Exlicit

Exlicitly, she extracted herself 
from all of her licit doings 
and said, "I don't believe we've
decided, agreed on all of the things 
we pretend unsaid. You seem 
to be working assumptions, now
- assiduously, and you'd think 
for the best, and quite licitly."
But then, with her eyes 
she implied something further,
or otherwise better and blest. Or else,  
I'm about to go suddenly wrong!
Enacting such prompts and spurs. 
But if so, I shall (cheerful) consent
to be dead. And begone!
Yes, living no more
than the full, I shall get
up and go. No worse,
one hopes, than the duly
allotted woe. 

conspiracy pitch

Three of the earth's most major corporations 
have been conspiring with all the others, 
with some success, to conceal a secret
so unimaginable that I haven't made it up yet. 
Got it? Is it a grabber? Let's add an ex-ex-cop
dragged back in on a grudge 'cause he's the only one 
we'll be following around to get some idea of 
what's going down, what the dangers are, 
who's behind them, and how this unpredictable 
wild-card will respond. Now I just had a thought:
male or female ex-ex-cop? It matters, because
there's a ton of continuous nudity in the role (all
dictated by the demands of the script) (this isn't
gratuitous) and that angle might seem exploitive,
or disgusting if not both. Perhaps we can skirt
the issue by lighting the sets in deep shadow?

Done. Our ununiformed protagonist now has
mystery galore, but where does he or she keep
the gun? Let's just assume it's a surprise
when they pull it out. Now, complications: plot.
Setting. Themes. We can sort of wing these
as we go. The script 

is no problem,
we already covered the nudity. How 
about financing?

Do you know anyone? The trick 
will be getting funded on the sly and in the can 
before the conspiracy finds out. 

If we send them a fake copy, we 
can pretty much dictate our own price. They
will do anything to keep a bombshell like this 
from getting released. What? Yes, true we might 
want to find out how much it costs to get us both 
killed. Ask 10% less, that's fair. Sound good?

Good. Now we just need financing, and 
it's all square.

joke clock

There was a guy I knew 
with a joke clock on the wall 
that told time old-school. 
By hand, except - and the joke's 
here, if any: the big hand was a penis, 
and so was the other one. He remarked 
on it (it was the first I heard about 
the clock, I didn't know what he 
was talking about), insisting 
they were the same dick 
in different states. I was like 
"What?" then followed his pointing 
digit, confused by his broad grin. 
I saw the clock. It was twenty to 
one. Nice odds, I figured. "I bet 
you're right. It very well could be."
When I came back next time, I
looked to see what time it was 
and said "Hey! Your clock's hands
are made out of dicks!" I thought 
he must have just got it. The time 
before, I misunderstood what he 
was getting at. The pieces fit 
eventually, but I still don't know 
what made him so sure about 
the hands. To be frank, they were 
sort of cartoonish. Not too terribly 
realistic. Maybe somebody thought
it was funnier that way. Anyway 
I was just kidding. There never was 
such a guy. I just made him up 
to explain the clock

miss nil noire

She stood across the room 
in one smooth motion. She never
showed up, she'd just always be there
when you noticed her. Not
before. No one ever saw
her turn to go. She'd just 
moonwalk slowly out of there, 
while everyone crouched as one 
in audacious jazz pose, snapping 
our fingers and leering while 
she took her clothes off 
someplace else. That was
like her. Wherever she went,
went away, went off, she'd always
take her clothes. Modest girl, you grin,
but you'd be you don't know how right.
She was as modest as a girl like that
gets, or bets, or goes on shoes, or
knows the blues, or shows. It's why
we were all in love with her face,
or eyes, or nose. Whichever turned
your way. Her mouth held us 
spellbound, hypnotized - peering
into it for any trace of a smile, but 
no! She was yawning, and we felt 
personally implicated in her boredom
but we knew she didn't see it that way. 
She was the most fair woman on earth, 
and any competitors for the title would 
be ruthlessly crushed by her horde of 
stooges and goons, male, female and 
otherwise devoted. Basically, there was

something she had, that had us all. 

I think it was personal
in different ways for each of us,
except her. To her it was all the same.
She saw as as we were, hers, and she
never knew why. Never took us that 
way. Just gave herself as she was, 
hers. Which hey.
We took it for what it was worth. 
Worlds. When she died, a part 
of us within us all, that some 
call the soul -  oh wait she's back.
Never mind 

That was someone else who died
It always is, with her. This one's 
for keeps, no playing. Maybe that's why 

I'm always out in the rain, in the dark
taking drinks in smoke filled rooms 
turning down cases left and right 
in case she walks in, and my 
business booms. I'm not even 

a detective, so 
whatever she wants, that's 
what I'll have to do I guess.

I'm sure she knows what she wants. 
I also know her too well
to place any bets. 

interview technique.

I think you walk right in there
with a gleaming chip on your shoulder
and a cheerbright chirpful attitude that says
"it's decorative! No challenge implied."
Then sitting at their waveswept hand of invitation,
you smirk beamishly and waggle your eyebrows
in welcome and (from the other side of their desk,
cued by all the 'desk energy' their authoritative
position implies) they start bouncing excitedly
in their seat and asking you questions. "Five foot!"
"Female." "WHITE." 

"Those aren't questions," you glimmer and wink.
"They're observations based on visual perception,
perhaps with some reference to appearances."

Duly yet luxuriously chastened in an uplifted way,
they cut the crap to the chase. They ask brilliant
questions about your spot-on requirements and
qualifications, which you parry and bandy about
directly, on-point by point.  At one particularly
piquant answer, they stand and yell! Then

Sitting with alacrity, eyes clear and all business,
they nod for a solid minute. Finally making eye contact,
as if it was a thorough decision, he or she avers
"You're the one we want, miss! You'll do indubitably."

And you respond?

RSG

You have to practice
reverse self-gaslighting. 
That's where you keep
pulling sly mean tricks 
on yourself to convince you
you're finding your mind.
If it works, you'll be driven
quite sane, for a time. 

a pocketful of hay

Remember that huge coat 
you wore that day, walking out 
in the pumpkin fields? You'd stuffed
one pocket with sweet, damp hay -
amazing how much one pocket 
yields. 'Cause I kept saying "hey,"
most all of my life, and you'd
socked a supply just to whip 
it out! To give me each time. 
But I didn't say "hey."
I stopped saying hey
that day. Never mind. 

Aver is the strangest word

"Aver" is the strangest word
for a positive declaration. It
sounds like evasion. A veer,
a swerve. A miss. I aver,
but I'm never too confident
when I do. It's a risk, and
it takes some nerve.

nightmare invasion

I had a dream it was breaking day 
and the sky was like infinite marigold 
with the faintest suggestion of green 
in the depths,
like an overturned, compassing 
goldfish bowl.
But looming and huge 
in circling drift, impossibly slow 
and impossibly vast, there were craft 
in the sky like rude cigars. Lumpen, 
irregular, not built to last and of varying 
lengths - yet even the shortest, nuggetlike 
lumps had dwarfed the clouds.
Dispelled them like milk
in the foulest tea that had ever stirred
and been stormed about. And the smell

I can't even describe that now. 
I didn't know dreams
could smell at all.
But this one's aroma, no, stench 
lingers yet. Although I woke up
from it days ago 

An "apt hyperbole"

An "apt hyperbole" really 
ought to be a contradiction 
in terms, seeing as hyperbole 
is exaggeration past what's 
possible for rhetorical 
effect. As a device, it's 
clearly hard to surpass.  
Whatever else you do in 
that line is hyperbole also.

So how can so wild a shot be "apt"?

Complicating matters, "apt hyperbole"
ideally ought to be - I mean the phrase
itself - an apt hyperbole. That would be
so neat! But here at least we have some 
definite answers: it isn't. It isn't even
hyperbole, the phrase itself, let alone
apt. Fit to the task. It ruins enjoyment 
of language, how we can't manage 
to name these things in

more clever, self-referential ways.

Why is palindrome not a palindrome?
Double it if you have to!
"Emordnilapalindrome" or
"Palindromemordnilap," which
do you prefer, and how hard
was that? Whatever government's
been doing all these years, clearly
somebody's dropped the ball.

Well, it won't be me.

If you want me, need me
I've been closeted away, sweating
out and fretting up a list of apt
hyperbole. In case 

you were wondering. 

insidious manipulator

Is there any man
or woman not secretly
proud of their masturbation
scenarios? I'm ashamed to say
I couldn't say. It's all anyone
never talks about, but the sense
I get is some of these
are really quite inventive.

What if 

A new norm were invoked?
Just like that, everyone posts 
their top five shining bests 
on their dating and social 
media profiles, are you 
ready? Three, two, go 

Now,
I bet everyone feels much 
better about this someday, 
somehow. 

divide

I 
am a heist. 
He-ist, adherent
of heism. And you, 
with your youist ways 
keep sheing around 
the place, as if you believe 
what I believe and espouse 
of identity is somehow my fault.
Well, that's true and it stinks 
like a fish in salt. 

deepest in

The ache of the eternal.
The shadow of future nostalgia.
Knowing right now
these moments we make,
we'll forever be in them.
There's no getting out of a
memory that every fiber of me
and ember of you is imprinting upon.
We're having our wonderful way
with time, too full in the present
to fool in the moment
forever so long.

Exuse

What if each of us
exudes an almost oily sheen
that inheres to our persons,
places and things 
'til these nouns of ours imbue
with adjectival force -
would that alone refuse
to explain our course?

Alacrity.

Alacrity: promptness 
of response; cheerful
readiness. That's
what it wants. Celerity:
speed of motion or action,
as well - without these?
We balk and dawdle
and dwell in lassitude's 
tightening hand. Stagnation
sets in. We procrastinate. 
Our energy level tops out 
at fuss. We begin to conclude
what's wrong with us. Which
is too really too unjust, just yet.
That's number one jumping the gun
with a bullet! This time is nowhere
nearly too late to nick! Upset 
your predictions and place 
your bet -

- on you! That's your pick. 
If you do? You'll see. I suggest
let's start with alacrity.

the peoplers

Let's you and me people 
this town with love.
We can't get enough of
not getting enough.
They say this town's empty
when we're not around.
In fact, we're still working
on building this town,
but the drawing board's
coming along just fine.
Plans upon plats, drawn
streets and lines, and we'll
soon break ground! But hey,
what's the rush? Let's people
it now. This place could use
us. 

my ugly side

My ugly side is surfacing,
in little ways from everything.
My patience martyred, tenderness
and gift turned tough and stringy.
Lift us up from underneath 
my sighs! I grow and loom 
in warp and weft a tapestry
of ugliness I can't abide
this anymore. Just this is left:
I'll simply have
to end the match. No score.
It was
no game, no play, 
no miss, no catch. All this 
was just a test
of ugliness. 

The mythic society

The mythic society exists 
in an unshared unconsciousness
where everyone lives 
fulfilling a role as if preordained, 

except it's the one
they'd have chosen themselves
by heart and brain. And if they decided
to be something else, their personal 
myth would swell and break chains. 
And everyone would accept 
the new role, as our narratives arc
to a lightning skein. 

dream edit

Dreams need no editors, boys
and girls. Not ultimately. The subconscious
is on the job, and it's a crude mistress or
master of sublimation. When you wake up, 

The seams really show, and you wonder 
how you swallowed it at the time. 

Well, the subconscious put something 
in your think. It's too late. You've been duped, 
but next time keep your wits about you 

and you won't be missing anything.

dream editor

I wonder if I can fix this.
It's too long, I wonder if 
I can go back in and all 
through and eviscerate
the flab. Remove the 
useless guts and leave 
the visceral pull, draw 
and flow untouched! 
Let concision's incision
be undetectable! Scar 
stitched neat and disappears
with a kiss, leaving us trim,
vigorous and succinct. The 
whole thing's half what it 
was! Damn. What I need 

is an editor, to bat her eyes 
and chase belfries of flitting 
ideas back where they came, 
to fester in other ways, perchance. 
Good for something eventually, 
but not this here now. She - now, 
don't tag me with the "women's
work" slur, pal. Many storied 
and legendary editors have 
been men, but for me I feel 
some yin yang model has to be 
operated on.

It's an artistic matter, call it integrity.
An instinct you can't bare in the light
without a wince, but it's real and there.
My male creative urge can't kow tow 
to a dude, to truss it all up cowed
and bowed, towed back to some
unused lot! Him crossing this
and that out, telling me where
to stick it, no. I can't respect a man
who thinks he can tell me that. It's
self-respect really. But a woman?
That's different, she's highly-trained.
I respect her gall, balls and nerve
getting up the gumption to tell me
what's-what, as a matter of impartial
eye and dispassionate interest
in a better whole that benefits
us both.

It'd be

a bit suspicious for a man to pose that way,
when we both know we should be clashing
in an oiled pose-down vying for the prize!
Who told you you were my editorial equal,
buddy? Let's settle it over a beer
and a game of pool! 

And then the piece ends up as-was. 

Waste of time, but a real sharp, smart 
professional type dame, she can waltz
into my shadowed office at any time, 

door's open - and give me a case 
of amendments and redactions. I take it 
evenly, sanguine and deadpan naive.
I'll crack out and offer around 
the harsh, ambersmooth hooch 
I stock, there's a pair of clean
glasses - she can tell me go to hell!
If she likes.

I'll be like, 
With you, toots? Hell, I hear hell's
lovely this time of year. But already 

I'm waking up, with a bad taste 
in my mouth I can't quite perceive
yet, but it's there. The dream 

was too long, but it's too late 
to go back and make it shorter 
now. You just have to see

what there is 
to do about the day.

Collage Poem Partly

Natalie Portman’s performances
brought to the surface some controversy
in relation to themes embedded in
the storyline.

They seem to have
been triumphant and rise
to an endless level of excellence
as time goes by.

She has only shown her bold
and decisive character throughout
the years, in many of her masterpieces
which all started from her debut.

From Léon The Professional to Straw
Wars Episodes I,II,III, to V for Vendetta,
she shaved her head for the sake of her character.
Since then, she remains a tribute to a very strong
actress everywhere, and her fans know
how far they can trust her to go.

Happy Birthday Natalie! Whenever 
your birthday comes, you can
deserve it

Such binds.

We're made arrayed in razor blades 
and dragonscales. So fireproof 
and bullet-proof, foolproof 
as well. We cannot fail

Again. 

They cannot hit us in this
shifting shell, with keen
offensive edge we take
to all the world for all
it gives. We've made
our pledge on each

Mistake.

And we have found 
such enemies, arrayed
as well as we for times
like these, who prove each
time we add a new one to the lists, 

It's justified. It's just so bad. 
It's just what we have got to do 
to just get by. To not be weak.
To never trust wrong ones again,
as we insist we'll never be the fool. 

We squint through narrow slits,
and try to see just who this is,
until we let the guard come down
once more. We find our words for this.
All lies. Then we're reminded why
we don't do that. This one so right,
proved wrong so sore! So wrong
we were to trust and hope.

We've just about lost count, 

but score by every scar in tender parts.
And every armor dent and rent
and cutting shard, and every bent
of razorblade has taught us more.  

Much more than we could ever take, 
if every hit were not the last. 

So wickedly, our hard and sharp array
is made in every pass. By every forward
-looking day, in lessons chasing from behind.
We'll be the worst we had to be. It's worth

the price we paid to seek and find.  

It's better than to go
forth naked, weak, naive
and blind. Eventually,
we'll let down guard once more,
and this time we shall snare 
the one thing we were looking for,
in all these cursed and wandering times 
of care. Or else, we'll add another notch.  

One more bad lesson to remind us
why we hide, and what we get 

By getting snared up in such binds.

hatred of tame.

The hated lawn, ornamental
shrubbery and other plants
so loathsome and pitiable
as to need human tending: how

can you live in such state?

Plant life is glorious, verdant
and fecund, impressively wild
in wastelands and desert places
I love to visit. Not these stunted
things. Disgusting, unless and except
the excuse is food - then, sure! Kept 
as a pet, good for something. Tomato

vines, cucumber vines, glorious
and secret roots and tubers - I can 
dig it, and have. We coax these things, 
cajole them and what we get out of it
is delicious and proud. 

Not these stunted things. Propped
fixed in place, subject to innumerable
mass decapitations and savage prunings,
lopped from top, front and sides
in unpredictably delayed
and procrastinated series  
by a furious maniac - the price

they endure for life.
For their questionable
privilege of domesticity.

It's the most debased and perverted 
affront to humanity and nature I can think of,
we that we should be their slaves, they 
that their mastery of us should include 
such abject mutilation and order 
imposed by caretakers. Me, I only
participate in my periodic maimings
and beheadings as an excuse 

to give full vent
to hatred of anything
so weak and useless
as to sit there 
and take it,

without even the excuse 
of giving something in return. 

Secretly, I pause for breath
glorying in the sweat
of my bodily exertions, 
and wink at the half-decapitated 
hedge, a grudging and tentative
affection in confidence. Some bond.
Perhaps, forged through ordeals. "You guys,"

I confide. "Are stronger than me. 
This doesn't even bother you, does it? 
It's probably refreshing, like a haircut 
all the way to the neck. It doesn't 

even bother you" 

does it

brother big & brother little

Myth and Fable went out walking. 
Little bro to big one said, "hey Myth!
What is the point of all your deedly deeds 
and saidly saids?" Myth chuckled, "You'll 
know when you're grown," ("...there aren't
such things as points," he thought) "There's 
only glory, tragedy, and all things are, 
which should not ought." So Fable thought
and thought and thought. "I bet I know 
enough right now, to put a moral 
to this tale. It's this: 'Things are just such 
as we
would probably not allow.'"

Thus Spake

And I stretched out my hand over the waters,
And a great wind cast its nets out over the waters
like so many boats, and over all the lands as well.
And all the beasts wailing in patterns, and all the birds
of the air, also in patterns, they were blown and driven
about by the wind, looking not for its ceasing
nor for its starting. The heart within each of them
was sore rent, and the cry was as of a lamentation.
It was windy as fuck out there, man. Each took up
unto each the burden of its body, and each spoke
according to its kind, in one uplifted voice,
and said: Lo, quack, moo tweet, arf and so on,
and the words they all said were one word: QUIT IT. 

So I knocked it off. 

Motivation

A man - a real man, mind you,
not one of these Hollywood mannequins
with the skin of his soul scraped raw 
from the inside, trying to find 
his motivation - generally 
doesn't ever try to find 
his motivation. Purpose, 
maybe. That can be a pisser 
for some. Whereas your 
Hollywood actor type 
knows his purpose! They 
hired him to play that part. 
It's all laid out for him, and if
the director's even a tad honest 
when asked, the reply would be
"Motivation? Fame money and 
sex! Not necessarily in that 
order, either. Spin it how 
you like - you've got to add
some individuality to it.
Believable." Yeah, that's 
why they hire you, pretty 
boy. 

Your morning light

Your morning light shines out 
so strong. It could break
every one of my days,
and we could fix them 
together, however we like.
It would take us some time 
to find all the ways. 

Bliss study.

It isn’t ignorance that’s bliss.
It’s innocence that is. 

Don’t let’s mistake.
Each of these can know full well
the glory best and vile worst
of all at stake.

But ignorance denies, won’t tell.
Willfully insists what’s not. Persists
in courses far off course, avoids,
ignoring every shot at flaw and crack
and telling fault it knows is true,
and lies in wait. Pretending none
of this is real, ignorance bulls through
the gate.

Innocence, though, takes it in. By naive,
nuanced swallowing, accepting truth
without a blot, and choosing not to wallow in
denial, but metabolize the good and bad,
becoming wise. Knowing fully what things are,
it simply aims to otherwise than worst. Around
and through bad knowns, it innocently steers
itself in aim and hone to home and dry. All worsts
known, all worsts gone by.

Of course, either may not know much. Sometimes
one’s lack of knowledge swells, and one is forced
to realize: one simply doesn’t know at all. We cannot tell
when these things hit, you know. It’s ignorance and innocence.

It’s where we take it from that point. There is the fork.
We either go and swallow it, and own and grow
in all that is? Our purity shall not be lost. Or we deny
and wallow in a willful ignorance, to our great cost.

Ignorance ain't bliss.

It’s innocence that is.

The difference is entirely
in how each one responds to what
is certainly bad truth.

The innocent position is: bad truth
is good to know. Because it is. 

The ignorant position is: I know I'm right
in how things are. Therefore, this proof
of how I know things aren’t
is wrong, mistaken. I can overcome it
by sheer strength of will, and 

escape harm.

Nice luck with that, hotshot. Bliss
is not the road you're on. 

symbiosis niche

I bring in spiders from outside.
Unasked, untold they hitch a ride. 
They know, I think they are our friends.
Inside, by you - they meet their end.

At least they did one good thing.

At least they did one good thing. 
It's proved in the depth and the breadth 
of this instrument they used to plumb 
and pry apart all the relevant lies 
and tries and fails in every human 
heart that knows

what this song's about. 

The rest of their career, hey
I make no claim 
but if anyone can look on this 
and be sure and secure,
and so unmoved, 

that is to each such heart's shame. 
It says more about them and their 
shameless and blame-free game 
than it does about truth or beauty
or good, or anything worth
our attention for gain 
in this or any 

Neighborhood. They did 
one good thing, 
at least. 

And so we might want to check 
out what else they've done, or 
sit with this a while, while 
we tame as much of this beast
as they've loosed. 

It's a longshot, but
by such procedures we might 
find peace. 

rhinoctopus

Rhinoctopus has horns for arms, 
and one more on its head for style. 
It snakes those hard horns everywhere 
- you wouldn't think they're versatile!
They're hardly supple, flexible - 
One wouldn't call them tentacles. 
Rhinoctopus don't give a shit. 
Them eight hard horns slip  
in like bulls, and rearrange 
your china shop. You'd think 
a stampede came through here! 
And then you spot rhinoctopus.
The picture suddenly comes clear.  

invincible pinata

She's filled with treats you never saw.
Candies she made up herself, she's
thought up names and wrappings for
- surprises, toys, who knows what else?
But she does not respond to whacks.
The whole world takes its blindfold swings,
Innumerable hits! Dead on! She shrugs
them off, those dreadful things. She isn't
here as party trick. She's trying just
to hang around. What's in her
is for her to give, not you 

to break.

Her bright papier-mâché begins 
to stay the same. She smiles,
perfectly unfaked. She frowns,
serene. As unaffected as a queen.
She takes no bows. "So what, should I
just bust right now? Shower yourself
with me, because you try and miss?
Or direct hit? Please keep on swinging,
question-boy and little implication miss.

I do not have rewards for this.
For I am not 

a toy." Besides,

She's pretty sure inside her
are confections packed with cyanide.
Only a few, but still. It's no one's
business. That's for her to show
or hide.   

Paper Trail Detective Agency

The paper trail is on the case!
It's going to solve this thing itself 
if anybody takes a look.

It all links up like spiderwebs
in sticky sells and buys and deals
through bank accounts, too many
cooks of books. Short order or 
gourmet, the paper trail spots recipes 
by wire transfer traceries of frauds
and steals and faked-death bankruptcies.

It's mostly digital these days.
The paper trail has sidekicks staunch
for all the blips to dot and cross
and index crooked searches launched.

They've just about got this case solved.
It all depends on hunches, now. Some 
stupid human has to look, and say

"Hm, hey 

that's all a bit too perfect. Wow."

badass sequel blues

I'm working on a screenplay called 
Psycho Bitches from Beyond Bonkers II:
Invasion of the Astro-Bastard Assholes, but 

I'm having trouble 
with inspiration. I don't want it to be just
like 
the last screenplay I wrote. Nobody
bought it. 

But anyway, the Psycho Bitches
(who call themselves that
in a reclaiming and up-powerment
of some shit some dickhead said
last time, in the origin backstory 
when they were little kids) are victorious
in their small town as usual, a little past
and outside Bonkers, Idaho 

Having a good time, maybe
complaining "boring"
but, life is good
when you're a Psycho Bitch 
from Beyond Bonkers. It's like
the group to be in. There are six
of them, always. 

When this time, these guys
come from outer space 
and it's fucking awful. It's like,
six guys (one for each Bitch)
(but not as dates, obviously) 

who came here on a package vacation deal
organized by a shady travel agency 
far elsewhere
that matches up affluent sentient
beings with a taste for the outre
and bold, maybe risque
with custom-algorithm-picked
backward planets whose lower life forms
have evolved compatibly to whatever
the sicko aspirational safari predators
or alien wannabe abductors are interested
in. All completely under-the-table, of course. 

There are laws about this up there, but
do those laws apply here? It's mostly
honor system anyway. No galactic cop
shows up to restore order! (Spoiler) 

So, you know, the Psycho Bitches from Beyond 
Bonkers tend to have to step in. To assert
and fulfill their own mandate, right about
where it usually fits. 

Never confuse a ballad with a lay

She knew her stuff. 
I strutted mine
in naive fingerings, 
rough-handed chords
to cradle nerves with gall,
and chop emotion everywhere
it needs to fall, each moment
picked and rang with perfect
feeling fixed, in broken words 
and admixed pure.

She seemed to like it. Quite a bit? Hey,

Want some more?

Oh sure, she beamed! Enjoying 
right and wrong and tart
and sweet along. After a few,
"Hey, play a slower one!"
She sang, she called.

A song.

I felt some cue.
I trained on her my worst
best perfect one. And beautifully,
I gave it due. She took it
thoughtfully. 

"That's good," she mused. 

But not for me.    

Just kidding. It was plain, sweet more
and less, and everything, and good
enough, and fine as finest be.
Or anyway, 
It went.

She had some things to say, 
well-chosen, well-observed
in time well-spent. A well-turned ear 
she had, an eye for detailed sweep, a mind 
to weigh what's excellent, while noting 
flaws and all to keep. She understood

a song, and so much else. 

I took her readily, and didn't mind her
asking more. She'd won my high regard
with grace, by handling that one huge gaffe!

Unmeant, I'd slipped - we'd talked 
of songs by genre, type, compare/contrast. So 

when she asked for "slower one," unthought,
and showing off, I asked:

"You want a ballad or a lay?"

And froze. My words played back in mind
with too much gain. But she just laughed! 
And shook her head.

"Your choice. But not too fast."

"Of course!" I said
in faint shock and relief,
to carry on
undead.

Since the weather changed

Since the weather changed,
the rain runs in from sides,
along ground and crawling 
in rivulets up outside walls,
streaming windows of buildings,
collecting in piles on rooftop 
and hilltop in sidepours
and squalls. 

And the hail
Rolls and skips
from one side. It seems
nothing to do with the wind,
just an onrushing rolling and skipping
tide, or stampede of cold fists
flung and chips hard shot
in one-sided melee, skipping up 
from each surface and curb, pitting
by ricochet, denting cars, breaking 
glass, but the worst 

of it all is the sun. Oh, the snow 
creeps us all the fuck out as it drifts 
in like time-delay rime-frosted slime mold 
of purest white. But the sun, oh 

the sun 

Just looks down on all this. 

Just as if 
it's right.   
    

Tactical bureaucracy move

Unlimited fucking funding 
for the Arts would be easy to do.
Reclassify the military! It's justified.
Just ask Sun Tzu.

break up mid-air

Nothing has been up it feels like for ages
I'm kind of in stasis
The orbit decays, as 
an offsetting uplift upholds from within, but 
I'm on more and more 
my own power and spin 

As momentum and swing 
- gravity, plus a miss - 
once provided, could arc 
on forever like this,
at least, 'til it dies. 
Has me slipping away 

from your lightening grasp, 
it's amazing I hold my own sway
so fast on this path as I wheel
and your axle diminishes
slow, by feel wearing off 
by degrees as rotations go wide, 

Almost none of the hold 
being yours, now. Alas.
Almost all of it's mine,
and a lonely ride. This force 
that had fixed us encircling time,
in peace and calm bliss. Like
something that science 
tried hard to resist,
has become a sign.  

I should have flown shotwise 
right out into space, but the uplift
within (which you gave, I've since
taken and made) soars to outpouring 
red in this gauge - what keeps me 
so spinning about you instead
of flown off from this beautiful
gravity cage?

- On a trip past the stars and the hearts 
and the moons, in shapes drawn like
clovers and diamonds and charms!
I don't know what keeps me.
It's not safe from harm.
It's almost not you, 

anymore.
And I sense with alarm
if this hold doesn't break of itself
and fly off, in the moment your gravity
well goes finally empty, flat and dry, 
and fails and lets go, sets me free,
lets me fly, lets me loose

I shall lose
all the uplift from old reasons why,
that grew
in ascending and plaintive strains
to keep me upon, held me up in
this old, grown use. And I'll plunge 

through the air like a cloud in flames
like a cloud made of stone. If you saw 
through the blur, you'd say it 
was a sheep! All alone 
without shepherd, or feather
to flock. Not holding together
- apart, it would break and burn up
mid-air, mid-drop,

to a glittering, somehow suspended 
still spark.  

appreciation's dregs

I can't appreciate you
enough anymore. It's
as if I've said it all, and
it isn't enough. I don't think
it's you. You don't stop 
giving best you have got,
and my tastes haven't changed,
just my well run off by the mouth 
you have drunk yourself
half full, yet my wad is shot.
You wince. What a gross metaphor
to let fly! You observe, but I didn't,
you see. The point is I have nothing
left but blanks. The "wad" in this sense
is a balled-up page, quite dry, not
anything jutting or vigorous. Though 
I sense by the way it strikes your eye
it might sting a bit. I am sorry for that.
Chagrined and abashed, yet I confess
somehow secretly glad and relieved! 
You've bled all the red there is
from my words, you've engaged
and guessed all, from blush peeping
in-between lines, to plain black and white.
Now all that remains is a milky sheen,
which a seer or sage of ancient age
might take for a sign, reading patterns
upon you for days where I have
come clean. So pure and well, spent
is the currency I have laid down this
time. It was all from my deepest 
or lowest base. I believe
the apology here
is mine. 

War March of Whose?

Get the war toys! We march on the morrow
and any other morrow that dares to dawn! 
Sure it's vile against all we hold and believe
- but that's just what they'll never expect
to see!

So it's on!

So let's roll - wait.

Get ready first. 
We have trinkets, bamboozles
and wuzzles to fluff! To help us all
do our very best worst. Flea-flunkers, 
cha-tookas, punt-cunchers and breems!
Chunk saucers and scuz grenades,
pee-shooters, who knows what else?
Such nasty machines! Flamethrowers,
bazookas, to say very little about
our coup de grace whup-di-wazoo,
from hell, it seems. 

We shan't need to bust that one out.

Not yet. 
Not this jaunt.
Save it for Christmas, upon which 
we'll Bah Who Dore Ays their biz
all we want! They will learn
the true meaning of Doomsday,
that day. And all days
thereafter, if we get our way.

Slow or faster.