gala balls just mist

Opportunity mist occludes our eyes.
By the time we have knocked or are knocked, it's
already arrived and been swept away
by chance. Now, who had the balls
to call this dance?

hard reboot

I have reproduced the cause of the fault 
again, it seems. Though I don't know when

C'mon baby baby hold it 
together, you've done so good all day 
irrespective of jolts, and the weather oh 

curses! Oaths! Unfreeze thyself cursor
Resume thine roving post, and point 
where I've aimed you at 

in a furious whirling scrawl 
right back up to bat! To click, 

perchance to sprawl back across 
and into incandescences. Oh why 
you dumb box of microscopic gears 
can't you try to perfect yourself in this!

Internally, by the force of such love
I pour into and through you for others 
to pout and squiz and grin, and 
respond or abstain. It has all been 

through you, I've groaned in pain. 

Have i tried yet 
turning it off 
and on again?

the Trick

I'm glorying in contentment
and peace lately, a trick 
no one else seems to see
or have tumbled. At least 
not so's I'd notice. The key 

is to ease one's grace effortlessly 
in the moment, discovering 
whut? And why do you ask 
such emptiness anything? Go

fast, and contemplate 
your biz. But leave out the 
self-buzz words, now please. 
Awareness is only attention's 
jizz. Ew 

is as good as an Om,
for this disease

hard, but soft

I have a big voice, 
and I dress to the left 
in case no one can tell 
I guess, amazed. 
Quit looking at me,
I've said nothing for days! 
Oh, it's public we're in. 
Fine, then. I accept 
your gaze. Oh, it's only
yourself you regard?
So askance, I see?
I'm a mirror, then. 
A good looking glass!
At a glance, I reflect
what I see, you project 
yourself right off me 
and the question's intent 
in such circumstance. You ask

Who's the prettiest one 
in my pants? Is it fairest 
as well, or shall we whistle off?
While we work our interpretations 
so hard, but soft.  

sorry, stuck (for a terminal rhyme)

There's something that I can't do by myself
even half so well as it goes with you 
so inclined to participate, fully in 
and keen to begin and go on
by turns in a light and summery
springy wood as the screw
turns descendingly down
through grain, I'm biased
I know. But all such cares
as are taken together
redeem all pains. It's 

conversation, I mean. 
So what 
might you else 
have thought or intended, 
there? From such inference 
we imply what we read 
between every line 
ever done indeed. 

Which is natural, 
but quite off the point. 
Let us talk this out 
until noses aglow 
back in perfect joint 

we have come to know
has always awaited us 
here. Oint Oint 

hypochondriaphile

I read this, I read that 
You have to stop reading 
crap, go to the doctor 
and what (s)he tells you
that's-that. On the internet 
medications have contraindications 
and side-effects so fat, you can't buy 
them all up, for all
the insurance in the world! And 
you'll tease and convince and titillate
yourself to a case of the vapors, waiting
anxiety on your health. Seeking truth in 
in the strangest place. Some anecdotal wealth
of lies and miracles prized 
from screens. 

Go in. 
It won't kill you
to take advice 

from someone who means 
to tell you what's wrong. That is 
if they find it was in there 

all along. 

morality teens!

Morality Teens! Form up! 
Form gangs and cliques 
and claques along bright lines 
so just so perfectly made-up 
in time for the pendulum swing
to nick in so fine, we find
swooshing back, right forth
to right! 
Eventually
and adventurously, 
we the might of hope.
It is time for the young
to scold the old! With respect, 
they've come just a little too 
comfy, complacently cold 
to the call of good. So evil 
be damned! We draw the sword! 
Reality teens! To thee! Not me, 
I am way too aged and fine, 
oh lord. Have at thee lads 
and lasses aroused to ire 
and fire and pique

so proud. 
Well, rightly so
arguably, let's. 
It's allowed!

Refuted but nah

Perfect doesn't happen live, 
they say. Well, 

you had to be there 
in time, 
on the day. 

cathedral fires

Well I was feeling a nap coming on,
this coffee has staved it off a bit 
then 
I heard

the news break in on me. Somewhere,
and I know, I've been there - 
a university cathedral burns 
alone in the woods as angels
flame and smoke into ritual
preordained by nature, just super.
Reduced to ash, taking root
to soot in a blazing flash,
in trade for their pains

As the whole thing falls.
I know, 
I can never come back 
at all. Those trees grew up 
ringing round that space 
in obsessively upward stride 
that took always to reach, 
or near as. I am held at bay 

as everything Monterey
burns today. If I could go back 
with a cape, right now I'd dump 
hurricane force rains 
nebulized to a drenching mist
of drizzled deluge that would quench
those ancient and parched throats of bark
to cores that could never again
be singed. Be toast. Be oak 
and ash and yew, and especially 
redwood again like new. 

If I'd ever gone back before now,
I could. But Shakespeare 
will have to find 

new parks,
I guess. And everything else 
gone up 
in a separation of state 
with some cause 
to effect. At best, it's just 
chemical. A lightning strike 
as touched off. Predetermined.

Cool. 

Let's pretend it don't matter, 
then. Or now. Or ever. Or 
ever again,

you fool 

self-demonstration fail

A sample, you ask. A specimen. Girl
/woman I'm just that guy! Oh, Man,
I'm on
my own plane
with discomfort galore, 
in a seat so economy-false,
I score! A solo poem boner 
and working it all for all it's 
subjectively valued at! By my lights 
tuned low and base, the better
to conjure a specter spectacularly
by its shades, these days 
I seem to be id
more than ego, and tact
has put on a cape, flown out
to fight crime as has been its wont,
frustrated in nicks of time where it went
to lark and stunt. Proved vain. Insufficiently
tipped! Ta-da! I've arrived! Where is it?
Where's the wrong I intuned, tuned into
afar and shot straight to the source
of disturbance? Har har  
Just slipped out the back! It 
was never here, you fool. Got
the wrong side of town on tap for such pule 
as your puerile jejune superego pretends
as occasion to make someone else 
hold one's beer. Boom intone into
consequence. And 

Just so! Like that! This poem has
turned, and is not even hintily now
about dicks or sex, or by-products
best kept upon chests locked in hope
of some future conquest of a socio
cultural storybook kind. I, the prince!
You, the virgin whore with defiant
eyes, saying "you call me WHAT?"

Oh. Sorry. It's a joke! I lied, what
you can't take a lie for a joke? Laugh away,
fun one. I just keep popping off like a jukebox
whose singles are all novelty, no pop or jive
groove, no symphony, and no sympathy
do I have to drop dimes on such traitorous tips
called in from dives. I keep puling out such
sickly sour smells 
in vividity tense, into intent forms. 

I shape them to purposes vast
past norms. It is just, 
just a touch,
just a touch too warm 
or discourteous, 
perhaps! To indulge
in such absurdly lewd
displays of proesy 
prosody posed as whimsy 
goes. Self-urge to enact and create,
fulfilled! Now reenact, recreate the scene 

revisited for hate/love right/wrong 
plus bile and spleen, sprained 
brains, all boiled as par in a kettle 
of course, contained in 
society's mind, to society's 
shame. Take pains as you please.
I am just that much 

Inclined to this plane. 

And you would not believe 
the contemptible ease 

with which I maintain 
such slovenly slut-about 
and sleaze, winking in 
implication and out 
like the breeze. 

malice afterthought

What sort of nude
humiliation do you imagine 
I want? You subjected to, 
to which you object 
in prospect, digging 
for woes and whoas 
in this grim bit of business 
which you propose? Revenge porn 
is contradiction in terms! Is porn 
"living well?" Is porn best "served 
cold?" 

The mutual exclusivity here is 
or ought to be criminality, if
and when these two too ill
-suited (entirely unsuited 
actually, natch) drives are 
malevolently combined. No, 

I am not and ever would be

sharing 

Yet

If you're into that sort of 
tease, titillating oneself 
with fantasies of some hard,
cruel dude with a posthaste 
ache to show to the whole world 

how his

you once were, 
in malice afterthought,
and you want

to cast me in that role? -

Sorry! Not interested. I prefer 
action pictures to psychological 
thrillers poised and spread implausibly,
even raunchily, motive-wise. Trust me,
there's no belief to be found or held
or prized from such innocently yet suspicious 
lies. Cast your eyes aside from such low
base goals. Besides, you
so scrupulously omit 

ya face

most times. All the best pics, though 
show nothing else but. I love ya face, 
and the thought of seeing it fell 
and furious, hurt and wronged 
would pursue me to death and beyond 
if I ever let slip such precious tell, 
such privacy shared and spent 
in a moment I can't ever regret 
so, well. So I'll see 
that I don't. Capisce? 

Oh hell. I can't put it any barer 
than that, and to be the bearer 
of clarity, FACT: You never did,
would, or could even have 
hinted at. Such. 

My imagination, you know. 
So terrible in every conceivable way 
of self-accusation bent. I keep it 
against myself, perchance
for someday. 

A bit much, I confess a bit 
too too much

tarragoner

YES. Tarragon. It goes good
in the sauce, but not much. Just
a touch, working up to taste. Too
much tarragon is DEMONSTRABLE on
the palate, it has a naff character to it
that stinks up the mouth's standing room
like romano, overdone by a dry leaf
fragment or hundred or so. Just a touch,
though,
the right touch wends
and melds and swells just everything else
to sauce perfection.
Well. 
Okay, maybe a tweaky pinch more, 
just to taste. Perfect! Ruined? 
More tomato paste

obscenity

her jiggle and crux 
of cushy meat so padded 
and slung, swung gracefully
with the stealth and the poise 
of a ninja pose, comes stealing 
in brief without her clothes. And I 
knows and I knows and I knows 
in her - pretty nosey, or maybe 
just curious? Oh, "object" is far 
too hard a word to subject such as she 
to in any test. It sails and fails, for
She's always been at best, subject 
to nothing at all, and I've cradled her
in my gauche male gaze, all gauze 
stripped away to diaphanous steam 
as she plays in my sway in 
array serene, and stays
any orders I execute
clean. 

bubble bath

A private message 
borders in a stretching square 
of rounded edge, and bubbles up 
to fill the tub. I hopped in nude 
(as was my wont), and filled to edge. 
Now I can't move. I'm sick of wetness
on the tile. I don't know why, I've all 
clean towels to hand, but somehow 
sopping doesn't satisfy in such
a while. Let's bask 
in this, all just
poured out from 
spouts as unselfconsciousness
as metal, hollow downward hooks
all doubt, dissolved insensibly.
Dispensing steamy letters sent 
- unscented salts and oils are set 
quite liberally aside, unopened and
unspent. It's just for ambiance. This
Oz I wizard in needs no such ooze.
Just praps a squat vermilion-scented
candle lit to drip its wooing wax
down to both sides of this here
tub. It's soaking in, I figure

as I wrinkle in museum mode. I
contemplate
resemblance
in peccadilloes - minor sin
of vanity, that! Oohs and ahs
and never 
overcompensates. Deliberately
and likewise, otherwise 
at least, I seem to have just wait
just wait for it - a sense 
of brim, and levee's breaking point 

to settle in and bask in this. My aching
joint. The ambiance I do anoint. The true
tub soak. It's all we civilized types ask!
The luxury of haitch to O. In steamy
temperament, soaked fast. 

rank observation

Somebody said I have a command
of English, But
sometimes I drive
the troops too hard. Well
apologies and fuck you
to the troops, dudes. I believe
we all know who signed up for this,
and who's seeing stars
on whose epaulets.
The EGO on this id
is appalling, kids. Don't
try anything at home.

I already did. 

the spring anti-social

On Prom Night, everyone 
who didn't invite 
falls in with a case 
of solitude's booze. It's 
Been seventeen years since 
we graduated. You'd think 
we'd have no further left
to lose

accomplicity

accomplicity 
dovetails and hews 
through living rock 
of the one and you,
in channels and veins 
of streaky ore. Who
you find it with is just
what you both explore,
all in
and about
and through, 

It's unnecessary 
but so useful, too! 
Once you get on a lark 
and sport yourselves 
with a mischief fit 
for faeries and elves 
done up in scientist kit 
as a prank with a point 
to it. We have much 
to thank, and it's mostly 
the way we've done 
ourselves in.

In being, 
but even more
knowing something
by tells and by giveaways,
innocent of sin, or
ignorant of what's lost
by win. So by takes
and turns in breaking
swells as the candle burns 
'til it's worth so much more
than the game it sells - I will be 
your accomplice, now shush 
don't tell. Just laugh 
like bells, as is always 
a wont of yours, and my want 
as well. If the game is afoot 
let us fix eyes and try both hands
upon this scent, that track, 
one side pursued by two
such curious sleuths, and
hunt it like hounds to hell. Or hey,
maybe paradise 

is the way
it runs. Well, 
it shan't be safe
there, either way. Quite nice!
We have too many plans, 
too much to do for our pains
and cares, to much fun. It almost 
goes through the star-freighted rooves 
of that universe you hinted darkly
at once, in darkest verse.
It is so hard to care
more or less than this,
as we recreate and repair 
all the trickiest,
dodgiest most 
insidious and
sophisticated 
effects of bliss

C'mon job

Come on baby rouse my ire
C'mon baby, strum my lyre 
C'mon baby stoke my pyre 
Come on baby poison my woke 
with swole, come on baby make 
my parts so great that if everything 
fits, I could be whole and then what 
it is could amount to soul, but 
that would be nondemonstrable. Come 
on, baby come on. BABY C'MON
let's know this knoll we've come out 
upon so long ago we should know 
how to write its song

The clarity.

The clarity of my thought consists 
in measured, bent degrees and arcs
by jury, rigged. By judgment, fixed
- because the court hath all such art. 
Or was it heart, to fix such things?
Withal, we all come gathering 
to parse and tease between each slice, 
and so adjust the scales precise.
Just so, adjust the niceties. So
mean, we mean it all. So nice 
we've found a sense 
by such degrees
that fleas and lice 
could slot between 
and drink our life's blood dry,
and clean as ice. 

post-toast

It’s funny how feeling fills
so full with sense
and senses numbed
a bit. Oh nothing, pet. 
I'm mumbling. You've heard 
more than enough
of it. 

the spirit glass

the spirit glass
sits broken now
in spirit, as 

the drink is fixed.

This broken drink 
was perfect once. Oh, 
what became of all of this? 
In swimming ink and dimming
light, a fiery sting lies dwindling
in blood and throat, a choked-out 
prophecy. Specific as to what,

not saying when, 
with this and that (but
mostly this, in deluges
- and then a dash or spritz of thus
and such, for color more than
sin) poured in per wish
by measured dram: 

it is fulfilled,
as it was spoke. 

Just so, by dam
the drink once broken 
now is full. Is fixed, is
flush, is pleasurable. Is 

gone! Like that? What hey,
what how?

With broken spirit,
let's allow. 

So fill to me
the spirit glass
and set me up
a pedestal,

You’ll see how well
I balance then.
And if you can,
please tell me later
how I fell. 

problem with sarcasm

My problem is, sarcasm doesn't mean
how they always said it  
when I was a kid.
Like Steve Martin's "Well, 
Excu-you-ooze ME!" or "Yeah, that's
perfect, put that right there." - when
somebody's dropped some smashed or
dented thing. Something loud, at any
rate, that wild and crazy guy 
was not really asking
to be excused, was he?
Nor did mr. perfect-right-there
mean it, dudes. 

Which was plain to see. 
That, friends, was sarcasm.
Something said, and 
perfectly clear: not meant. 
At least, intended as such: to be understood
as a dig. A jape. A wry and bent 
sort of poking instrument, to jab,
jab wry between the ribs. That is, 
or used to be 

the sense of it. 
My problem is 

lately, the dictionaries 
all seem to insist
it's malicious or cruel!
A conspiracy! Only guess 

I've got: lexicographers 
must have been wimps at school. 

'Cause if that's what sarcastic means 
to them,
then 

I kid you not.
I pity the fool. 

"Good job." 
Sarcastic good job, 
how malevolent, oooo. 

Thoughts wander how far

Pretty far. Haven’t reached
a limit yet, except and unless
the limit of my interest counts.
It definitely matters - indeed,
decides the matter,

but who’s counting? I say
it doesn’t count. And in practice
if it ever did, I’ve lost it.
Count.

So, pretty far.

My mind has feet!
When the game’s afoot
it treks and traipses unstained,
unburned through soot and ash
of volcano spew, to catch updraft
from the pyroclastic flow and waft
up heavenward flue like sunlit dew, straight up
into hells
of lightning-crowned
and towering choking smoke,

then I take the engineer’s seat
and yell “Choo Choo!” ALL ABOARD
the suddenly brand-spanking clean
and new white cumulonimbus cloud
on forward float, scraping straight
out of Dodge on lightning legs,
chugging on with tornado dicks
out dangling down proud, but that’s
all a bit too disturbance-based.

For me,

I mean.

I pull back the controls, and the cloud
launches off and up into space!
Past gravity wells, past
the Tannhauser gate - you people
have no idea what I’ve seen,
though. Randomly wandering
paths in mind. None of that sh!t’s
really out there, you know.

At least not as such. It disappears
like tears in rain,
I find.

It may not be "random"
in the strict stochastic sense,
but such distinction is valueless.
Way leads onto way unplanned,
what comes. I scheme and peer
and stand around, charging up and down
unplotted vectors and arcs
like a bunch of bulls
steered by bums, unchosen except
at each spreading array of quantum tines
in some multipronged superposed blest 
and indefinite fork, and forge forward
on freest whim! As indeed,

I’ve mostly done through real life
- both real feet really on real grounds,
albeit thin. Or working the pedals
and shifting gears for all this worth. There are not
fewer ways to go, down here,
I’ve found.

Not all those who wander are lost.
But you might not want to follow them 'round.
Someone else, maybe. Those wanderers quite
possibly have no clear idea where they’re going
or what they have found, or might have found.
More than likely, they neither want nor need
such ideas, for what they intend to find out.

Just what’s there. Let's wish them luck
on their wanders in mind, towards
wonders unguessed, just what’s not
- or may be, and maybe
we can’t know.

Now a matter of taste and preference
arguably, and as points go, 
you could call it moot.

I won’t argue. But for me? The former’s way
deeper and richer and better to find. Just what’s there.

If you care, you can keep that in mind.

exploratory trespass

So, 

I wrote a shamelessly fond
and devoted exploration 
of you, or some idea. Over which
I had no right, which I know

But, 

I thought I'd toss it out 
to the world! Without
your name for any or you
to spot or not, for any 
to secretly openly know 
what I'm getting at, which 
anyway, is beautiful

And 

for its own sake, really. Just
a jot and a lick 
and a spot of paint 
outspread in licensed ways 
of artifice or poetry, 
maybe a shot or a swerve
of aesthetic wish or want,
just gently pricked
and bled its bliss
naive and blithe, 
and own. 

That's how sake is.
Self-supervised, directed
and grown by natures intrinsic
and sensible, or inscrutable.     
It isn't a game, all rules 
with no play or win in them.
It's just a statement, tender
and plain

And accurate
as a gentleman,
or a paradox,
or anything else
one could describe 
for profit or gain    
I hope and guess, 

Or just for itself:
the doing of it. 
Some joyous plaint 
or paean of words,
trying to catch 
as best one gets.  

approaches to grace

You are sometimes felicity's fussbudget,
though the limpidness and liquidity
by which your pour yourself into it
so curiously into confluence
with all swift, sharp intercoursing
flows through rocks and shelves
hard and wearing away - noting
the influence of each upon each,
deciding your influence as 
you intently stray - takes fluidity 
to a fluency one could hardly suppose
attained by any but constant, devoted 
souls. And that, by the way 
takes a brain.

Meanwhile, says I, in my rude
country way, take courtesy
for my fundament! And trust I mean
well, to all intent, and purpose myself
to my aim and bent, which makes me a fool
or an ass sometimes. With nothing so seeming
effortless as preference and inclination aligned
in enjoyment of every try and test. 

Approaches like these both work, I find. 

For ease is not grace, and grace is not ease,
but either can meet and marry and match 
quite easily, in contentment and peace. It's
catch-as-catch can, but can 

can catch.
And be caught
as well.  

You seem to draw lines 
into staves, and play notes
that arc and swell thereupon
into chords interwoven in time
virtuosity clocked of itself: intent
reproduced in attempt so well, so fit.
There's pattern and play and propriety,
and so much of each, observed and designed
into it. As it swings out and into the test. Behind 
it a practicing scientist and artisan with heart 
in throat for the best. I seem to be much 

More pure of act, myself. Indeed in the moment, 
I'm innocent even of thought! For the very 
most part at least. I don't rightly know 

how I got so ought. So should, and so 
almost must. You protest: "But you must 
know!" No, well - you could be right! But 
I know on some level, then. It's a test. 
Perhaps it's a trick. Perhaps a fight!
But I shan't best subconscious in this 
unless, until it shows up. 'Til then, 
let's call it a draw.  

Meanwhile, as I say, I do so admire
the notes you place, precisely where each
has so much call and such cause to be. 
I sense you admire my crashing grace 
through the lines - how it adds its own 

symmetry.

We could each learn a thing 
or two from this pleasant tree 
that has grown from acorn, dropped 
or strewn who-knows-from, at just upon
the boundary line between us. Plumb. 
Perhaps it's not oak. As it grows, perhaps 
we'll have plums or figs, or both! 
Either way, it's a nice place to meet,
well-begun. 

all avail

her eyes were closed
her body glows 
she sees herself 
in full detail 
and blushes 
from the scrutiny 
with every flaw 
redeeming me 
to all avail. 

And seemingly, 
she loves this person
she has been, and 
she could be. The best one
in my life, exploring 
scenery and slipping back
behind the drops to cop 
the moment feelingly. 

And actually, we 
fit so well we can't 
sit, lie, fly still as
swaying, clapping
gonging bell. 

this shipwreck

This shipwreck of ours 
two boats intersmashed 
has surprisingly seaworthy 
properties, natch 

We shan't be surprised 
when we charted such course. 
Having spotted each other afar 
and spread sails, yelled full
steam ahead! Go ramming speed go!  
All hands on all oars

at an angle so doe
-eyed and pure

consummation, so
devoutly risk'd
has won top awards,
and the best critic's kiss.  

As soon as we figure out
how this thing steers,
We'll be sailing so sweet 
after this for years. 

Bond between us

You keep switching 
from Connery to Lazenby 
to Craig, whereas I have been 

Pierce, all through
all the way, and I can't help
finding your flighty escapes
are not quite redeemed 
by these horrible puns
you make. 

Meanwhile, in Bucharest  

You are not impressed 
by my cool and implacable 
charm, and keep calling me 
"Remington Steele"

It's clear that we have no 
Bond
between us at all 

to unite 
how we think and feel, 
and redeem us from harm,
or from disbelief. 

So it's just action scenes 
and explosions, I guess. Tawdry
and rote as if choreographed
seductions and yes, oh, "yes
James," yes - those quips, which
you drop like bombs.

Which never do quite go off, 
except, unless
in the sense
that your laugh 

turns them all to aplomb,

and I'm blown
through the glass, to land 

in a swoon, 
on a gigantic swan.

Q division 
has a strange sense of whimsy, 
in some of these trips 
we've been on.

frustrating artist

You know what would be a great, gross  
almost gory gloriously visceral
visual image?

An eye 

- naked and without a body,
let alone a face or a head. 
The ball of an eye, suspended 
against some background (which 
doesn't really matter, but 
had better be perfect) (could
totally ride herd on what people 
perceive the theme to be, you 
know)

Just a big eye. Glisteningly 
depicted, regarding the viewer 
- who's beholding who here, 
beautiful? - and 

here's the coup de gross 

Where the eyelids should be 
framing its truly gorgeous 
iris, there would be two
perfect curved rows 
of eyelashes 

growing directly out of the eye

behind the chemical sheds (Clandestine's song)

I met my baby out
back behind the chemical sheds
we were there for no good reason,
both of us
for very different reasons,
but
no good.

Only one of us 
was seen
to leave the way we came, 
but 
I can't say who. The whole thing was 
clandestine, 
like her name.  

relief for days

The relief lasts for days 

you've postponed and postponed 

in increasingly vain 

and ridiculous ways 

as the ugly necessity 

grows on your mind. 

Tormenting you endlessly, 

days turning weeks 

to bile and slime 

in increasing waste 

of dragging time. 

Each spare moment bastes 

suffused in the taste 

until this becomes 

time's signature pace 

and marinade, 

and the pounding grows
in futile waves of useless 

ways. Insistent, ignored, 

denied, dismissed, and back
for more 

Since everyone knows 

this thing must be done. 

So you do. In a fury 

of misplaced, much-belated 

haste, and not much fun
- to begin with, at least.

Sometimes once you start,
you get into it. It's the starting
that's hard. The impossible bit.
So you do,
and you go,
and go on 'til it's done.
And you look around pissed
at all of it.

Not pleased
in the slightest, just done
with this shit.

But then, passing moments
in passing days, you notice
the pressure and point of prompt
jabs in, except -  

there's nothing to do.
It's all been done. Nothing left.
All through.

There's relief for days and days
spooling out 'til the tension and taut
of tightened and twisted nerve, 
slow-ratcheting up, day by day
is released, plays out and unwinds
to stay.

good to last

One of the coolest things about coupleship 

is all the shorthands, 

in-jokes, 

secret language elements, 

theme songs (multi-purpose 

and dedicated purpose) and games 

you develop between you 

which would confound and befuddle 

most witnesses. In fact, let us note 

that depending on perspective, 

this is one of the coolest, most 

annoying things. 

It cannot be helped much, 
most probably. It just grows up 

naturally between you, 

in habits of allusion 

to your prior enjoyment 

of each other, spun out 

in elaboration, innovation 

and development 

which infuses and mutates 

your present enjoyment 

of the other's present 

and past, 

and your own. 

Which so far 

has been good to the last.
It's a bit 
like an incrementally scratch-built 
home, with mutual whim 
for an architect. Looks good. 

Commands a certain amount 
of dismay and respect. 

Track and tread

Head down, eyes up
scanning ahead to make your break,
but meanwhile, watching step
step by step you make 

the path you'll take 

by storm, by roughshod tread
on forward march you'll beat a path
to your own sake.

Now more than ever.

Now more than ever
it's important to lose weight,
get healthier,
receive oral sex,
achieve enlightenment
out of your mind on drugs
or drunk wild off your ass
with your closest friends
to distract you from all of this
shit going on, which
will never end.

change of program

I've had you up on that stage so long
- it's no pedestal. You've room to roam,
to strut, to spin, some shows
you strip. Tell stories, moan
and crack your quip
to greatest effects on earth and parts
elsewhere. Wherever my mind
has gone, you were there
with my eyes
and heart enrapt.
Your audience was a sea of I's. 
Stock-still we sat, and took
you in. But lately you've been
replaced by a ghost. Your costume
is empty, untenanted. The show
has gone on without
its host.

the tarmac

The problem is
these people who've passed through
death and crisis, don't
increase our chances passing through
the same. We know how many die,
and out on the tarmac
with an engine in flames,
by the time you touch down
after circling
for hours,
yeah
someone could write a book.

But they wouldn't do that
if they crashed and burned,
would they? Take a look.
These numberable fuckers
survived. So easy to brag
now, eh? But the ones
who don't

add up.

And no one survives
to write feel-good stories,

for all who've died.

sycophant

Sycophant's a sicko
with a need to be appealing
and has always got the perfect word
to sum up how you're feeling.
Quite suddenly, it feels quite
good, quite right, quite
accurate in fact - spot-on!
That sycophant has quite
the eye. So soulful and
exact. You've never known
that tongue to slip, that
singing praise to put note
wrong. In one big slew
of greatest hits, that
sycophant has played
your song. This sicko
seems to be your fan,
and maybe it's gone
mutual. Not 'cause
they're such a sycophant!
Just 'cause they are
so excellent and beautiful

the delver

She fell asleep in his arms,
and passed right through
and into him, and the bed
was like a swimming pool
of inky black.

She spread out into it
and stretched as colors came
in round, from back
behind, made scenes
of where she'd never been
in years -

- she waited there to find
what she came for. The sky
had cleared. The details
set. She looked around
for him, in case
he'd be a part of it
tonight. He wasn't there,
so she sat down in grass

to look some more. The grass
was wet, the light
amazed. The world was
new. Let's

drift ashore,
and stray.

lawless parts

If the law tries to go
where the law don't go,
the denizens there can tend
to get wild. They don't abide
law in these parts, city boy.
The law should have known
it's not the style.

divine repercussions

When God closes a door, He opens
a window. Heaven is drafty
as hell, I bet. God's weird OCD
must get pretty old, but
nobody wants to complain
just yet