Best luck always

You cannot torture me, any more
than you can do a thing for me
which is not for you. It is

against my will, therefore 
quite impossible that it be "for"
me. 

And only I
can torture me.
This is no brag,
but simple faith
in reality, and that
experience is real,
and consequence
has definite lessons
applicable going forward, which

we could learn, if we aim to. No one
in my life could ever torture me, so it’d
be a rum (or gin) deal indeed if someone
could do it now! Especially from
or at some distance. I’d need
to upgrade something then, or

upbraid myself

jack move

Some son of a bitch is 
going to pay, he slammed 
his hand on the table 
to say. Now where's 
the check! And don't 
get smart! When treating 
another, it takes

some art 

her smile snakes

Her smile snakes, sometimes 
like she caught a dove 
in her mouth, and 
she's too slightly proud 
and sly 
to cough it up
yet

Coffee: GOOD for the liver!

Coffee is cheers 
to the liver, they say 
and I say hoist it up, 
don't get carried away 
by a bad, ass-read 
on a book by some 
Twain
who could 
Poe with the best, 
but if only 
in vain. 

True story #2: Fae design

One time I was in Solvang,
CA...ah, fnck it. Those faeries
were posed all arched-backs and
nude assessment right out in the window
for women and all to GAWK. I was like, 

"What kind of Danish camera shop is THIS
place supposed to be?" S went in with me
and she about puked. AXES all over the wall:
a glorified hit of antique violence, desensitizing
both of us so much we about puked off, backed
out and enjoyed the hell

out of that little Danish cutup and paste
town. I recommend it!

True story #1

I saw a green balloon
no idea where from
come drifting in and
down, losing altitude
'til it bounced once
NO
POPPED at the very
first try to bounce, at
the bottom of the common
depression.

That's the flood drainage
basin, for those of you. We
call it the "common depression"
because where I live, strange
place, everyone has one out
back just in case it floods.

So this balloon came in, bounced
half a time, zero times and it was
VANISHED, gone. It was

the most beautiful thing I've
ever seen in my life next to
that garbage bag in the movie
with the under*** t*** in it
(tastefully or not, more or less
obscured by gallons of rose
petals) that Kevin Spacey w***ed
to (basically) at the dinner table
in front of his own wife and half
his kids, as the story goes.

I think this is part of why people
hate Spacey. See, that wouldn't do
it for me. Man's an actor, and

did you see the one where he sings?
All Hollywood did, plus his repertoire
of on-point impressionism, so the story
goes. He was well-liked, and white,
and his sins shone all the darker and
more vile upon the backdrop he'd painted
to call life. But if you ask me, Keyser
Soze was ten times worse

Conservative estimate
So I see what the big deal was. Pick up
a coffee cup and chuck it at a fake
detective next time, Soze. Maybe

that'll be enough to bring you in
before you lose your consultant
job on Badge of Honour

Story Time on Poesy #1: Dirigible Homegirl

A girl got
in a balloon to go
on a trip around the world. It
became her home, which was okay
up there. Down below, the people
looked up much like ants, engaged
in their busiest possible
lives
underground
and
all over the leaves, vines,
detritus, swamp, miasma...it
was obvious to her (THE GIRL)
(SHEESH) from way up in her semi
-rigid cell airship-cum-home that if
left to their own devices,

the insects could glom-jam up
an A.I. that could overthrow and destroy us both. 

So she leaned her sweet patoot far, far
out over the side and took a big D*** at the biggest,
highest,
unwobbliest anthill she could HIT!
BULL'S
-EYE! 

This was
basically how
everybody began
developing their own language. TRUE,
A STORY, but there's less lie and more lay
in most myths than people used to be
prepared to lay down around a fire, in
the old days. Which, to bring us back full
circle on a loop-di, was basically why
everybody began developing their own 

language. 

certain Emma

I feel certain Emma 
should have married the
lot of them.

Give her a lesson in manners!
All bad. Imagine! Frank Churchill
stalking the gothic halls of the abbey,
fingering old petticoats as that bat Bates
rolled on, unstoppably while peeved
as an old warhorse, Mr. Woodhouse 
doled out gruel and Mr. Knightley drove 
sixteen miles both ways to London 
to give it a haircut in the 
worst style

ever.

As to timing! Meanwhile, Emma
would have judged it best, finding
herself obliged (on the pianoforte, as
usual), as only proper for a member
of her high standing, popping and
whelping out brats by the ninemonth
and twelvemonth, lines forming
to either side, claiming
these prodigies
as "prodigious productions,"
fecund and fickle as all heck, as nieces
and nephews depending upon relation. She!
The blushing and proper object! The
abject godmother and aunt to all, so to speak
by general agreement among only
the best sort of people,
to look 

away?  
Rely on it!
Trust nothing else! Mr. 
Elton himself could not 
concoct a worse sermon 
with a theme of drunken, 
tawdry apocalypse if he'd 
married the cow's maid 
and milked her slippers 
off for an act of charity! Why, 
the dancing, to-doings and 
goings-on put Bath itself 
to healthy shame, aglow
with a demure, vulgar
vitality almost winsomely
fetching, stepping down,
turned and left the continent
(which by then had grown too 
hot to hold them all) (at all) behind,
quite stooped and conquered by oh, 

womanly judgment
, call it. 

I make no wild erotic surmise here, 
by observing that she among all God's
creatures had pretty surely backed and 
painted herself into a pretty pickle, and
that probably the only way out was
honour, daring, darling couth, the merest 
kiss of mischief and a clout on the skull
(not hers) by some kind, stout oaken
cudgel for even raising the specter
of such conduct. Probably. No, 

possibly, surely

Gojira's got style enough

All I'm doing is bobbing 
for bread crumbs, lately 
and I'm sick of facing 
down the fish business end 
of what I can't ever catch 
or quite comprehend without 
a canon salute from the bridge,
airborne! And a flock of seabirds

calling foul as I'm born 
all over the skies that you
herd. Such a scene! Both hands
to the face, not allowed! Unclean!

Some ump, huh? Lads, 
when my ship came in,
it was armadas of punks 
to the shores on gin, like
forest-gust leaves with big
cannonball planks from the 
deck and a long, skip trace 
off a wreck from a very short
sleeve, tucked up off the hip, cocked 
red skies to dawn. So you gots
to believe
That your luck's
gone wrong, and give props
and thanks when that beast
rose down to kick buildings like tires
test-driving the town
so hard, so tall, about Tokyo sighs
but 
You go,
oh, ee, oh,
which wicked witch lies
on this towering set? Why not
call in a peer? OK! No review,
no, no big surprise. No, I won't
demand, dear.

No recount for me! Put it all on
the books, straight math to the seer 
in both identical columns, you look
as the formula took. All clear.

As the fake wave rose up, came in
and down, surfing through the whole
crowd by the noise, just to color all
ports foamy white and rain
radioactive loud, too sane
with its toothsome grin
so proud, swinging scaly-ass
tail as the wrecks rode through
on a bird-brained whim. Now. 

How about you? 
Yes, fail. Fail up!
And next time 
set a network up
to plot steps 
tripping none too soft,
but next to key crisis points,
dork! 

When epicenter knocks, 
best pick up a fork, call it
opportunity. Just raise up the door! 
And invite in shocks, 'cause this city
knows how to remix encore,
putting butts in seats just another
round
more. 

Ding, ding said the dinner bell. 
What's on the menu, and who's 
got the score? 

way past cheers

the spirit of beef 
has fouled the air 
in the room which 
shall not-be-named 
back there

I spit cold fire Pt. 2 twice

OK, okay I caught it I can
dig it but it's not my style. I'm more

of a "keep the flow on, let the words
find the inner-aimed line metered by
flying to click in place, and any and all
rhymes that hit are BONUS but not necessary
/legit to the slip-snick-click-fit bling blam
WHAM."

type

Yeah, that's right, I type, but I don't
write I build a rhyme. When I fiddle, Nero
burns while Rome goes on roam to download
the new verse from the Pope's dropped curse
from the wrong chair as I swat FLIES
of some size, sidestep bunts
and run basis in reverse order,
checking all cases short of a score
I drive three guys in sideways (that's
the gender-neutral "guys," there
"guys") and it's 1st, 2nd, shortstop HEY
BOYS

WE WIN (1)! The rhythm has to be
caught in the voice A lot of times
The rhymes stay in place on the page, but
in the hand that holds the mic (air mic,
mine) the speed up slow down cadence plays
havoc with the haters
and players storm stages
trying to get their scrambling hands
underneath my rage in wack-ass anticipation

of a MIC DROP, 
but please. Say thank you first, 
'cause your welcome 
is a given when I throw a verse. 

Each time I drive home bonus points
like coffin nails:
FINE

"primordian time" "savage attire"

I can dig it but 
it's just my style not to 
these days. Trust me, 
on the mic I haven't 

got one.
Just all

a personal property

I am THAT GUY
who can sit RIGHT NEXT
to two people conversing
quite animatedly, quite loudly
in a cafeteria or other public
house and completely (at will)
tune their private talk out. I believe

or rather more, I know the eavesdropper
deserves everything he hears, to use an old
-timey way of putting it: just as the trespasser

deserves everything he gets.

BEHOLD

WHO DARES?

WHO CARES?

To hearken unto the summons?
To fill the room of opportunity
with striving sticks and cues
and clicks and pocketed plops
of balls upon honor's green
cloth
field?

Each of us, buried in our own
concerns, burns
in his, her
or their own way the bridge
of opportunity as the golden
chance looms, passes by, and
is forgotten beyond recall. How
long! Must we look back in despair,
grimacing with chagrin over glory
spurned and life unlived? - The true life of
strength and courage exemplified by our father's
fathers and mother's mothers, forsaken by us
all-too-lately for the sake of some momentary
excuse, some inconsequential injury, some
dull
pedestrian
responsibility?

Fie upon such foul sport!
I say thee nay. The plaintive
specter of dispassion and noncombativeness
calls weakly to claim its weekly victims; I reject
it abjectly. That time is over.

The time has come. Each of us
must now rise up and claim the task
that is ours by right: the time is set.

The cue is straight.

The ball is round.

The hall awaits !!

WHO THEN NOW WILL
FAIL TO HEED THE SUMMONS
OF THE CALL TO POOL!?

Not I, said the
fiddly
lil'
dragonfly
.

Your break

“growing up”

So my ghost got caught
in a bubble of rain, next
I’m sitting on a bench
next to her, in pain
but it’s only my knees
MY HEART, NO GOD

I don’t need to sing
another man’s song
to be odd

Introduction #2

Conceived by coincidence
Born at speed
Rapidly developing into a
learning being with a taste
for cognition to outpace
recognition in a bold
foray of discovery

Into The Known...I AM
JOE! The wonderstuck!
Fancy champion of truth's
caboose, pushing the whole
thought train uphill
towards the tunnel
from the rear and not
skimping on tangents!
My courtesy is...well,
"innate"

Is as good a way to put it. Those who know me
find it "familiar." And I bring me here to confide
to you each (and so all) in a booming whisper audible
to the point of embarrassment..."I have never had

the slightest idea

how to write one of these."

Introductions,

Well. Do one's best then. Do one's best. Then.

Now, arguably, might have been better

"The Salute"

Oh melodic anarchy
of we thee sing and
mote it be. For those
about to rock’s come
on. That’s why I’m
hear.

To sing this song.

“Radio Love Brigade (Of Love”
(an excerpt, not of any song but of a lyric poem)

Cheers to #1: Coffee

Cheers to you, and a HOT FRESH SLUG

coming slip sliding down one's cool
throat OOOH and UGH

fan stance two: MK Ultress

Maggie Koerner is insanely
beautiful BECAUSE she
looks exactly like
two other women I know
and love and neither one
resembles the other, and
because her dog is an insanely
big huge benevolent fluff
monster of (evidently) love,
joy, dog virtues, and above
and below all: because

I can't even
that voice
her gift
on the songwriting tip
off the insouciant
cock of her just-so 
outthrust to-the-side HIP
in a dance move
I couldn't do myself if I
damn
can't even put to words,
her.

That's why I fan

when words fail me, IT'S
TIME to get a road
on the ticket, pick a spot
and save me a space
in the merch line, because

to be a real fan surely
requires at least two (2)
purchases in support

of a living artist.

Or any amount of purchases
in the vain support of a dead
act's damn financial heirs
and assigns. Living

trust me

trust M.K.

is better

Civics 2: Aftermath

I'm tremendously

interested in specific issues
in politics. And in the above sort-of
"Big Picture" quasi-useless "RAH!
RAH for BRING BACK CIVICS
CLASSES" spiel/pule.

But still, a lot of the time I honestly
have no idea what to say. Some points
spike so deep and hard and death
is literally spilling out of them. No me gusto

A cringing and so cringeworthy coward, personally,
when it comes to the bloodwork that must be done. Or
seems like it. Oddly enough, in a direct personal threat
(self or others,
RIGHT THERE)
setup, a shocking lack of empathy sizes me up and washes
all up me from the innards! leaving me disgusted after
REGARDLESS of the outcomes. Yet on the real

pull-together, fly-apart big picture?

I feel so small

So incapable of impact,
control, exertion of push. Sucks!

that old, old human dream: politics

HMMM. 

I guess in legit
cases, an exception might be
made. Arguably. Let the people decide!
In an all-ways pushy-pully CALL FOR
LAW! That's what I say!

That's ON-TOPIC.
That's what politics IS: the dread
dream that people converging upon
each other in - ideally, and ideally really
a nonviolent-esque big GLOM JAM
argle-bargle, sometimes including
various rules of order, might hit
upon courses
the other side can't stop and/or
might even improve by vicious critiques
and partisan or the odd free-for-all donnybrooks! A dream

of progress, in the midst of which we
sit rightly or leftly (and/or, probably:
A BIT OF THE OL' BOTH) DEADLOCKED
where no clear way that can't be crossed-up or
blocked by the opposition (and the bases, in theory
- they're in on it at some level) presents itself. 

The old, old human dream of progress, played
out over the booming decades, centuries and millennials
by creepingly increasingly (and inevitably, increasingly
creepy in select cases) modern means. Not necessarily
an improvement!

But in a lot of cases (arguably, all cases of non-tyrannies),
we get the government "WE DID IT." 

I say that's too simplistic. Every nation gets the government
its individuals INHERIT, apace and in waves. Then, past
a certain point of paying into the common kitty and
showing up to vote or not vote WITHOUT
mounting and networking effective CHANGE DEMANDS
upon the status quo (CUI BUENO...?) ...OK, past that point,
per individual,
adulthood and then some, typically,

"we"

(very generally) THEN
"earn" the government we've hired done.

"Been hiring done," is more accurate: and watch out!
For the tax exemptor's "cop out." "DON'T BLAME ME,

I DIDN'T PAY" 

False

my damb dumn flail

My damb, dumn flail is 
to the good, in acres and points 
degrees off the fine 

I do a 360 and course-correct 
in 

by convergence upon any
/every line 

one gives 
one-to-one 

for that's my sweet trick 
there's no trick to it all 
just a bit too much wick 

for a candle to shed 
any light by a game. 

My name now is Joe, 
but by any name given,
I prove that all much

just the syme

mic drop.

When I battle emcees 
and they drop the mic 
I snatch it up before it 
hits the floor like a bike 
shooting off of a loading 
dock ramp like a train 
except I'm on it flying out 
steady pedalin' VAIN

BECAUSE I don't do the 
mic drop move myself, I 
just watch the opposition 
and rely on stealth, so when 
the sucka drops the mic 
I'm on mic swoop mode 
like a toad! With a goad 
to grab mics by the load 
and drop such heavy-freighted lyrics
it might take ten docks
worked overtime to get 
so much tip to the top fresh
not out-of-stock rhyme palleted up, 
shoved way into the trailers 
getting tractors hooked up 
for the long, long trip heading 
out nationwide  

Then I'd fly by on a bike 
like I'm right to ride 
Like a dock jumping fool 
heaving forklift blades
from the front of my bike 
instead of that granny basket I have 
but I have it in spades, which is cool,
but those blades 
would be like BOOM LIFT FORCE

for the freight my rhymes pack, 
ship, drop at your doors and just 
split before you hear it: "DING-DONG" 
said the bell! Better not drop yo' mic 

'cause I bike like hell

All Aim.

It seems I am all aim, 
and all intent, and so 
therefore: I've none 
deliberate. And none 
consideration, unless, 
except: in retroact by 
restrospect, a hindsight 
gained by booted rear! 
Direct address, from 
what I hear (far more 
than read) (but there's 
that, too, especially 
here). I mean I say 
in one-to-one: 

direct response. 

It's how I'm done.
That's how and why 
I talk like that. It's hard 
indeed (or statement, please!)
to be precise to one-to-many 
everyone! It's only give-and
-take, in back-and-forth free 
gift and intercourse, whereby 

Ah. Ahahaha. 

'He said "intercourse!"' WHAT 
a BUTT HEAD huh huh 
huh huh huh duh 
huh 

duh-dumb-tsh

important note

Great minds discuss
ideas. Small minds
discuss, um, wait.
Wrong. Ideas, events
...people? But what's
in-between great and
small minds? MEDIUM
MINDS DISCUSS
EVENTS?

That sounds asinine. Like
they are psychics! Predicting
events! Mediums. Is the plural
of a psychic medium still "media"?

Horses sweat, great minds think
alike, men perspire, girls glow, and
aggression - passive or otherwise - is
duh like whoa. Curiosity kills the cat, but
let us not forget it was the highly-adaptive
curious nature of the cat that got it its nine

lives in the first place!

Evolution by means of natural selection, peoples,
surely. Or if you doubt me - by what other means
can you suggest these eight extra lives might be
explained? Curiosity is super-adaptive as a trait!

The foregoing remarks are only here
to illustrate how delicate a topic can be. How easily
it can derail. The moral being: please, don't.

Due process

The future
will never come to pass, because
the present
will always be in its way. But 
the present can't last! 

Or rather: it does. 

Only forever 
this now comes, 
because. 

I quit in protest

I quit in protest of 
a muched-belove 
critic's exclusion 
over a one-word 
critique left 

on my piece. 

There is nothing 
unnatural or inapropos 
about a one-word critique 

even if the word is hot. 
Has anyone got 
a better-suggested 
or more-or-less 
sanely-moderated 
option upon which 
to post my poems? 

If not, 
consider this not 
a quitting in protest, 
for 

it is not strictly 
autobiographical, 
as about none of 
my poems are. 

Consider it a 
mood

Vastless

Out here on the beach, 
the biggest in town, please 
check out my huge two 
stony legs 

and wherever my torso's 
got to, GUESS

it is huge and buff 
and my head's a peg 
by comparison, yet 

one well-cut jib. LOOK

on my mighty-as mighty
-ass works, as trembling 
as they are on time! As 
trembling as ye may be, 
MAH MANS and mah 
womans and persons 
and kids! GOT RHYME?

Well, rhyme's a disorder 
or ordering trick, that is 
without reason leading 
up to it. For I 

am 

Ozzy "Mandy" ASS

(no I'm not, not really
but as emcee names 
go: LEGIT, arguably
not 
or 
so)

I'll and/or it'll 
pass. 

Resolved!

My implacable wit once 
more shall win more rue 
than days can fill. 

Begin? 

Differences between agony

The course of love, true,
never did run true enough,
didn't it. Deep! -  or did it?
Well, in this case, (ours)
(or: once was): true, it did.

But hindsight is perfectly
20/20, 180 and 360 degrees
awful considering how untrue
some of what I said did, and
what you thought didn't do,
and of course (naturally)
in the interlap between 
the two, where we lapped 
each other's wounds 
and bound them to
a point even more 
wound-up, twisted 
and inflicted, so we 
leaped back and kissed 
hurt itself; we soothed each
other half to death and as usual 

did not make up,
since up
cannot truly be made. Up
is a relative value with no
real
direction
except where both stand
on some same ground
and agree to crane
their necks, perchance
to see, or reach their arms,
perchance to interleave fingers
or leave hands be? Clasped, 
or just touched by tips 

However it was, how it is:
"we" end up drifted apart
for  
you see 
we never address 
the fundamental, 
troublematic 
point! Do

we?
One or both of us sadly
doesn't even know
/couldn't say what it
is.
/was. So,
under such
dire conditions
as those, how could
we expect love to conquer 
anyone?

Let alone all, 
let alone 

you.
Me. Either. Or both, or 
ideally - each? Trust me, 
we were always in reach. 
Us. You know that now, I see
you see I know that now, too.
"Us": was always right here, 
right now, and now 

we know that for a fact, 
and so,
it hurts more than ever 

how. 
Will you go? 

How will you go? 
Drive through the wind 
and the rain, again. 

Cover it up. Cover it 
up. There's no more 
to see your direction, 
my end, your steady 
shine and everlasting 
bend. There's no song 
left to steal, not to seal 
this deal over and over 
again. For real,
or not for real: 

I am. 
So are you. 

So we were. 

So true. 

Past tense is one hell
of a drug, if you can't take
it anymore. And heedless 
of hope, regardless of all belief: 

you can't.
You can't take that 
away from we, for neither 
can I. As we both now see

No, you.

There's just a thing 
or two I have 
to say to you. 

One is "you" 

The other is 
"suck." 

The third is not 
(if you please) 
"please," but 

if you must, 

go.
Go
Please
yourself. 

six simple machines

The block of head
by edge of tongue 
and screw of heart 
hang pulleys swung, 
set ramps ablaze 
and levers skewed. 

I can't recall the other 
two, or if I could, 
I'm not inclined 
so plain, 
it seems. 

So much for brain, 
now what it means 
I leave to us, or me 
or you. A bit in trust

which could be vain.

"Charades" (after Austen's Emma) #None.

My first intends a thing I couldn't know; 
My next is just to say I told you so. 
Combined we find a sense so obvious, 
Ironically, at least, it can't be just. 

lullaby trumpet

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.

boat pole conundrum

I want to go where there's canals
and pole my boat right up the locks

and then, just stand there quizzical

I don't know what's next!
what a shock

Open dream journal #12: reality hut island

I had the most bowdlerized/public
tv broadcast edited-for sex
dream I ever had.

I was on

an island

with myself,
this babe I'm into
(None of you, 
please, breathe
easy don't worry),
and many (like elebenty
-two) other "single people."

It was like a reality show
except in the dream,
none of it
was being filmed or
recorded. I don't
know

if it was supposed to be some
whack-ass group therapy vacation
package or what! But

what it amounted to was: everybody
had their own luxury hut
to which they could retreat OR
open invitation, and people
were basically
alternating between

chillaxing solo

in the luxury hut
(to each their own)
and/or a lot of HOT
HUT HOPPING, only
as noted before:

My dream standpoint for all
of
it was
LONG LOVING
EXTERNAL SHOTS
of occupied huts, even if

I was in the hut! Like,
I'd see me going in, I'd see
me in the hut with the specific person,
and then
it was like JAMES
BOND LOVE! IT'S
OBVIOUSLY ON! 

Fade to black

Until finally me and the person
I actually knew ended up in somebody's
(hers or mine, don't know) HUT. NOW
IT'S ON

RIGHT?

WRONG

Tons of deep n' heavy kiss an'
cuddle and some kinky disrobing
action going on, but then FADE

TO BRIGHT LIGHT! I woke up

Typical

certain words mixed up

I'm always getting certain
words a lil'
mixed up: salient, sapient,
sentient,
seminal

Mind you, it isn't as if
I don't know what they each
mean, or even that I've ever
(necessarily, actually) picked
the wrong one in use, but

soft. But still.
There's a sticky-slick
tinge between that explains,

perhaps, perhaps

Why I never call myself
"sapiosexual," and
for that matter,

WHY I'M NOT.

Anyhow, that term
should properly not
refer to a sexual
attraction to "intelligence,"

but rather, to wisdom.

Now we're talking
the hot, sticky stuff

Hopeful yet unhelpful note.

It isn't pain 
if it doesn't hurt. 
It isn't suffering 
if you can or could 
stop it swift, easy 
and costless to any
one at any time. It
could be agony or joy 

- Have you checked? 
It's not okay 

Unless it's fine. 

Well,
you draw your own line.
Consider that mine. I hold 
a high bar for what I'll call
fine, but I'm okay with that.

Call it in the air, or flat
smack
on the table,
by hand. Like
we always used
to say, when asked
(and we had no better
answer pre-planned):

"I'm okay. I'm 
Going To Be OK." 

OK? Then that's-that,
hot dog or too-cool cat. 
(Or will be) that. A fact, 
so shake off your fur,
dry and pat. 

How I hint: a finder's key:

"How I hint: a finder's key:"

I don't. Assumption #1:
and fair and true most 

every time, with me. 

I do not mean to be 
obscure, obtuse, or 
ever come across
as mystery, 
puzzle, con-
undrum. I'm not 
a game! Not won
or to be lost except!

By exception. By who
you are in what you really
give, and how. Which
has no rules but those
you pull out as you live, 
and breathe, and choose 
to give! ALLOW. 

Choose well or wisely,
or unwell, unwisely: BAM!
Yours to present!
Perchance well-drawn! 

How fine that is! We give
and find a boundary,
then.

I'll never have my fill
of those, for there's a line.

How handy, that! It can be

Fine
as finest things,
or clear as mud itself,
and splat. And trust me 

mud is pretty clear 
when you step in it, slip 
and plop.  

So. I like lines 
that others give:  
laid out and limned 
by point or plot  
on-point and there.
Right here, right now.  

It works sublime.   

I like them now, I like them
then, I like them when.
I like them clear, 
presented, friend. All good, 
all free, so as to show your  
boundary! Which is to say:

to show where I am welcome,
when by clean, clear plotted, well-dug
ditch or any border marker fits - perhaps
a fence! "No welcome there, past this,
SO SIGNED" (a fence works fine,
sighted or blind)

Yet if that part's excluded, out,
so much more welcome, tends
to find and found, be found and
founded everywhere, or else.   
We draw the line. "Elsewhere,"
or so, to coin 
a mat.

And plop it out by many 
splats, by many doors, and 
gates, and subtle signs, so
saying "Come on in!"

How like a flat, apt., or house, some 
homey, homely good abode! Tells me
by mat, and frame and jamb 
whether that door is open/closed.  
The door is one open-shut case 

to say what's so. It sits right there!
It clues you in, by bell or knock,
each time and more, that's if
you care and dare. So long! 
As one can give
the line
that one wants you 
to take, observe,
a simple twist of direct-
met or on-point swerve.  

And we can find each other, 
thus. 
Well, as to mine, 
my own? My lines?
Oh hey,

I find no need to fuss, 
when I so trust another's serve!
For me. For we are free
in who

We'll choose as company,
as friend. As bare acquaintance
or just mere! Perhaps
some other role intends?
Well, pitch it out. We'll
comprehend. Perhaps

Some other act
(I mean an ACTION, here)
can signify? In crisis, we all do 
our best. Or try

to, hey. 
We're on-the-fly. What's
more, it's just as well
if one
-to-one we
pair in how we'll dwell (for
all intense or peace-n'-calm,
or any purpose-plain to cast, 
from subtle-nuanced well-
knocked BRASS to simple,
clear as courtesy:

or class. That's categorical.
Half-full, half-open or thrown
wide. We have our ways 
to come inside, and if unsure, 
to ask how-why. 

The other's turn, in their response 
shall be some key, if we care why. 
Including non-response. It counts! 

That is if we hold free our friends,
or who we'd want to be. Free 

just never ends, you know.  

It goes as each and both prefer.
As each agree, apply, concur.
All this is by necessity:
a matter of agreement,
free.

All given and received as same
by either side, or functionally! 
A similar-enough grasp/hold,
each way from each to each, 
all told. OR ELSE: has there
been some mistake? We're free 
as well: to dive in, shake 
up/down or fix and sift, 
as each shall square away
or air, or breach! Freely
engage, or not. To make
it right, or so, find true. 

For sake. That's any
some same sake (or
close enough) in interplay.  

Two each-own calls
with two potential
vetoes, no expiry
in such voter's stalls.

Agreement is as good as one
plus one. Found same, in some 
point/line. Oh, me?

I mean to be straightforth.
Which is: right plain, direct
address with clarity on course
-correction mode, and cued 
by any/all who care to dare, 
or opt-out y'all.

Alacrity! Like horse on steed!
Or thrown upon the rider's 
bleeding corpse, at need 
(such capers hurt, but 
worse if we pound 
dead to dirt what 
ought to have been 
chosen ways. Or 

so I find. So so 
I'll say. Or so
I aim all worth. Not short.
Not playing dumb at all, but

possibly: just dumb.

By you, I'll take that finding,
call it found and founded, and
back out or in, or as we each
shall draw or line or please
or preach. For you, regardful 
what you think and say

have more than say 
alone can teach. 

Dumb is,
or could be
well and truly
how I am, in how
you'll say. That's squate
in your regard. Whatever you
may not or might speak
out, suspect or recollect:  

I don't PLAY dumb. 
"SCREW THAT YARD!"
is all I'd yelp from/to 
such porch as uppily 
declares pretense 
upon me as I'm 
walking by: more 
ignorance than 
innocence itself. 

Perhaps I AM,
dumb, just! 
That is, if you'd say
dang or heck, or damn, 
or shit, or fuck.

I mean, if you
get mad and cuss! 

SOME CLUE.
If what I say IS dumb, 
to you, then maybe I
am, too.

Too true.
Or could be, any way. 
No fuss. I know that your idea
of me is some thing in your
head. Not mine. So I will 

keep you equally free, 
and let "us" be, or be not 
sublime. Be dead! Or gone!
Or be
alive as one, or just as two
may be: both free. If
what I say
speaks many tongues
(to you), 0 hey. 
Or signs, too many
to appear, to single
out or count? Which means
for you, some tough read-ins 
galore? 

Well, that's sure fine as well,
as signs and warnings flow
and score.

Pick one interp and lay it plain,
that's if you wish to tell, to show.
To see what's-what and more! To see
what we can see. For sure, you'd
call me dumb
if I don't know
you're free as I to
make, take, fast. Or slow
and dense, if doing THAT's
beyond my compass, or my
sense. Come on. Grow up, 
get through, go past if I am so,
so dumb! DUMB ME 

We'll-see. I am! I'll say, if
you call me dang slow.
'Tis fine by thee, and 
I don't mind where
intuition (oh, mine
own) soars too dang
free in fancy's costume
cape cosplay, and spanking 
birthday suit! That cape's 

a sign to me! It is or works 
quite all-the-better to obscure its
OWN ASS MOVE for fancy's
sake!

If back leaps forth a step
too soon, too late, I'll hold push
free to come, to shove.

When motive flops a take,
imagined into meaning's lap,
that's some dog trick! I might applaud,
but hardly cheer. Perhaps one clap. 

Just listen, love

- I might just stick.
So please, do
call me
too slow/dense 
for any of that,

all its worth
can value up,

by your own
sense. In lights you find,
by scales you weigh. And
huge top hat! Why not?

Some play! Pull out! From
all of that, that's in. Or 
can be, truly

if I seem dense
to you, tough gal, tough
guy or gentleperson: then 
it's 'cause I am. One of my
own sweet and equal peeps
abob, adrift or full-on sail
in such free beingship as flies
upon subjective seas, capsized

- or so I'd say, if you don't
tell me 
how or why

you're not such being. 

I'm open expectation, there.
I promise no pretense is due 
from me, for you to fair accuse
me of. UNFAIR, I'll say! 
To say or claim "pretending"
stupid, dense, or dumb! 

Not
me!   

I'd rather let it go,
let time pull trust through 
growing size, or sighs, or
sights, or deep rich loam,
perchance to root. To bloom. 
Or grow blind on the spot! If
as some say, love takes the room
and installs blinds. Or...strikes 
one blind! Like staring up
too high at noon
can do

on an uncloudy day.   
For that is I! THAT I
can say! My can-do
know-how attitude!

It's not pretense, no acting
role. It comes to fores as dense
as grow and slow as juggernaut
on speed: a low-slow, wary 
dreadnaught mode, for pace
not greed. Such plod, such
plop! Such booming step!

SO SLOW, 
shoes drop.
but sure enough of coming course,
quick to correct, if clarity/correction
comes. Or so I aim.

If you can give. You might 

be quite surprised, and live! 

In all such things as "reads between"
such lines I DON'T give (left unsent,
unspoken, left ungiven) prudence
counsels caution to hold up. Find 
what's meant by direct inquiry, 
or offer your own: come correct.

Oh, I am slow in my defense
or by advance, for further fines
and fairs, and/or a general use, 
as one might reckon and suspect. 

Use that. No hint. No wink.
No sign. No "tell" - at least
that is a pure, strong bet
and bound to pay in luck's
sweet stakes. I take
what you give 
literal.
Not "literally," 
dead-literal!
And so 
sincere.

Why not? All 'tis 
is simplest, easiest 
course, in small
and easy things.
No knot, except 
to hold where both 
agree, and easy 'nuff 
to pull and slip. 

For that's the world 
we find and see. 
And anyone can just 
jump 'ship, in any 
relation ship kind.  

And if you're not?
Sincere, I mean! Then  

Away we go. 

Just watch your back 
if I'm not here. 

I told you so.  
For it is true.
I much prefer and
usually always aim
to say: up-front, and back 

is clean. "Unsaid" is no fair hand
to bet or lay, or play on me. 

For me! I mean. Of course. 
For you? 

Just give. Just let. Shine you, 
and I'll keep up, or catch
up best I can, and
live. 

For no one has to be
like us, and no two have to 
make an "us." Capisce? 

Free gift. Is always stringless, at its 
best. And if so, free: is always just. 

And that's the end. What's obvious
might bear repeating, now and then.
Soliloquy has petered out, to eat 
paul's dust. 

We just say when. 

My daily diet

For breakfast, a big, tall 
coffee, twice filled. Today 
with cream, it fit and hit
the bill. 

For second breakfast
(sometimes skipped,
just as with first) a BIG, TALL
(pint glass) MILK and one
of those flat, thin granolas. 

A granola bar of some kind. 

You know the kind
I'm sure 

For lunch, oh hey, we'll have 
to see. Yet probably 
it will be bread 

with something kept between. 
- SURPRISE! 

And as to dinner: visualize. 
And so to bed, and quick. 

So naturally, this diet
today is/was no thing
like yesterday's course.

Yet hopefully, I say  (I'd
say!) I'll hit my marks 
each time! With force!
Like steed! Not John
Steed, by the way
- the deadliest man in
the service - yet more
like a gallant and noble
steed: A HORSE, to gallop
on various capers, to jump,
to plod at need, or just 
haul ass! Pronto and
Galore, would be 
my carriage team, 
if both were me. 

Hard work at need,
and fuel up fine. An apple,
sounds alright just now

for me and mine, in fact!
Why not?

With sugarcubes thrust
in its (corèd) core!

Divine, sublime, and/or 
fine fare for any horse
I'm sure, or do suppose
(one does, one knows), plus
ample hay, in sun or rain,
or plenteous grass. Bit sweet 

for me, but then 

I don't endorse

I am not/cannot (usually)
beat a horse, or be that ass
-inine, lest I then be obliged

to clap or chap or even kick
that ass. Not yours! 

I'm sure it's class. 

kinds-of spiders

The Brown Recluse
is champ of fears.
I've seen the real
mccoy, plus pics!
Of recluse, and the
damage it inflicts
on flesh, not by
ill-will, but usually
only when/if pressed.

Please don't, my
dears. You're better
off, and so am I.

The Widow's bite
brings pain in mind!
But thankfully never
in flesh (mine). I see
its carmine, scarlet sign
and sigil well. It quite
stands out, that’s if
you know quite where
to look. I do! No doubt!
I see, I spot, and so I bless
its predatory web, so pitched
in sails to catch the ripened breeze
and flying insects, in its spell
so ease

-ily, it augurs well
for Widow's peaks of fuel
and strength, and bodes aplenty
more bodies, galore to come
in Widow's broods, by Widow's eggs
in time's brief stretch, and then again
but please, kids -
- not on me!

So far,
so good
so what.

Some other kinds I have
for sure,
but I don't know
them
well-enough
by sign to name
each every one,
or kind.

No game
for me, that studied
figured-out and catalogued
eye-traipse through arachnid
bestiary. So I just bless!
However just.

They make a living,
seems to me,
at pleasant and appointed task!
(to them, perchance)
(I make no claim)

and weave respective webs
by dance, to shake in waves
of invitation's grace
By stretching bull's-eyes which
encircle out,
alas

to me!

I often plow
right through such things.
I am (as many maddened
spiders find) a force
of nature, that

they can't quite
spot coming, account for,
thwart, or oft foresee. For
in my ways and sway,
sometimes,

their webs surround.

And dumb-as me, like
dumb-ass flying bull
or bug, I do succumb
to treachery of tangled
webs enough, and they
get down! And I will flail
and say "EUEUUGH"!

My luckless after-battle
cry. Don't cry for me,
eight-legged bay-bay.

Just passing through
Just me, kind friend
-ly neighborhood
web-slinger! Yes, it
is I. Your ne'er sworn
never-foe, in this, our
passing chance to try.

If I had seen

you

or IT,

you know, I would have
given wide-as birth
a great broad berth
for you to spin.

I didn't.
SORRY.

"So what?"

All.

It's all that I can-do.
And what it's worth,
I leave to you.

Down to
and including everything.
Up to and including
nothing.

I don't judge
spiders
in
any inimical way,
just occasionally webs.

If you lil’ peeps can build one
much more visible,
probably you'd starve.

If you could build one
large, sticky and hard
enough to stop me plowing
through unawares and pulling
the whole thing down, if you
could weave it strong
enough to catch me in

- good luck with THAT last meal!

I bet, suspect and reckon it would be,
for one of us. And that’s
no sin.

Spiders
are our friends,
you know. That’s if we hate,
dislike or loathe, avert self
from (or disagree with) all
the various bugs, insects,
and such small things they prize
to prey upon, and live.
And stay alive.

Therefore, I here presume:
a given spider is our friend,
so long as it builds
and spins OUTSIDE.

In the ENVIRONMENT.

Where such things belong!
This goes double and triple
for ants, by the way.