an ant.

killing ants is a task I have appointed myself
to,
and I don't mind doing it. For
as long as they last

beware the feeder

The copier ate my originals. And
they had ink signatures
on them.

Oh, man. I got them out the other end
- they were stuck, I pulled them loose
as carefully as I can, and then - just
look! Macerated, torn
crumpled, all but digested, but
oh okay.

I guess
this is recoverable. This
will not mar the accord. I will
be able to smooth, flatten out, scan,
then clean up the digital rips, all
without altering a jot of language - who
is to know the difference?

And nothing at all shady about this. But

somewhere, in the back of my mind,
in my cabinet of ink originals, this thing
is going to sit.

This contract
is going to look so dumb
if they ever ask to see it
again

It will look - what? Deliberate
-ly demolished! Smooshed, half
torn in half

and a big corner off, floating
separate in the clear cellophane
envelope we use

to keep it together. It will look
like we're the kind of outfit who is like

"got one signed! A sacred agreement,

HERE'S HOW WE TREAT THESE!!" Man, I hate

what this piece of paper,
looking like this,
says about me.

balance

I have half the necessary time
involved, and double the don't
gives a shit.

in the early stage

By the way,
those dopamine peaks
in that early stage -
just build those as high as you can! Just play,
Because they stick in your mind
And long down the line, they remain
as a place you can go
and stay

Authorship Revisited

You're writing a book
in the library, you found one
whose bindings and faded but sturdy
fabric cover you liked, the once-
golden letters of the spine now
tiny bits clinging, flakes
barely filling in edges
of the letters that originally
had been well-stamped in. Title,
author you have pretty much scraped
these off, from memory as well. Identifying marks,
rendered nondescript. Then, surreptitiously
you smuggled it out,
bleached and dried the insides,
every page, both sides
almost clean-slate white
- a faint palimpsest at best
of the old book's print
in a near light-gray off-white
- providing the guide.

You make new, straight lines
writing in bold, neat hand
your novel: the story of
your life made whole. Every day,
you return early, and pull it
from the shelf to write more. You go
your elaborate routine, first - card
catalog, twenty minutes making notes,
pull five to seven other books as well,
all from different sections, huddle
yourself in a study carrel with books open
in front of you, and a notebook, as if
researching diverse questions, but
- really,
all you do
is to camouflage
what you are here to do: to write
in this book, that you have made
your own.

Today's part done, back it goes
to a shelf in the very wrong
section.

One day it will disappear,
you hope. You could start
another. Or else, one day

you will be found out! Discovered! Local
author; mysterious, reclusive, unusual and
his book, too. Seeks female librarian, but
not that one. Every day you write the book,
a story of your life. But you begin
to feel the white
in your knuckles as your
writing right hand
grips the pen - you are almost to the part
where the going gets hard
again and harder again. You
are chapters away,
at most,
from the place
where the star central
character, antihero
unconventional omniscient
protagonist - decides

to write a book.

universal truths, oh no

No universal truths? Certainly none
that we need worry about! Universal truths
aren't even useful. What could you do
with one of those?

Observable reality, now
there's a hook

- to catch your eye,
skin, ear, nose and throat with,
all near misses
'til it gets your heart,
by pulling it out
your nose
through your brain hey
that smarts

"No Online Poet Is Tougher On Crime"

I like to skulk along cheery suburban lanes, lull
and lure gullible, vulnerable underage children,
get them into my van with candy and beat them bloody
with a rubber police truncheon. What the fuck! Who the hell
would say things like these, what possible - can we, is it
allowed, what remedy? This is beyond what we can tolerate!
Some - who, what does he call himself, call it - poetry? Fuck
that! As a society, you know - we know this is not "art," it's
"I know it when I see it!" Art like this
ought to be punishable by, fine, what
- imprisonment? Not remotely! Not enough,
what about - lynch mob justice? You bet it is,
this motherfucker will be tracked down, bum
rushed and strung up - then set on
FIRE
for such verse, such words - it doesn't even qualify!
It's not "art" why you,
You
you "shock" "artist" - what's so shocking about a SCUMBAG?

We're sick enough of this already, sick of you, this so-
called "art" of yours is not "edgy,"
"transgressive," it is just the same USUAL SICK SHIT
we need to come together on as a collective and agree to see
"Hey, this needs stamping out," - Let's see how "performance
art" your twitches and sizzles on the electric chair are! PATRIOT
ACT, MOTHERFUCKER! We're pretty sure we got you covered
there! Next time check the fine print before saying some shit
like that about the kids, it's a hate crime - it's terrorism
it is! To try to say that shit, something outrageous just to
whatever, make people think you're a rebel outcast artist

trying to distance our comfortable comfort zones away from how
we'd like it to be, and right smack down into that sick gutter
of how it "really is" - oh, what - so THAT'S your defense?
Is that your excuse? "I wasn't really - it was just - ! I was being
edgy and transgressive," well you fucked up there, hoss. Didn't
you? Not the reception you hoped to get, all gala luncheon and laurels
for spreading your filth as manure culture? Yeaaaaaahhhhhh TWAT!
Twat on you, you little pissminnow! You screwed it
on this one, pal. You shat the tux, there will be
no gala luncheon. Let's see how "edgy" and "transgressive"

WE can get, now - it's our turn to shock! Oh, we can be very
creative, too - ever heard of Performance Justice? We hereby
verdict you:
Indefensible!
Inexcusable! And yeah,
we already knew
the world is shit by the way, and people are
scum, you worm. You have added no new
information to our lives,
with your vile little "poetic"

(so-called)

disclosures that do nothing but illuminate the slimy
yellow contours of your own SICK BRAIN. You will not be in receipt

of the Nobel Prize.

Instead, guess what you get? Acclaim? No! You get
the full service treatment. Investigate! Arrest!
Charge! Try! Convict! Let's sentence you
to something so cruel, we'll have to make it usual
in order for it to stand up on appeal! Therefore,
CONSISTENTLY, for ALL people like you, the penalty
will hencefore, uniformly, USUALLY be: put you in a room,
immobilized by straps, and with, an automatic robot dildo
set to "slow, deep and punitive" - going RIGHT UP WHERE
you so (probably-lying) tell us you DON'T want it.

Sicko!

Well maybe you truly don't, don't want it there. Here
it comes! - this is only the first
of ten to twenty years' worth
of weekly sessions, without
the possibility of.

Here it comes, thoroughly
and deep all the way in, stimulating
your so-called "prostate" PLEASURABLY
- the LAST thing you want! - hey, is that
an ERECTION? Are we MAKING YOU GAY? Are you getting
off on this? Titillated by it you sick perverted
sick fuck?! Take it! Take it, what you deserve! This
sick shit is EXACTLY what

you are going to get!

For what it's worth, I sure do
get a sublime and entirely unerotic
satisfaction, from seeing justice done
so creatively, and so well. And oh well, so
should the world. That's right,

for what you shouldn't have said,
and as a dire warning to others, THIS
little sentence is going out live
on the internet. Patriot Act once again!
Lest we forget, and like I just said: utter
abrogation of rights, in the interest of
the kids?

IT'S IN THERE.

Oh, it's in there. NOW
how do you like your so-called
disgusting, degenerate "ART"
mister "poet"?! How's THAT for the "power" of "art"
to "shock"!

Another scumbag off the streets. Courtesy of free verse
vengeance.

Folks, if only it could really work this way - or could it?

Please,
write your congressman,
find out for me,

for you,

for all of us and especially -

For the kids I mean.

Please.

I am taking all calls

I have decided, to give up all
pretense of knowing what
I am here for. I am taking all calls,
it isn't openness anymore, it is
emptiness. What am I for? You
tell me? No,
you can't - can you? You
have no authority, there
any more than I used to. I used to
be
the authority.
But as of now, I can't
be. So I say: you can

Ask. And I won't lie to you
on the answer

On Drawing You A Picture

I will totally do it.
There is value to doing it
- I am not afraid of stirring worm's nests, I think
there is always value to clarity!

I do need a check, though, sometimes. Sometimes
my version of exploring clarity
lays bare more the avenues of my own stupid mind
than it does actual clarity.

However, in pictoral form, when I can express it,
I've found this is not so!
In pictorial form,
I can be entirely clear. Given a check.
You all are mine. My check. Pictorially -
look, there's a reason I was a fine
arts painting major
not an English major. It wasn't
like the fucking Lit Prof team
didn't try to convert me
- but I am better at art.

Natively.

Seriously.

All of you, just by how bad
I make my meaning felt via English
can probably, possibly
attest to THAT
shit already.
Already.
Can't you?
Seriously!

I bet you can.

My pictures are pithy!

Get ready
for a stick-figure
diagram.

full calendar

The fullness of days.
Crashing in on us in waves,
then receding like a tide
tied unpredictably
to a moon whose orbit
does not lend itself
to making calendars.
- first full, next night
a waxing crescent, then
suddenly new, empty
of light. Out of sight.
Then, inexplicably
waning gibbous
all out-of-sequence,
but we don't mind.

We're mischievous.

We can mount impromptu
festivals for every face
it happens to show.
We will run out,
to wherever the waves crash
and dive,
be borne back in on whatever tide
it brings.
Who knows when our days will again be this full?
Of so many things

Oh, we know from personal,
painful, recent experience
that sometimes a racing fullness
is a fullness of incoherence.
Still - a fullness is better than an emptiness, isn't it?
It will be,
if we make use of it
- to see, to use, to allow us
to select and pick and choose
which things rushing through
we should seize, focus on,
and develop. Which things are true,
and which things are ours.
Eventually, keeping more to these,
letting the coarser or worser
or less precious delicious things
rush away, run away past us,
wash away - the things we have kept,
plucked from the fullness of days
to tend and to keep and to hold
within us as ours, regardless of future tides -
These will tend us, and keep us,
and hold us. These will be cause
to rejoice.

but, if
all we do is let
the fullness rush in,
rush past us and keep us
dizzy and busy through days,
probably it will begin
to pall at some point, and become
empty noise.

Fair Warning to All, Pt.1

Fair warning to all, even though
you may already know, may already
have noticed, even though it makes me feel
dirty to admit this, again and again, every year
I must.

We are once again at crisis. And I will almost
certainly be

"ripping off"

some or all of the stuff
I write, to anyone, for any other purpose,
and I will repurpose it as needs be,
raw material for new poems. I have to.
Expect to see snippets of rendered-unrecognizable
work memos developed into epic indictments against
the unfairness of vague things railed against,
expect to see chunks of what looks like
philosophy, love letters, abstruse theological
triangles with the points cut off, friendly
remonstrance, boo hoo anecdotes, policy
and procedure is: take what I can find in all
of these as the random edges of cliffs
to leap off from, and plummet someplace,
to some depth, to some purpose that the original left
entirely un-plumbed. I have to

write 365 poems this year. And it's not going to happen
if I don't get cracking. I am in a bind, and I'm way
way behind.

But don't you fear, don't worry! I'll be
entirely within my rights. Nothing shady about
it! If I write something
after all, no matter
what it's primary purpose
may have been -
it has served that purpose, fully and entirely!
and that purpose is satisfied, and done.
And when a possible new, secondary purpose arises -
still those well
used words remain,
cut to a certain shape
and available for any further
purpose, use in derivative works
secondary to the original. Whoever,
whatever, wherever those words originally went
that original will always be the original
and first. No secondary use can diminish that fully
realized, entirely fulfilled, discharged
purpose.

That works. And it is needless to say - I won't
"rip off" your words! How could I? You wrote them,
for any purpose you chose. Those
are yours to mind. Whatever you say
is sacrosanct,
as far as I'm concerned
I can't use it! I'd have to credit you,
for one thing. Fuck that.

I only self-
plagiarize.

Now I wonder
if I can go back through all that,
and make it at least near-
rhyme.

No. No? No.

"free verse!"

a hot bath

if I were a hot bath,
and you had
finally cleared from your schedule
the distractions and pressing engagements
a whole evening with nothing on,
and were getting ready
for me
with some music in from the other room,
and a book handy, just in case
a cheap, thick paperback
you don't mind getting wet and warped
just the thought of you,
filling me almost
full, just to the point
where you
getting in
will push me to the top
filling the whole room
and all its mirrors
with steam, a candle lit, and you
naked
and getting ready to lower yourself
I'm afraid I'm going to scald you
scald your pale skin pink
and red
wait, hold on
hold yourself back
beautiful
you'd better let me cool off
first,
just a tiny bit

for the two of us

I seem to have overestimated the passage of time,
or what it can do
for me and mine
as you and yours fade to distance away
this world isn't big enough, so they say

even

We used to sit in the corner and argue
and I hated it. But it was the only time
I'd get to talk to you

and you loved it.

There weren't any things

There weren't any things left at all. Not to do,
not to say, not to regret, even - which was spectacularly
extraordinary for this sort of situation! Normally,
when two people find themselves with nothing left
to say, or do, there are a tremendous number of things
to regret. But in our case,
for the first time in the world, maybe - there were
none. None to regret, none to remind us of what the good
was, and the bad. There weren't any things at all, and
that's when we realized, we had just met. "Hey,"

the whole town tried

the whole town tried to stop the flood
the great flood, the one they still talk
about. but
they went about it the wrong way, some
with sandbags, others with buckets
or pumps, others tried reason

others tried reason

if you can believe it. OK
it's a lie

only I tried reason

Dudley McDeadly

Dudley McDeadly was heavily armed
with most tastefully-chosen arrays
of light-armament, firearms,
bludgeons and blades, and a bomb
he was saving for later. He turned
with aplomb towards the future
where you, invincibly charmed
by his tall dark and handsomeness,
twirling mustache, and his striking,
unfashionable stovepipelike hat,
had consented to being tied down
on the tracks.

There was some small to-do, as you
quibbled a bit at the tightness of knot
binding ankle or wrist, and indeed
over whether it's fitting or fit
to lie trussed on your stomach,
and not on your back. But that Dudley
McDeadly has his own ideas, and hasn't
a lack. He makes his own plans, and
he plays his own hand. Which you, for
some reason, decided to take. As you say,
you're a fool for an ol'
-fashioned man.

Perspective in motion, proportion in relation to approaching mountains

Make a little thing big
only by walking straight at it;

crush it underfoot on the way over.

propaganda from inside the hive mind

Decisions are not conditioned
upon process, here,
but are free and unconstrained as the very bees
themselves.
Our collective flit,
buzz, bustle and (nectar) suck
is the only thing creating the bee-mind
that shapes our hive or stirs us up,
sends us out a-swarming.
Beyond each of us,
individually,
following our own sorts
of impromptu cues, prompts and warnings,
all wildflowers, wallflowers
and other assorted mums and posies must simply bloom
according to their own natural rule
of "do what thou wilt."
Or, they can choose wilt.

That too's allowed,
naturally.

agreeing, at least

agreeing, at least
to disagree

is what you're after. What you've asked - can we?
Certainly.

When I was born,
or when I realized I had been, at least
(and all that that entailed), I agreed
to disagree with the universe.

Or anyway I agreed with myself
that I disagree with the universe.

So we're already there!
On every point. Let's start from there!
Start from disagreement, nothing
acrimonious mind you just an acknowledgment
that we came from widely separated places,
along broadly divergent paths past
widely different views

to get here.

Why should we assume agreement
at the outset? We probably don't agree,
and this is fine. The difference between
persons should be a source of fresh wonder, daily!
- not chagrin. So let us assume we disagree!
From the outset, and then - come to agreement
wherever we happen to, happily, every chance
we get to do it truly.

No one ever needs a new,
fresh agreement with me,
to disagree.

That's a given when you walk in. And welcome!
It's a welcome place, isn't it? This one?
The universe, I mean. Well I think so anyway.
I wasn't expecting agreement on it!

I think not expecting agreement
from the universe is the one single key
to feeling welcome within it. A natural
part of it.

Of course,
anyone is 100% welcome and free to agree
with me as well - on any point!

They don't need my agreement for that, either.
They don't need my permission.

It would simply be a fact
of their agreement with a point that I
also hold. Agreement with me is not the issue.
They happen to agree with that point.

Hell.

If any point is true, it wasn't because I held it.

One.

There ain't no Moon god,
there ain't no Sun god,
and he don't Dress like that

I'm pretty sure

Ma'am?

Probability Analysis.

It is entirely possible!
To be partially self-sufficient.
Or is it?

i am.

Lord,

If I could get one wish, I want to

be

your will for me, on Earth. Lord,
if I could get one more,

I want to be
the best man here,

for her.

I am,

I am
presumptuous,
perfunctory,
I don't know what

You

want from me,
but

I Am, too.

How about it?

Also I wish to point out

Also, I wish to point out that I am one
of the finest critics of written English
ever conceived.

And also, the finest living! - None
of the others were even born. Miscarriages,
sad to say. Was it on express written orders
prayed to my guardian angels, who swooped in
amongst the wombs, and did their dirty business
to insure my eventual towering prominence?

No. No! No, it was not. That's sick.
I would never ask an angel to do that shit,
even assuming I had the pull. Which I do,

but it's on my

um

my

um

ahem.

Apologies. Now!

For my next trick,

Run, Runner

Best!
foot
plot!
course
on!
track
- straight ahead is the way back
home!
sweet
not!
much
there!
but
ever so humble, it's all we got?
Soul's dark night's gone darkest again,
and the clouds are comin' down and the rain is bent, but
it's gonna get warm and sunny again! And then -
and then, we're gonna run!
run,
runner! 
runner,
run, runner - run! runner,
When you gotta go, you better run!
run,
runner!
runner!
run, runner! run, runner -
Straight ahead is the way home,
you know
it's!
not
far!
one
foot!
a head on your shoulders, it shouldn't be hard
just!
clear
no!
mind
no!
self,
- only up ahead burning into behind, well
how many pieces has this world had?
if they all fit together the picture is bad
but it's gonna get warm and sunny again, and then!
And then we're gonna run!
run,
runner!
runner,
run, runner, run! runner,
When you gotta go, you'd better run!
run,
runner!
runner!
run, runner! run, runner -
straight ahead is the way home,
you know

if this burden

I haven't got
a thing to prove,
a theory to predict
what I'm trying to prove,
or a shred of evidence
to suggest that the burden of proof
is as great

as you'd expect,
as they say it is.
It's featherweight,

but it's not on me.

A breeze took it.

Being able to say

Look. Being able to say
"I know a thing"
has no practical use!
No value at all - and
I don't mind if it is
unprovable. I don't ever
get to the point where I'd need
to do it. To make such a
useless declaration as to say
"I know a thing,"

let alone "prove it."

I would only need to say
(to myself, no quotes now,
not out loud) I know
I want to do this thing,
and I know how to do this
thing, and now's a good time
for me, and do it. Is there,
here, at any point,
a burden of proof?

If it's something I know
I can do, it's nothing
I need to prove - just
decide. Do or do not, there is
no try,

said Yoda - but I do.
I don't mind telling you
I don't mind. I don't mind
trying. Even when I don't know why
I try, even if I'm not one
hundred per cent sure I know how
to go about it, sometimes
I decide, and I look, and look!
I see an angle in! - and I just
try, and you'd be surprised
how well it works. So anyway,

I've got nothing to prove.

Burden of proof's on the universe.

full moon insomnia

full moon,
insomnia
the window shades and curtains
all drawn back
to let the light soak in
I wasn't sleeping anyway,
okay night
you win.
At least
each surface of my house
not positively bathed in black
- in shadow - glows,
like spilled milk
on dark wood floors,
gleams
and

pours

in
so much silver,
this one month's moon
in one or two night's work
is paying back,
at our dream's expense,

every last debt the sun owes

favorite themes

Anyone who's ever heard me begin this sentence knows
I have no idea why kids today have to wear these kinds
of clothes, or why the language has to look like that
- or what it's all coming too, spending time staring
at screens of all sizes from tiny to doublewide, finding
something worth wasting all that time on, on the other side

at least, I hope so. And everyone dating and marrying
strangers off the internet, well, traditional love
dies hard I guess. I can't see it yet, but everyone
who's ever heard me start this sentence knows
what's coming next. I've got a bet on the books,
and the odds are pretty strange that tomorrow,
whether you like it or not, is here - and
from now on in, that's never going to change.

I guess it's just my comfort level
that keeps me bringing up these same
things, in the same words, in the same
bled weary uncomprehending tone of voice,
but anyone who's ever been near me knows
that it's never going to change I have
no choice.

taut

The idea of you slacking,
though, is beyond funny
to begin with, and could only
ever be jest.

There is in you,
and in the effect of you,
nothing slack, Miss Mack. Even if
you weren't a regular and comforting,
steadying presence around here, the force
and velocity of your passage
as you come through -

each time your curved trajectory
crossed our tranquil waters would leave
a taut line arcing behind, raising waves
stretching out forever as the shear you make
tears through, girdling the earth like Jörmungandr
and we all writhe, shout, thrash, and catch air -

surfing for weeks in the breaks of your wake. Eh?

loved and lost

I had a dream I met
the girl I was going to spend
the rest of my life with.

After a period of more than a year
where I hadn't met anyone
I wanted to give so much
as the time of day
to.

And she felt the same,
"synchronicity of thought,
ease of being,
mutual respect,
and joy in each other's company,"

We had it! And then I
woke up.

It must have been
me. I assume it was I,
who woke up. It was my
dream, wasn't

it?

Responds To The Critics

Breathtaking, dude.

At first
I thought you were just taking an enjoyable stab
at this! Taking a whack at criticism, at trying to
criticize how I am trying to do
this. And that's what I was wanting!
- or expecting, really. A stab, a crack,
a whack at a lark, a shot whistling by
in the dark - possibly wide. And in fact,
I guess that is probably what you did do. Or try to,

Because it does read - quite enjoyably!
- as effortless as the day I was born. For me,
anyway.

Yet goodness. So far from expectation
- the result dwarfs whatever it was
I was expecting! A reading
that feels perfectly serious,
and is internally-consistent,
soberly-observed, and entirely-supported from
within the text. What's more, you break it down
so clearly and with such telling detail and effect
that it feels not merely persuasive, but authoritative.

You have effortlessly (?) broken down
and drawn out a bell-like reading
from a poem I myself was having trouble with,
a poem I pretty much wrote in one go, in
a fugue state, oh it wasn't meaningless! The poem

It wasn't some nonsense tossed-off, it was
a definite emotional response to a moment
and a strong feeling, and I meant
the poem quite strongly!

But I couldn't put into words what I meant, or
what what I meant meant,
except by means of the poem's words.

Which is usually how it is, if you know what it's like.

I couldn't put the meaning into additional words. And so
I sort of just left it behind, "ta-da! a poem! Nothing
more to see here" - but when you
liked it,
I started to wonder

if what I had put in there was in there?
And maybe, what else was in there. What, precisely,
was in there? I began reading it myself
different ways, wondering whether it was
a blank screen with some well-placed
furniture and imagery upon which
all sorts of valid interpretations
and feelings could play, flit into
existence, projected into solidity
through the magic of simply seeing it?

Or was it something as specific
and visceral as the hot taste of iron from a tongue bitten
twice in the same place, hard?

Either would have been fine, to be honest. But
I had kind of lost my own way out of the poem.
So hearing that you had an angle in, I wanted
to hear what your angle was. Thank you,

for the serious response.

incremental

incremental.
Keep the pressure on,
keep the message strong,
shine the brightest light on the real true ugliness
stake the strongest possible claim on the human rights
and what's wrong with the rights of the individual? - which
apply to ALL, and give
people as much truth on the topic
as you can, give
people as much information
as you can confront ignorance
with, wherever it rears its blissful head, put out
education - PSAs, viral videos, racism
resource websites, whatever options
there are should be used,

not just schools. There are plenty
of died-in-the-wool ignorant
racists. And maybe
you can't reach those.

But there are also many
still questioning, still formative,
still leaning and learning which ways it goes?
in their community and in their orbit,
there are many who are suffocated by
bigoted attitudes, and are reaching
for more answers they can use to oppose.
Maybe some racists are unreachable, sure!
But most people who ask a question
will respond to truth, and most people
will recoil from the ugliness they see,
if shown. We've got to knock opportunity up,
keep the focus steady, undeniable on the problem,
because there is one.

Racism
has lost so much ground in this country,
because with more and more light on the truth
of the problem, it gets harder
and harder
for a real racist, devoted,
to reach someone and spread their sick message.
You can't sell that bill of goods
to someone who already knows better.
And more and more people do.

Sometimes a racist can't even keep their kids
indoctrinated - plenty of people with racist parents
have rejected that. Embarrassed of mom and dad: and they
should be.

Racism now

thrives in the dark corners, reduced to a sticky fringe,
spread mostly among and by malcontents. People who can't
fucking hack it in this world, always looking for some Other
to blame. Oh,

There's still an awful lot of racism
in the game. Honestly, I'd be delighted
to be proved wrong about this, but -
I don't consider it a finally soluble problem. Racism.
I fear people
will always seize
on difference as a means

to divide and exploit.

But we can root out most of it
from the mainstream. Of course, we can
we can force it to exist in the shadows
of a world that in general is well-lit,
a world where in general, racism
is acknowledged as a continuing problem
and almost universally, people will not tolerate it.

Intolerance towards contempt for humanity is no sin.

And that's my goal, and I'd like everybody in
- but we're not there yet, by any means. For now
it's our daily duty to combat ignorance and bigotry -
joyfully, where we can! - to end it is a beautiful
dream, but dig in with both hands, support those
trying to free themselves from its tendrils,
laugh if you have to, if you can
so you don't have to scream, and, well

Keep it up, people. Incremental

We got this: every bit according to plan

(unfortunately, the only one we've found) - it's working

as slow
and as sure
as it seems.

musical spheres

I seem to be tapped in
to the music of the spheres, a bit. Hanging
on to the edge of the glass
by my moistened fingertip, swinging
in a rapid helicopter circle
sending out a shining, ringing tone
sending out a round sound in all directions,
piercing, but not lout - clear,
like the rounded ring of glass it sings from -
and at everyinstant threatening (oh
not seriously!) to slip off
and go flinging me
out, into and through
the drywall
walls.

Well I suspect there is no
real such risk as that.
These metaphors have a way of rapidly spinning out
of control into crises, before, falling
flat, perspective is restored
and one goes, "oh, sweet,
I was just typing"
mind, wandered -

no danger

all clear.

Ominous Movements

The branches of your backyard's one tree
- which you never found time to identify,
or to identify with - spread menacingly,
making room. And you looked up
to see

The crows came,
again. Or else - the ravens
have come.

You can tell by the shape
of the tail, but you don't care.
You know it is an omen.

But it is an auspicious one.
It augers, well, pretty good.

That's your story, all packed up
and ready to sell

Dreamlance IV: The Quakening (An Interlude)

In a land out of time outside of mind,
out of sight and therefore soon forgot, we
- she and I, my bride! - sighed luxuriously.
We were out of our minds with happiness
and we knew there was no cure, and time
to find one. Everything would be just fine,
It would all end well, It would all end
well, It would all end. That much
was not pretend. We could tell.

Dreamlance III: The Quakening

That was when a demon materialized,
spiritually, with a flourish that seemed
part oily simper, and part haughty airs
and grandeur, as if bred-to-the-manner
manor-born, he whimpered a bit of obsequious
slander, muttered a few vows for our behalf
(brandishing signed copies of our respective
powers-of-attorney), pronounced us wife +1,
then drew a huge butcher knife and, gathering
my beloved bride up in one great striding lunge,
twisted her by the waist in a graceful dance
that left her wrapped up in his embrace,
with her throat trickling ruby beads
from a paper-fine cut
from an edge that barely glanced,
barely whispered skin tickling across her
neck, then rested - now pressed

- "STOP!" I thundered,

"I'LL DO ANYTHING!"

"It's for the insurance money," he smoothly
countered, producing as if from his left hand
the inappropriate document, all tallied up
and accounted for - displaying a disreputably
respectable amount. "All you have to do
is testify falsely against her and her neighbor,
and her neighbor's wife and her neighbor's goods
will be yours to covet!"

"I love it!" she interjected - ever
the irrepressible scamp! The rogue,
oh I love you so pale girl of mine,
sweet bride of my soon-to-be future
salad days of roses and wine, whatever
you're made of, whatever the heart
discloses, in my mind I am going to
find a way to get you out of this
fix. I suppose!

But how? As we stood on the edge
of this canyon cliff, I waited
for my chance to hang on his every
measured word and I glared at this demon,
all-but-double-dog-daring him to speak
his next impudence! "Give me any chance,
any opening to pounce," my eyes signaled!
glistening with resistance or perhaps, defiance
would be more appropriate, in
a situation like this.

Meanwhile,
gigantic in the distance, a Giant sat
with his huge ass perched out over the canyon's edge
and shat and shat a chain of gigantic loose-linked stools
piling up at the bottom of the canyon
like a train wreck.

Dreamlance II: The Quakening

The pale girl danced far ahead of me, like
a fire dances in a fir tree. I
followed hard and fast through the sweet
-scented burning incense she trailed behind her,
like a fir tree on fire. "Stop," I cried!

"Stop crying," she returned,
all bon mot and repartee jangling
like a clanging overhead rack
of brand-new saucepans, hanging
arrayed in order by size
during a comparatively mild
earthquake.

Then she stopped.

My feet steadying under me, I moved
forward again against a wind that had
sprang out of nowhere like a cat,
howling. I scowled, but I couldn't resist
a secret chuckle as I saw her arm twist back,
unbuckling her bustle. "This thing,"
she confided, "was slowing me down," as she let it
drop and settle towards the ground
with a rustle.

But

as she walked forward away from it
and on towards me, to my surprise
I saw it rise behind her in the wind,
picked up like a bubble, and drifting,
lifted. Then I couldn't see anything
because she had her head in my way,
her frizzled flaxen hair towering out in all directions
from the wind; her strong embrace nestled me in
as cords stood out on my neck from the force
of her kiss. Hot damn!

A minute later,
Suddenly,
I realized she was terrible danger,
and I realized I was in terrible danger.

Closing our eyes, we both made the same wish.
...as each said,
"I don't care if I am,"

a dream, Or, A DREAM , Or! DREAMLANCE I: THE QUAKENING

A far-off horn sounded,
bright and brassy as a copper-zinc alloy,
but with a tinny tone to it - shrilly
it sang forth

like a klaxon announcing the coming of dragons, and you
could almost see the pennant hung trembling
from it,

a heraldric ewe
rampant upon it, vibrating
on its field of green, signifying

nothing - the dream
began.

I drew
my brilliant lance
of adamant gold, potentially
infinite in keen extent, from its cut
and colored glass studded carrying case
- which I wore about my waist, and which
was significantly longer on the inside
than out, to accommodate

the aforementioned dimensions of the lance (only
several of which were visible to the naked eye). Naked,

I held the lance out straight
at arms length and beheld the point,
potentially infinitely distant, yet

unwavering as a fixed star. The lance was symbolic

of my faculty of Reason, which was defective
but still under Warranty. I had to bring it in.

As I resheathed my lance, as my lance
slid home
in its wonted haunt, a pale girl
drew in breath and drew in, bearing

a tray with a brass ewer on it,

and wearing an ochre dress.

"Hower yewer doing,"
she asked, like an impudent
strumpet? So I took out my lyre,
set fire to it and strummed it. She melted

like butter - what a disgusting mess.

We ran to the castle, distant
in the distance, shimmering
and shrinking every minute
we drew closer in to it;

by the time we had drawn within
an acre's length, either we or it

had disappeared
into the scale of things
no longer worth considering, like aphids
and ants. She shivered

as a chill ran up her stiffening spine,
and straightened it. Her too, too
infirm flesh

had by this time thickened,
resolving itself into a to-do list
and she listed off on her own to pursue this.

I started,
started after her,

and I haven't stopped since.