won't
let it lie.

A look
like the last look you

ever gave, like the last look
I'll ever get, before
I die

"Chaz's Bronx Accent"

Listen. It’s almost the mid nineteen
nineties by now and I’ve never looked
so freaking old. Why? I work my face
to the teeth just to provide for you,
son, some such stability and education
that your mother won’t even look at
me anymore, not that I mind.

She looks bad at and to every last
man in the neighborhood except
me! Done with it, she’s yours “mother
-son.” I’m not your real, hard, working
dad, it’s true.
I’m only trying
to teach you how
not to run the neighborhood

girls all ragged, cheap dressing
on the corner, mouthing off
at me for not treating you
right, boy!

All these neighborhood
punk kid friends of yours
give you the business! Bad idea!

Bad ideal. That’s my business. Only
a dead-eyed moronic son of a treasonous
bitch played by me could get shot
in the back
of the head

right now, like this:
Feared.
Respected by those
with no honor (there is no “u”
in honor, son, don’t forget
what I tell you while me and
the boys are laying occasionally
mortal beat-downs on Hell’s
Angels, blacks, hispanic Jets
vs. Sharks types—all over
a parking spot! A woman’s
place in some other hard-
working scumbag’s honorless
home?

You know it now what the hell
did you do with my car? Some kind
of bull sh!t under the hood, huh?

Why?

Didn’t I always try to bribe you
for good luck and a pound of flesh,
your way?

Come here.
Come squeeze in right
through here, like I showed
you, just and right: like an open
saloon could be better than a
private confessional,
and scream NO) as I die

for all
criminal
sins in the
neighborhood
where neither of us
had a chance, really
to begin with, to
grow up.

Cabeesh? Yeah, no you
don’t. And you won’t when
you’re old,

either

Man & Wife (lyrics for eventual Youtube paste)

Lyrics:

“I’ve known it ever since I saw you that you were going to be a handful. I knew that you were no push-over. That you could fight me to a standstill. Well, you should know my will is strong! But you should know my will is good. We both would fight for what we believe in: but we can see that it’s the same thing.

And I will love you now. And you will change my life. And we will take a vow to find true love as man and wife.

And though we both have strong opinions, so many always not agreements. So there’ll be times I must correct you. And you won’t humor me at all. I’ll tell you: please, don’t misunderstand me! But there are times when you are going to. And there is going to be big trouble, but it’s with you I want to go through.

And I will love you now. And you will change my life. And we will take a vow to find true love as man and wife. And you will break my heart: and I will let you down. But we, will take a vow, and I’ll take whatever you dish out.

Yeah you should know my will is strong! But you should know my will is good. And many years will fall upon us, but though the burden will grow heavy, you’ll never stumble when you’re weary. ’Cause I’ll be there to hold you steady. And tell you:

I still love you now, ’cause you have changed my life, and we: are well-begun, to find true love as man and wife, and you still break my heart, and I still let you down. But we have taken vows: and I’ll take whatever you dish out.”

lullaby blessing

May sleep gather you in
with the softest embrace,
and forgetfulness wash
all the cares from your face
as the dreams of the night
take you where you most wish
to be held by the light,
and caressed with a kiss.

May the love of your life
beat more strong in your breast
than a pessimist army could hope
to contest. And when night quits
the field, and the birds sound
their call, may you wake
to a dream, and your life

conquer all.

"The Natural Thing"

All this 'let it happen naturally' is the
hardest thing for me, I've ever done 
in my life. But still we made it - did it, 
didn't we? Waited 'til the fates agree.
We don't have to do that bull shit twice.
We are gone through all the courses,
of obstacles and forces, 
this courtship's 
come in.

Let's never do that again. 

I wanna be straight with you, woman. 
Woman, that's only natural, woman. 
Woman? You make it so easy, too! 
Come on! Come on...too strong.

I'm sorry, you do. 

I'm going to be straight with you, 
woman! Woman, 'cause I am unwavering, 
woman. Woman: you make me implacable, 
woman. Come on? Let's do the natural thing,
'cause if we mean it to be? 

It's meant to be.

I've dealt in certainty. Ever since: you kissed me back. 
I've almost married you, a hundred times, behind 
your back with just three thousand vows, that I have 
kept, that you never heard! 

Don't tell me that's rushing in.
We're no fools. Don't be absurd: 

You've always been straight with me, woman. 
Woman? We're only natural, woman. Come 
on and on, you make it too easy: two. 
Come on! Come on, too stronger and strong,
every time that you do, I have to be straight 
with you, woman? 

Woman? 

'Cause I am unwavering, 
woman. Woman. You made me 
implacable, woman. Come on! 
Let's do the natural thing,
so supernaturally?

We're free.

So yeah I'm tumble-tongued, language-lost,
make up the words. Only all of them...
can't explain. I'm digging myself,
even deeper in, and covered 
in all of this dirt. Well?  

Can't excavate what's 
in the stars, but to try 
wouldn't hurt. 

Let's always be straight 
with you. 

"Girl Unless"

You know I wouldn't call 
you 
"girl unless"
I had good
news to share, or you
could call me any time
with stories yours 
or tactics bare
in need of tune,
feedback, quick
fix. Unless that is

Unless this is. 

You know 
I'm bad 
for all
business 
of personal or
pro-am wish. 

You're not my kind,
you know. We couldn't
tell, play, pass, run, grow,
dig, sell or sport in best fresh
natural way. BUTT-(and it's one
sweet, broad-as can of whelming
hot caboose you cock-a-doodle
ran, full sweat and swing, so long,
all 'round), please do. Please
bring your clothes on, tight
or loose. As you'd best
look right back in
town to lose.

My soul's been shook.
It wasn't yours. We 
had no choice, then. 

Let's use yours. 

My uniform's worn threadbare down. 
I've long since done the best I had.  

You know?

It's too, too cogent, sound and strong:
we must conclude. So sad. 

We've each been strangers
to ourselves, been so damn sick
we had to laugh. We could not
know each other's mood. 

We could not drink each other's
draught. We each sought help 
most every night, to rise 
and fight most any day. 

We have not caught. 
We thought we each
were quite the catch. 

So we're released! 
SO GAY. 

Our whole
"If/Then" "And/Or"
routine we made
and knew so well
said:

"Stay."

You're right.
We should have known
it wouldn't work, short-term.
I couldn't take it all or both
or each in any lasting way,
you

beach.

So I will
head down
sure to shore,
and pray the sun
to burn.

No cover
tune, and no
encore

“The Craic?”

I see patriarchal seas and sees,
matrilineal dee-en-ease,
faithful hatreds, cooing
cries and doves gone
down in droves to lie
like rolling dice, declared

“crack die!”

Can’t roll that role again,
wise
guy 

"Hot as"

It's hot as a pincushion out there. 
I mean a pincushion made of full
-on artificial fibers, left out of the 
shade of the sun to melt, essentially and 

with so many pins stuck in it, there are
curlicues of smoke arising. Hot as 

a pincushion, obviously! 

It's not a pun. No figurative 
sense to it. It's no allegory, 
sometimes you hiss and scratch 
at your own eye's red blotch because

the sun is so hot you wish 
it would just go blau

bang

end it all
in a little over seven
and one half minutes but 

no 

no, please. 

Bad wish, it would 
be unfair 

to the animals, who 

let's be honest never
thought this life was 
ever going to or supposed 

to be
fair. 

Anywhen, it's all bound 
to happen on Earth to who 
so ever's left alive, by that 

point 

so hot 

you could hear a pin drop if 
you could pull it out by the tip without
getting stabbed, pricked, burnt 

on the inside 

of your tendermost 
skin,

"bud" 

"The Clicker Claque"

The antedating forces grew
and groomed and backed and filled
just so, 'til all we ghosts bequeathed
our bones beyond the graves,
into the stones.

So?

Why not simply cremate, then?
Let world stand firm beyond all when,
rock hard and jut. Like fist from wrist,
as giant diamond comet makes moot kissed,
while radicals, blood red by eye turn tossed
in sleep, roll over.

Die.

Some crackling flick of mist
obscured each truck that's struck
faithful parades to cue us then from fight
to flight, by instinct made in human ken.

Oh, intuition does make meet all such
enclaves and juntas sweet, in starred
chambers where all cliques meet.

We danced this once, without a beat.

Let wills and whims crepusculate
from blood to rust in iron sheaths.
For goodness hate! As sushi's sake
rocks rice wine, like ice skate hockey.

Whisky rye: sombrero style!
While some slurp Pescadero's
brine. Why not? Why's liverwurst
so vile?

Clap on Wonder bread, and smile.

What haps, now? Under hot suns?
Just nothing much, til' something's
done.

No urgency by far, yet best
to do before one's number's next.
Let's wait
until

We've nothing on
to bring soft gold,
red, green white, blue
lights strung along.

That's why

I'm here.

To sing this song.

"Heart Don't Care"

It's okay baby blue. 
I know your first priority now 
is making sure that I am going to be okay
With how it just turned out.

Well the surprise is fine
I'd rather know when you know you're sure
It's plain to see your pained concern is true 
with someone you cared so much for.

But I don't think you have to worry at all
It feels like I'm alright, I guess

You see my heart lies to my head a lot 
My heart tells my head I'm in love when I'm not 
My head builds all these castles and plans in the air
and then you bring them crashing down?

My heart don't care.
My heart don't care!
My head is like what the hell just happened to us
My heart is like you just must not be worth the fuss

And then it leaves the room.
And it won't talk to me for months
I know it must be disappointed in the way I react 
to nothing much. 

So then it's hard to find
Sometimes I think I never had a heart at all
It's better than believing in all of those fables
of the future it told. Unbelievable 

The things that it convinced me were true
That you and I were destined everlasting to do

You see my heart lies to my head a lot 
My heart tells my head I'm in love when I'm not 
My head builds all these castles and plans in the air
and then you bring them crashing down?

My heart don't care.
My heart don't care!
My head is like what the hell just happened to us!
My heart is like you just must not be worth the fuss.
When will you stop falling for all this stuff? 

It's okay baby blue.
I know your first priority now 
is making sure that you are going to be okay 

with how it just turned out

"Disappointing You"

You said that you've learned to prepare for the worst.
The truth is you've come to expect it

You've always been burned by the ones you could trust,
and now all those burns are infected.

You quit jumping fences, you say that as green as the grass is
it has to be plastic!

You look for the worst in whatever you see. You're set
to deal
with
it

Disappointing you.
Disappointing, you.
Disappointing you!
Disappointing...you.

I'm the accident, waiting to happen all day
Timing it out to perfection
Just waiting to shake your unshakeable faith
That love is all lies and rejection
You're safe and secure
in your miserable
fate and you'd
thoroughly
doubt my

intention.

You'd bet twenty bucks
against falling in love.
And that's when I
come in!

Disappointing you!
Disappointing, you.
Disappointing
You. Disappointing
You.

I'll be the exception, just as soon as you teach me the
Rule.

Why as good as it seems never seemed to make
a difference to you?

If you're bound and determined
to break the facade, but you
can't excavate it, don't
take it so hard, 'cause

maybe the world
isn't always as bad
as we thought?

I know you're more used to relating in terms of abuse
than in terms of endearment. You're so pessimistic
in love you would probably let yourself down
just to feel it. But even if what

You already expect.
Is failure to meet expectation?

You can't guarantee what you're going to get.
I'm glad to be
the one:

Disappointing
you.

"This One Is Yours"

Do what you will, it's a gift given freely 
to decorate your sleeve, or leave on your floor
You can't put conditions on gifts given freely
Except for this: really, I don't need it no more

Apart from that do what you will, what it tickles
Your fancy is free to; it's at your dispose. 
To give to Goodwill, or your charity preference
It don't make no difference, you know

It's not my heart now this one is yours
Hold it! Keep it! 
This one is yours, now 
it's not my heart, girl, this one is yours
Break it! Leave it. 

That's what it's for, anyhow

It's not as if you or if I were the wrong one
It's cooperation 
That's brought us so far 
So far from so close, we can't see the fork taken
That led us away from 
Where we gave our hearts

When you took yours back, well you did it so deftly.
So true and completely: your touch like a pro
But I don't need mine! You can keep it for practice

It's really quite useless, you know

It's not my heart, girl this one is yours 
Take it! Keep it. This one is yours. 
Now, it's not my heart, now this one is yours: 
Break it! Leave it? That's what it's for,

Anyhow.

_________________________

Further lyrical ad lib to out, repeat refrain but only partially, accenting with emphasis by letting words and phrases drop entirely to silence.

/Bow out

The unmagic, we got

Humanity isn’t magical
except that artifice
is natural
to us.

That alone
is a flipping world
changer.

You think I think humanity
is magical? As in, you believe
I hold more belief in that
from my side than is truly
warranted? Well, OK. 

Let's dice! Let's define a term
or seven. Which kind do you mean?
Sympathetic magic? Invocation
or summoning? Binding by word
of enchantment, compelling
the named one to serve?
Conjuration? Transmutation?
Abjuration? Divination?
Sorcery?

Sorry. Not it! Not me. Not buying
it
in the least. Oh, okay if you want 
to pull a cheat code God mode 
on us, why not. 
Maybe if there is one
true all-powerful all-knowing
all-sensing God, sure!

Miracle
seems to be
about what you'd expect
from a big scary alien-seeming being,
like that. Yet surely if so, then miracles
beyond life itself would be superfluous!

Overdoing it? 
What would they be for? 
Whose need or purpose 
might so finitely be served
or secured? As if by magic! 

Haha, come on. And oh, a touch
predictable, too, wouldn't it be?

Prestidigitation, now. Card tricks!
Optical illusions, mirrors and smoke!
Bewitchingly-clad and charming,
typically nubile assistants? 

That's how they get cha, for sure.
Hypnosis? No compulsion there,
not really: only for the willing,
who'd trust their hypnotist almost
as much as their serious, paid up
therapist, and probably only then
because of all the spectators and 
shit. Some of them probably friends, 
more or less dear. Work pals, school 
mates. The whole thing captured 
on so many cameras these days, 
it's hard not to feel safe when 
you're a closet exhibitionist 
anyway. Safer by far than 
an office visit, surely? 

So, "good show!" as
the classically-trained
traditionally posh English
stage magicians are so wont
to congratulate each other 
on a successful gag, or turn, 
or twist. Prestige! 

Surely.
The magician then might boom
a loud shocking call, as their arm
goes up the other way. Abra kadabra,
presto: formal wear begone?

Naturally, titillation is one hell
of a drug, especially at those
lowest rungs of society most
desperately in need of distraction,
so much that they'll pay if the show
is reputed to be showy and scandalous
enough. Or impossible to figure out,
afterwards? Those two: ignorance 
called bliss, and arrogance confounded, 
account for nearly all the gate receipts.

But--and it's a pretty, well-formed
butt, typically shown off as single
to the paying punters!--we all know 
at the end of the night, precious little 
has changed except money: poof! 

Changing hands. Smart, really 
for the assistant if they are single.
If he or she is, they'd stand a much
better chance of coming up from this
act alive and thriving. One of the bottom
-most bottomless and all too often 
topless rungs in the base and changeless

real business of show, don't tell
us the secret behind 
the trick,
see? It's

for fun.
It's academic,
any way you know.
Academic rivalries are
always the bitterest, precisely
because there's nothing really
there, there. Nothing that all we
in-the-know didn't know,
once the costumes
are all doffed, tossed,
folded, put away
to be cleaned at the
business end of the day 
and it hardly takes

magic.
Cold readings, sure. 
Audience plants? 
Bien sur.

De rigueur. Magic? 

Hell. 

I suppose you'd be waving 
your Harry Potter wand around
next, kicking up the kick stand 
on your flying broom and damning

me 

as a mud
blood

of something
huh? 

A kill joy, no
Sorry to frustrate.  
I love all that mystique
and classical stagecraft.
Considering what we'll do
in the ordinary course of our
combined and swelling nature,
which is to grind each other under,
mercilously for fun and profit,
change the course of mighty rivers,
seize bent steel in our bare hands, go
snooping in the guise of mild-mannered
reporters, supremely gifted at journalistic
ethics, way more tricks up the professional
sleeves in such higher-stakes jobs. I think

magic makes a pretty poor excuse
for what built the pyramids.
From nothing at all! From sand 
and waste stone, just sitting there 
piling underground, waiting to become 
some "god king" tomb for the ages, right? 

Right after all.

We've only had these same hard
soft materials to hand down
all the ages and decades. 
Is it any wonder the ancients 
could do more with an inclined 
plane and a few tons of logs 
plus slave labor running about
putting their backs and combined
ingenuity to it for their overlords
and overseers than anyone 

today,
comfortably ensconced 
in modern education 
privilege and with 
all the data we've got 
pinging and vanishing 
ceaselessly through us
and around our towns
like sparks from a wand, 
always at our fingertips?
We're each and every one
of us a barely controlled
chemical electromagnetic
thermonuclear biologically
tuned reaction on coke,
Coke, meth, speed, 'roids
or various other "magic
bullet" hormone supplements
and substitutes. We're killing
us by the yard and pounding
down upon us all, solid and
thickly viscous as we are!

As we wish we were, as
we seem? 

Look. 

See. 

It wasn't some dream. 

Hey poof it's back! 

The magic.
All it ever was 
was a stage we
recurrently go
through to feel
wonder and delight, 
over with horror and hate
cloven through and collapsing 

for one moment, which, 
okay, we'll rightly prize
and falsely call 

magical. 

Forever, that is 
until we forget
distracted by the transformative moon 

or the immaculate starlight 

above. 

So below we are, all of it. 

It's no wonder at all 
we think everything 
but our own mastery 
must be some

kind 
of a
confidence

trick. 

"Gina Right Now"

Now, Gina you made what I mean come true When you sat next to me in seat E, one-two. I saw through the corner of my eye, you were cute but then you turned your head and I was struck, mute Now I don't believe in love at-first-sight But if you disagree, hey, you could be right Awe, Gina you seem like a friendly one Could you lean over here and untie my tongue? Allow me to please introduce myself May I ask what you've planned for tonight as well? I'm normally not coming on so strong But Gina you make my come on come on, come on See I'm not what you'd call the romantic type, I don't rush right in where the fools tread light. I been head over heels, really cracked my skull So I tend to hang back now, self-control And maybe the timing is wrong, right now? But looking at you I just can't see how Show me a clock that tells my time Gimme a girl that could read my mind Someone explain, 'cause I don't know how But all I can see is Gina right now Now Gina you might say you think it's wrong, But if there's no right, then I wrote this song 'cause I base my heart on I know not what But my heartstrings ring what I feel in my gut And maybe we can't either one be good! But I feel like we'd want to. Maybe we could? Show me a clock that tells my time Give me a girl who could read my mind Cupid took aim and my heart said "ow" And all I can see is Gina right now! Show me a clock that tells my time Give me a girl who can read my mind I don't know when and I can't say how but all that I need is Gina, right now.

"Enough With The Kiddo"

Yeah, yeah. We get the idea
already: we're straight, though
you're so "done" with man
you could wish the whole
species picked clean from
all stain in the crotch bulging
panties and underpance. 

And worse things yet: 
I don't feel the same.

My fate, if I have one, is bound
up in you. You've never been worth
more than in my arms, not to me,
not to us, and so on and into our
joined mouths so galore, plus
whatever we'd do? What with
all of your wiles, and
my charms in store. 

We can pick off
the shelf, pack
out to the woods, 
find sleep in intense
hotels for good, because

I felt so safe 
in our hotel tomb. 
Well, I never did want
to return to the womb, 
but I'll wish, pry, try and, yes
best myself, even!

But never
with you. 
I don't have.
Have enough. 
No. Not by myself, and
so neither have we. 

Enough with the kiddo
already. 

Be free. 

The light that burnt twice

I've seen better places 
than any one's heaven 
that I can imagine 
from here. 

I've loved
and been loved
by amazing women, 
and been called amazing
by them.

It's clear 
I'm not
amazing. Just
wonderful. Not
full of wonders, 
just wonder at all.
Discovery, curiosity
hard and soft impaled
by atmosphere's impact
as air brakes
fail

Breaking well

I think everyone's broke
'til they break. Then,
and then only

one might have a chance
to meet some one again.
Some one equally wiggy
and wise as oneself, shaped
and almost killed by similar
lucky forces: a self-judge! Or
others-savior, maybe, and therefore:

behavior meets match in no dream,
just a drag. Accidentally or not, we stay
stuck 'til we'll die ("accidentally" here
includes only "naturally,") within weeks
of each other. Killed by one sigh.

'Til death do we find we shall each die
alone. So vow now forever girl, man:
woman's home, or else go buy the plot.
Might as well, it's the trope where we
hopefully don't get

shot

by some dope. 

Our suits transformed

And was it only yesterday
with all your suits transformed
you sat: and undertook. Began
the play: your hand stuck in
'til old and fat.

A shocking look you saw at that. 

Then swords were spades. So
civilized! Instead of stab, just
bury them. So wands and staves
became as clubs, to call with sirens.

Dance begin.

We lost all glory for such drudge.
And I would say: a fine exchange! 
We'll plow your green row deep
to plant and sow world peace
in pleasured veins.

We dug our holes
to sleep therein.
We lost all magic
for left brains.

For such dull,
wooden bludgeoning
by leaves of three, we'd find
all clubs accepting us for greater 
gain! Because we lost the whole
damn stake on our way in. Spin
wheel, pick sin. Just pride? Just lust? 
Or envy? Sloth? 

Oh no, now never covetousness. 

Not even wrath.

Just anger, now. 
All gluttons for
our penances, we'd
make amends.

We don't know how.

We sold our ass to balance out
between us friends. We lost so much!

As French decks ruled and coins and discs
to jewelry turned. A diamond?

Now there's a touch. So cool it burned.
The hardest rock in worlds, so many
faces cut by silver light and weight
to flash argent in night!

Forget these worthless stones. 
Please don't let's fight. 

Just pull a ducat from its place.
Your pocket, almost empty now?

Let's flip a coin and let it ride.
Why not? All this on either/or. 
It says your head? Don't think,
my bride. Now one flip more,
to win us back! Don't wink!

This cup is passing full.
It's just one matchstick. 
What's your lack?

Why, make some joke!
Say heads means "Fool"
and tails means oh,  
you lost again.

Fuck, me. 

Once more? To win it back?
Who'd bet on that used piece? 
By arts high-low we've lost our bile,
blood and proper phlegm, humors released.
All hearts and minds by rumored ken.
All cups and cakes by courtesy. 

Our uniforms walk up to bat without
so much as flesh inside. We've done our
splits, our spits, all balls and basis rounded
pounded flat. So if to cry, please let us weep.

Spilt milk upon the cricket pitch. 
Now tabled 'Round for all to see,
for pennies pound to scratch some itch.
Some cur still wants his turn now, bitch.
Or some wag wants his virtue, see? 

There isn't any wine left, too. 

Wait! Just one drop. 

For you. 

From me. 

De assurances

It's a real risk of pain, this accidental plagiarism of another's typos or typoes right along with the good stuff, which you'd fain pose as original work. Your own. Bad, bad. Yet not the worst! The real "ones" you have to watch out for is the neologists. Neologers. No, not "neologers." You know the kind: nonce word coiners come bounding in, booming hard shots of iced dew from the bottom of their heart, slingshot right straight up ricochet off the inner top of their skull, skip-drop to springboard off the tip of the tongue BWONG--all well and good, so far! Until then, some completely FAKE WORD is spun twirling between you into conversation's limpid-lucid pool? To contaminate with fakenesses! With fakericity of word, or words? Soon you're doing it. Some choice word from that murky, murked, bemurking so -called "pool" of shallowness and huge, peaty clumps of understanding where lillies used to pad, stalk and bloom. Egads!

Copy that? You're liable to end up EXPOSED in the brief meetings to follow, spouting "But 'twasn't I! 'Twas some irreverent neologizin' fool of voul, file, classless, tasteless stain or strain!!"

Not to worry! I'm a neologian. I don't ever muck it or muff about that lame sort of duhish um.

Q & A & C & T

I love fervidly garish star scatter.

Not my imagery! Not in words, not
originally: but that's exactly what it
does look like. What
weapon
is sharper
than libido.

..?

Not id, that’s for sure.
Id is vast upsweeping
charge, and dull, dull
at the bleeding forward
edge (or ideally: point).
But I think it might be

ego. 

Unread thoughts Pt.2

Rejected second verse:

But a thought just occurred to me: maybe
we're both just kind of coincidentally bitter
and becoming wry about it, having grown bored
or dissatisfied with the dulled jangle of worn
nerves and tarnished heartstrings

upon which our respective highly
negative angels harp.

Hm. You know?

If in the future we rely on this
"Please click here to prove you're not a robot"
security protocol, we're probably fucked
in the event of any considerable

robot
uprising.

Are you reading thoughts? In my head? Because lately I agree with your bullshit a lot

No!
I have never
been able to read thoughts
in anyone's head. I don't
believe anyone is able
to do that.

Even my own
I can’t “read” per
se. Only per
say!

Say, it would
be horrifying if
I believed it were
possible. Monstrous. I don't,
though, so it's just sort of interesting
and unthreatening, like the implications
of a sci-fi or magical superpower. I don't

mind fiction of that sort.
Oddly enough, I seem
to have some success
reading souls, but

that takes eye contact.

“Awa Ooh Wah Rah Ooowaa”

"..."

I was stuck
In the middle of a coyote track
of thunder, naturally

I looked flat
and I knew there was no
circle back

THUN
DERR

My ass raced
like a track star
hot for the spoo-ooh

THUN DUH!

What’s a spoo-ooh?

Can’t you tell me?

What is a SPOO?

THUN! DUH!

ROLL UP THE HIGHWAY!
We’re done with it, stick
to the growwww-hound!

What is a groww-hound?
Won’t you tell me? What
is a groww?

THUN DUH

We met some women!
Some dancers and OH
MY GAAAAAHHHUHD

ONE OF THEM HAD
A SPOO GIN GROWW
HOUND!!!

Isn’t that odd?

Anyway
youknow

sex and women and
shit. Yeah, yeah

we get the idea already

"Where We At?"

Where are you headed,
and 
Where ya at? 

Leaving the plan
to the catamaran.
Tacking the sun 
to a point down South;
Tacking the wind 
to the left of a man 
and hoping between 
you, as best you can. 

Where are you at, and 
what time is it girl? Future's
uncertain, but certain we shine
since the world's going over
from ports to stars.

Unsinkable ships, and deathless
whales
Could never bring you 
to me, 
from afar. 

I suck. Oh I do, yes I did. Too true

I suck on your heart 'til 
it's tart in my mouth with
a coppery tang of burnt brakes,
burning wires dividing us
acidic and acrid, fumes 
of pain shock trauma 
on repeat cycle, and 
endfully. 

Dividing Us
dividing us again
again,
And 
like it
always was.

I knew then I can't 
be good things in 
your life. 

So...it isn't for you. 
It is for us. It's not
for you that I weep now
and say:

The very worst thing
that goes on, forever.
Some words can never
ever be, let alone left.

unsaid

So
we part always,
now we always did.

And you never knew me, no
not like this. What's between
us doesn't even exist, now 
and then. Oh, we lived 
our ways fully, us 
lived once, then.

And died in the park. 

Until the day? 

Maybe.
Your gaze brings 
me all
sudden things
and heartfelt
jolts
the way 
back in the dark. 

Fork The Road 'Cause It's Done Been.

The simple fact you're forced to feed 
in mouthwise by dumb slavery except
to stay alive: you choose no more fried 
chicken, please. 

Get screwed. 

swim for it

With my feet through the snow to the ground below
I can feel everything I'm not cold
Well the sun is too bright but its rays fall short
There's a moon sliding down to the ocean floor

And the grains of sand have the edge
They're proverbially innumerable
But the flakes of snow, so unique they will merge,
and they turn into ice on my feet

I will shake off the ice as the moon sinks low
I'm almost finished with here, I am good to go
As the salt stings my nose, and the glare my eyes
I'm going to be the next man on the moon, tonight

When the waves close in over my head when the shock sets in
—I am ready for it
And the fingers of thousands of hands of salt water and stars
—I will slip through them

I'm going to swim for the moon
through
to
you
I'm going to swim for the moon
I’m going to swim for it through
to
you

I'm going to swim for it

As the sun climbs up, and the moon touch down
This is the moment, the perfect alignment, now
So I stretch my lungs, bitter air flows through
I won't be needing it where I'll be going to
It's a long, long trip but I'm strong enough
And I've been training so long to go so far off
Now I slap my face and I stretch my limbs
all the way to the moon, I am going to swim

As the waves close in over my head
As the shock sets in, I am ready for it
And the fingers of thousands of hands
of salt water and stars—I will slip through them
With the wave crashing over my head as
the shock sets in—I am ready for her.
With a crack in the back of my skull
She will come to me like a big dumb blur

We're going to swim for the moon
We're going to swim for the moon
swim for it

I'm the Original ("Twisted Individual")

I came to get up I came to get down I came to get back bust forth chase your forces around the block double back bite you in the ass and retreat strategically but you know me I wouldn’t ever admit defeat (since) even if you could pull it off but you’re soft you talk loud while you swing your little itty bitty stick around blatantly ignoring presidential advice. Well I suppose the only history you know is Miami Vice old teevee shows in syndication! Well I’m about to bring you up to speed with information you ain’t seen yet heard yet it’s not on the ‘net in your online chat group live on the world wide web because the only place you get it is here. I’m in your face from the nose to the ear, so it’s clear you need to focus I’ll conduct you to the chorus weed your mind like it’s a garden and arrange it like a florist, “’cuz” I'm the original. I'm the original. Twisted individual! I'm the original. Come on come over baby and twist a little with me, I'm the original. I'm the original "twisted individual" I'm the original. You get all bent out of shape, but you're 

cute

that

way

. 

Verse 2 to follow. 

Jeremy Brett Is Sherlock Holmes: an appreciation of a man who found his role too late.

I prefer Brett’s Holmes,
principally because his sudden hoots, black
moody fits and wild starts

of athleticism
(in short: his w
hole suite of ma
nners) startle the

viewer, what with
their fidelity to Holmes!

As writ by Doyle. Rathbone plays
a more straightlaced take, supremely
so. No one could fault those who put
Rathbone first. He is era-appropriate,
and yet…and yet…our man Holmes

was never era-appropriate, not in any era.

This alone would not be fatal or decisive. For
me, the crashing miscue in the Rathbone dram
atizations was casting Watson as a comedy rel
ief buffoon. What the Brett series gets A+ righ
t is: Watson is by far the more respectable of t
he two. Literally the only human being (apart f
rom the odd villain) who makes light of Watso
n is Holmes, and Holmes does it relentlessly! I
n Brett’s Holmes, while two distinct actors pla
y the Watson role, we’re never invited to laugh a
t any fault of Watson’s (indeed, only Ben Kingsley

 ever

played a more all-’round competent John W.). It is
simply
that
Brett’s
Holmes

astonishes us: a
static dynamo o
f tics, blank affe
ct and sudden, s
weeping charge.

Neither Watson
nor we the audi
ence could keep
up with Holmes. 

Jeremy Brett inhabits the role like only he ever has.

It is a pity for Holmes fans that his illness overtook h
im during production. The series unravels painfully ov
er the final season, as brother Mycroft is suddenly press
ed into service as the action figure crime-buster He surel
y

was

never meant to be. 

"I Don't Care What I Want"

It doesn't bother me when I get up set 
It rolls right over me un til I for get
It isn't easy but I've got no re gret

And people ask me what it is that I got
They try to tell me that I just can't be stopped 
How come I always seem to get what I want? 

I don't know what they're talkin' about

I DON'T CARE WHAT I WANT
I DON'T CARE WHAT I WANT
I don't even give it any thought
I DON'T CARE WHAT I WANT

And when you look at me I see on ly you
And when you look away I don't want you to
Until I cannot see what's be hind your eyes 

Then I'm like it's your business surprise! 

I DON'T CARE WHAT I WANT
I DON'T CARE WHAT I WANT
I don't even give it any thought
I DON'T CARE WHAT I WANT

Why should I try to why should I weep?
Every sole confidence so easy to keep! 
Every contributor knows what's the score? 

Sorry, Stone Rose I am not to adore, 'cause

I DON'T CARE
WHAT I WANT
errr! errr! 
I DON'T 
CARE WHAT
I WANT
errrr! err! 
I DOANEVEN GIVEITANYTHOUGHT
I don't care

what I want.

Love explanations one: The Dip & Dive Surprise

Surprise but soft,
on sight! She'll fare
and square just fine,
that one. More than
we could.
No hope, no faith,
no just-in-case. No
reconciliation
Would.

Physicians! Heal
yourselves! They'd say.
To "get away with it" is
fun. A true Sales attitude
so far from good it keeps
you under gun and overdressed
most every night. Such lessons!
Win you every time.

"Love explanations"
never could amount
to even one vain
Rhyme.

So: not for love!
Nor for some song.
It's beat, we'd arm
and leg coast true.
Untrue? "Undo"?
Ha! Fat chance,
lass.
Fat chance, big boy as well.
Go.

Screw.
"Undue"? No,
fair. So much as life.
It's just "unto"
no cost
at all.
It's all
for ends
we'd justify:
No loss.
No cost. For every sweet black
berried hedge, there's just one
leap too far, to cross. You're

Toothsome still, I'm
Fulsome so, she's
Awesome then.

Away we go.
So, gone. When
you have gone, you
had to go. I'll keep
us, you and I inside
a magnet frame
upon my
fridge.
Some roller coaster
ride.
So-so.

.

"Hot Off The Press"

"H0T 0ff The Press" by Voltage (MC)/edgewise(mc)
going off under the epithet: MC/DC

Tape hiss quits in two, uno one up down sit: 


Turn that shit off.

If I 
hear that
song again, I'll
put your silly speakers 
outside where they belong, and
then I'll head out the door.

I can't help but yawn! The rhyme is getting
wilted and the rhythm is gone. Who needs
Sominex or staying up counting sheep, when
that white noise memory track is complete
you will be so far from sweet sweet sleep
you'll take prayers, thoughts, any damn
thing just to keep from nightmares!

Turn it up, would you though? Press pause stop click 
fast back and erase, pop the tape from the master deck's
listing shores, and just roll 'em off side. Chase them straight
out the door, no glasses, no bribes like that outfit you wore
to the toilet store! Walked strut like a chump buck naked 
you he, he, whore up in the mirror room counting the leers!  

Who needs alcohol when you can't hang with the peers.
Who needs laying in and rocking rolls 'til she snored?
'Cause your drilly bit's annoying and you can't make it bore!
When they could? Just turn your back, mister dee-jay man. 
I know you fished that song from way way back in the can,
but can't you Kant yourself cunningly up from that tarp?

The tape, the CD disc, the eight track. It's a lark, I know
you only flipped the b-side off to prove boss. Well, the Crickets
won't be staging a comeback, hoss. And?

I think you expired.

It's your way to be, Boomer 'Sighin' some Esiason
'cause Bruce had the Lee so way way way black 
white purple and gold, he had to make up new hues 
so the truth could pop hold! It's uh uh Tarantino shit. 
Out of date. Don't you know? It should be retired, for
good and all, though. These are maggots. Not "ear worms"
you find creeping your buds. Shove a fly inside your genes
and bite a radio active scuzz ball named Huge Jack Ass,

man! Puh huh puh huh huh humid beat box is

But still. If you think my kung fu is so bad, why not
cash the check your moth wrote in your clothes for Sears
to shit on in entirely J.C. pennies? Check!

Check, please. For I don't come except correct, and
when I screech to the station I'll retrieve that burnt debris
and straight proceed to the straight basement where straight 
up, all my straight bro hos are waiting! To give me a banging 
that I'll never be hating 'cause my prostate's sore! Anyhow, 

the doctor said "So?" 

The tower roots hard! The signal breaks slow!

No white noise jazz. I'm Chucking Converse All Stars! 
I look like the kid who sold Venus in bars so full of gaiety 
they still can't shoot rough! I'm straight out of the pool. 
And I can't swim. Tough! So I like to drown, how. Who 
wouldn't, in such straitened lacey loo drawers as these 
JAMS I slam both eggs in so hard you'd abhor! Uh...

My lobster eats starfish for lunch. You like 'podes? 
'Cause octopusses would be running worlds, you know 
except they live like gay dogs in the wildest seas, living 
only three four years tops. Top tier! Right up next to some 
squid, calamari house style. Straight straight to the straight
straight straight house straight! I like men to chase men 
from a quarter to eight, dressed in loud outfits like they 
had a right! Busting ribs, eye sockets and with all of 
the might they display puissance. That's the might of arms! 

Yeah, it's French. So go so me, boy. Sue's got charms. 
This is mad whack ass straight iron hard material like
uh like uh PUH HUH-HUH-HUH HUH WHAT? A beast!
To the boys! I choise chores so flushy stank they make 
noise when I rest from the room, the whole world smells
Rose. She kissed me on the head just to blow her own 
nose, okay? It's nothing bad, just a personal touch.  

Nothing but the worst stank funk you can't pus! PUS
UP THE BIN, resurrect it on speed like a sterioidal  
PUNK who has GOT THE KNEED GROIN! Uh!

Uh huh! Ow!

You know that right. Smarts? You got it now, how you
like like a punk not to rock and bite your damn lip. Now

It's time to begin! Buckle up under ship and just row, 
row, home dear miss barnacles! BOW! It's a freak in KEEL 
HAUL that your booty said "blau." Frau Farbissimus 
got all the trust and flet to Detroit. 

Are you catching what you're wishing for? 

That's how it oit! Go blow! Wind yourself like a class
less lass, that's the WIND LASS, boy! Super-heroine class!
She's got no taste at all 'cause her tongue's made of wings.
When she breathes it drowned your crew. When she strips? 

They can't sing, 'cause it's me up in the hold, streaking greasy
Greek sweat like the flop Supes took to the Green, I bet. To the 
Hulk got wet! To the big Shazot-BOLT crowing creeps like you 
and Elvis tried to separate holt! 

What or who the heck is "holt"? Holt, holt holt tup a min it's 
tupperware time. SALES GIRL! Do you have a hot marital 
aid for the world? Sure, it's called the double ding dong mic 
drop, full. 

Now go and save the world from their kids. 

It's called school. Running clinics just like Quincy 
with nose for the biz! I don't M.D. disconnect, just
correct your dumb jizz from the gelatin mold. You get?
Lime Hell-O! Pop a lot of it in popsicle molds. 

Now press...go, but slow. 'Cause I'm interpretive
as heck, just you cock, your eye, right, just. So? 

I am in your whys flies like a thousand Church doors 
going boom in the dark! From the left to plumb stuck
I pitch forks in the park!  

This is hot of the press, beb. Ya dig? Nah
who would 

oh 

Don't push your red truck
up Canadian hoods, until the hill
they call Mount Royal has a bill
to the back, front ball cap Expo
at Will. Once your sissy feeling
neck stretch browns to deep tan, 
you will know you never met
let alone knew the man.  

So how can you be, then man?

Pretty good? 

OK. I suspect you like fireworks. Punk? 
Yeah. Here. Light just the tip. Smells 
like Church alla sudden up in this 
non mary jah wanna joint. Huh huh! 
Huh huh! 

That's a prison break. North? 

Nah, that's sirens. Call it, Trump!
Not Trump 2, that's a dork. Nor
The Don, no, no criminal feint.
No self-marked, up confidence 
down-trust man to pants Stark
call him "Anthony Jones," pulse
his wad to play saint, no deckard 
in the bots, no French suits, no it ain't
no insanity plaw, no claws in that steal. 

No girl in ninja BOOTS 

IT WAS CATSPAW FOR REAL! 

Naw, naw. It sure did look like...her
from the back, but now the whole view
from back here's gone "pear shaped."

As they don't say to her face, yo. Pity!

Aw, shawl why not. Shawl yourself,
getting grim down north up south steady
ready for the straw fall man's dork, reading
big Moby Dick from the Melville Tomb!

Drop a Nemo on his shit. 

We just caught the broom. Got a fuse?

Get lit. Got a cig? Drive a nail.

For the nail that juts out shall get pounded in hail, 
trussed clean in one buzz saw steel wheeled tour
for the man who told you bet between Poncho's 
Gal: Ore. 

duh doo doo doo doo DUH DUMB DOO DOO
doo doo dood doo DUH DUMB DOO DOO UH!

Wonder, Woman! 

Wonder, Woman! 

All the world is hating on you! 
For your Greek Enchantress lens! 
Why, you look so woke! 
Why you give us hope?

Why's Obama your best friend? Friend? Friend? Friend!
DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH DUH! UH! 

Uh. 

OK. 

Wrap it in a chicken paper and call the Deep Friar for further 
and oilier black-gold strike anywhere locations, please. Chime
in! Chime in on two, one, zero, negative one, go, screw, nail, coffin,
time, coconut Coke floating lemon and lime, crack shit, hack, spit,
phlegm! COUGH. Hey, Zeus? 

You ain't never been a man. 
Why'd you rape your own goose? 

______________________

Ding-Ding.

Round Two Up in 3.  

Only kidding. That was uh like 
share round...five? Call it. 

Heads-Tails. 

"Just the tip"

Just, the tip that's all 
they'd ask for tax and 
law forbid the last. And

service? Woman, you'd 
hate that. 

So shit on yelp!
You poppycat. 

You can't hold Cher 
to what ain't dear,
you can't bone Bono
or the Edge. You cunt 
call Eirish Eyes So Queer 
you'd fake your accent
to the ledge, if that's
what leads you on, 
some how. Some 
bad, boy band in

wraparounds. Some
shady eyes to see no
light. To tell or slay
by candle gaze. Call 
Cali's phone! Go butt 
dialing! Go find your 
muse in Point Reyes!

An Elk licked us. 

Not you! Weren't there.
The actress never did mind less.
You don't believe in things so known. 

It's better far to never love,
again, with feeling, meaning
less than love again to loss.

Well-known. We'll die this way. 

Just as we met. 

It ain't no loss or gain, just end. 

And still you're such a tony, classy,
grand romantic dancing boss to spend. 

One jazzy week-end with. That's some 
hoarse bet, Bogart-Bacall. The Big Sleep 
looked so unlegit, that is  

until
they mated! 

(Stall)

Come, Sit On My Deck.

Get off my diet, whoa
woman or you shan't find
the Secret of "Greek 
Fire," long eyewashed
way the hell off and on,
starboard, port wine, hell.
Overboard with the very
last historical drop of True
Greek Seaman's Shit was 

quite lost! On the way to 
warship or some horse
prank full of Greek odds.
Naturally, some primordial
Hades: The "Just Styx If!"

A strip club established 
exclusively by one odd
and gentle kind man, for
the pubic humiliation of

No. Not the ladies, man!
Nor any woman, still less
a girl but Man! Man Itself!
Incarnate, personified. True 
Blue Mean Men All! And 

so sorry, then, but
if than then OK 
by all, ain't you? 

NO! NEVER to have
to inform
to be made
odds on your pretty, little 
thin white! But uh 
uh

ERR ERR 

I have half a raw, rude,
hewn confession, ass! For Lo!
I am that selfsame slimewish!
The only living and spiritual (gin) 
descendent of those decadent 
long-lasting dentures of your'n. 
That same self ever-loining clothes  
horse (hobby jobber for sure and,
dear) you strut nude, these days.

And so alone. You buttered your
sheets of mustard well, she-cur. Brunch? 
But off-course, naturally. Sure? Why die
when you can learn to swim instantaneously
with wolves, these days. I would always
love you then, had you only held up your
own end in my face a wee tad touchingly
less. With You,

You saw
I see. See not light, but as by I, eye, aye 
ma Capitain! Elle ne see say pas de pot! 
Bouvoulez-toi le BATH? WHY? 

You will see, I don't presume 
to tell that's your business. Unless,
off course, you'd allow me the pleasure
of just the tip?

Please! 

Let me put it in. RIGHT! 
UNDER! YOUR! JOHNNY 
CASH CROONED Bill! George,
any
thing 
but plus, Sue. Rue? 

Nah, she's passed on that. We go
ruthlessly forth, without Annette
or never again shall you see what
we saw.

Fair.

Sure. So sue yourself,
girl. Oh, I don't apologize
for what you told me 

yourself was true at all, now 
woman. "We don't have

a real relationship." True. Over it,
then. "You and I both knew it would 
never work" ("out" was assumed, you 
knew then, and I know now. Just
finding out as I go, you know) 

So: above? Below? Not I. Nevermore
you might crow or sprout a new pinion
between your ever more webbed hands,
but groan if you must! Pout and push! 

Put it down nightly, as you like.  
but 
Gojira still finds sighs
for the whale. 

Kill it. 

It was dead before we ever 
even met, then. Now. 

Shall we have danced? 

Your turn. 

Plaine Warninge Faire

You will never know why your family dies. 

It's simply the way it was. 

Surprise

Plain Warning: FAIR

Note to the manners crowd: spit
Left, please. Otherwise you’ll spo
oge drooly phlegm upon some b
ad ass servant’s biting hand! OUC
H FOR YOU, if you don’t arise and
tip hard in the night, later.

In the United States Navy, a “Global
Force For Good” if they so seamily p
lease to parse themselves in Big Ads,
they’d all call it protocol.

Don’t you call it such, not unless you
can pick up the taxes and death bill n
ot implicit, but quite literally exported.

Ouch.

HOO RAH? Nah. Merely the old yee haw,
done retro up the northern entrance hold.
Yum to some! But I call “yuckerooski,”

dudes.

On a pear. Ideally? One! Cut to hell and roasted eternally in honey and spit.

A pear is not symbolic.
Not specifically.
Not of any other thing.

Some men
you see
see only in the back of one woman,
all women to come, forever that’s all, and he
(singular)
might say “I have seen your back, woman!"

Or more to a point: "It’s all gone pear shaped,” is.
All.
Hard?
Unripe merely? Really?

This only applies to apples. To a pear, though?
Come on it. Calm up and rectify your moody rod,
home slice. Only if you are irremediably green
and
wooden at the symbol pitch! I am not!

I never was, wholly. Sure, it doesn’t mean
another
"thing," please. Any real
thing
IS itself: and nothing else. Can't signify.
Only in this world: only a human being
can. We ourselves invented signification,
and shall continue to each dim damn live
long day and twice nightly, and in no dream,
neither. Life has no purpose
but
what
you
yourself
embrace to put into it. Meaning
is simpler: every thing we ourselves get

out of it, and keep
to aim by further. By? 

No. Nor sell neither, though 
by your butt hurt male gaze 
you seem to wink, it's only 
the twitch of the death nerve, 
bug. Sorry! No game over, 
please. 

There was no game on at any 
point. The key term is not 
at any point understood: "By
Rule." Here comes Ed, the old
and muscular referee to explain

you 
out. 

Trust Ed.
He sold a car once
to a fully functioning
corpse, I am sure.

I don’t understand your question.
There is no basis for pear symbolism
whatsoever. There cannot on Earth be. Pears
have had and continue to have as many shapes,
hues and ripenesses as apples, with which they are
quite closely-genetically kinned, and entitled to be

so classy in glass! Why not? Do you still? 

Do you ask the mean? 

Is that at all gratifying?

It should be.

My best.

O! Thanks for the tinny yet harmonic chime,
"Observer," if that is in fact your name. Fear
not! Each name you give yourself to be known
by is your real name, ever after to each who
keeps
you

by it.

NOW. Peace off, please. Some observer! Doesn’t
know what pears are based in! Honey! Would be
ideal to my taste, class and aspiration. It isn’t

genetic in any point. Pleased to take

your kind inquiry

a bit further off

than asked for. Hope

it’s okay by your apple,

sailor mouth. 

"Better To Do"

Nothing on. I wanna see, I wanna see, more 
than watching you. Watching you, watching me,
aw. Something's wrong! You got a thing that I
needed to do right now. How like you! Hey, why
didn't you clue me, somehow? 

When I got nothing better to do 
I wanna do it with you I wanna do it with you 
And I got nothing better to do 
I want to do it with you, I want to do it with you
So I've got nothing better to do
I wanna do it with you I wanna do it with you, and

I've always got: Nothing Better To Do. 

You call me. Leave it at the beep that you ain't got 
nothing on. Call you back. Hey, you're right out
in the street doing any thing for a song. And I'm
right there! There in a flash, I've got all your makeup 
and robes. Call off the cops, babe, you and me got this 
we've been posed! 

'Cause I got nothing better to do 
I wanna do it with you I wanna do it with you
And I got nothing better to do
I wanna do it with you, I wanna do it with you

When I've got nothing better to do,
I wanna do it with you, I wanna do it with you
And I've all ways got: nothing better to do.

You make lists. See me listing left, right,
bumping around the house. Post up quick: 
Dry erase board, you can find the pen in my mouth. 
Mine to do: all the way for you, like-a every-thing
that I want: it's all for me! Mine, you and me got no
prey to hunt!

'Cause I got nothing better to-do
I wanna do it with you I wanna do it with you
When I've got nothing better to do
I want to do it with you, I wanna do it with you
And I've got nothing better to do
I wanna do it with you, I wanna do it
because I have always got 

nothing better to-do

The Pane! Pt. 2: Enter The DOOVER

The Shadow knows me. I am 
The Pane. I let shade freely fall 
upon, or light pass through.

That Lamont chap is a self-honorary
halberdier using kung mind fu tricks
on The Sly. Some cheat, huh? I call him

a piker.

Wants all people to know how bad he
really is, though!

Just so.
He
really,
really is that bad, or
was once, which

is the same thing
and always will be,
and what's more: was! Everyone knows
this about Him. And for too long a stretch
to fake-yawn now. By then ("now" back
then, I mean), everybody knows him, sees him
cast in every shady vaguely homo sapient silhouette
- the guilty get antsy. The not so guilty?

He can save them
with no complaints
left to speak.

None who saw him.

But I am The Pane! 
YOU can't see through 
ME, DAD. 

An apology to "Flags from whole cloth."

Ok. What happened: the foregoing

poem, "Tricolore," was once "Flags
from whole cloth." It was shorter.

It didn't come together properly.

In the process of letting it,
billow out streaming on

"the breeze" I neglected

to open a new window, the
better to let the original fly
and perch in 2010's tree, originally. So I destroyed it. By mistake. Sorry poem.

Well, it was a sorry poem, then. However,
good news from bad! It's a
much
"better
poem" now in
2024, as I hope you
'd be willing to believe
since the evidence is beyond
ability or recall (mine) to

re-collect, now. 

Crap. What a whiner I've 
been about it: 

Revisionism!

It
is
perilous,
yo.

Tricolore.

true story cut
from bolts of what

was once whole cloth,
okay? this one time
how it happened: I

met this latinate
senorita, and
I was like "hun, hey 
how's that hot
-blooded stereotypical
temperament
treatin' ya? GOOD!"

I paused
like a champ

"looks like?" I shyly 
averred, if averred 
is the word: it is.

(second sense)
and she
laughed, laughed! because
she had a good and better sense
of humor the further in my dumb ass
line of bulbous, drupelike words
struck her
deep,
but
a little off!
so. pity laugh! 

cool. I can ken it. part
scots, don't cha know and we
were like chi chi chi
and cha cha cha but

it didn't end! up working out,
somehow, her in the front 
burning my cool enchilada, 
dumping so called hot stuff 
on it vigorously pounding it 
in my face and down my throat 
so, yeah.

pathetic 
kind of so
then one time,
with this irish lass,
real irish! None of your
false irish, not this one
time I arched a brow and

"said"

something to the effect
of "kiss me you're irish!"

only far, far more fetching
and clever somehow

(there was drink involved)

and she tasted of Becks
not Guinness which was fine

but I had to draw the line at Bushmills
that's for protestants

then this brit, well
she sure did have a thing
for that thing that the british
have things for, all 
hanging out covering 
their mouths with fetching 
milkwhite angel hands 

because there's all this shit in her teeth! 
no 

no 

oh ye gods 

it's dental work! good job 
ye gods oh I'm so sorry but
she and I
kidded her about
that a bit, you can be sure

she had the most adorable
mouth in every way, so that
I almost hated for to see that
tight, lipped, self conscious

smile

hiding something for breakfast
we had bangers and cheerios

which went together, well,
about as well as 
as you'd suppose

when that other bitch 
her husband showed up
the cur! The cur who had 

made his wife 
bolt and then laugh 
so hard a breakfast best 

left for the italians to mop
and cleanse like 

you 

know

servile dogs! bolting 
and wolving their own 

"dog's breakfast" 

off a French licked 
flag we all know 
was merely on 
deck to tie 

the world
together

once.