sentence without possibility of

Listen, I hope you don't think I

There wasn't any point in time
What you even mean to me, I can't

Without you, there isn't anyone
Can't you see what I'm
I'm
not the one
who can finish all these

without you
to interrupt

me.

beggar's cant

The only reason I don't beg
- it isn't pride.
Chuck that, I'd gladly beg
all you would gladly give of you.
'Specially if you'd want me to, but
I don't know that you do. If I
abase myself, is that a thrill?

Or would I have imposed?

I won't! Unless you like
imposing men. If that's the case,
I will. I am

too often told, for my taste
anyway, I can be quite imposing
- and I flat refuse
imposing this on any but

who'll welcome it.

I know - sounds like some
kinky shit.

disgusting horror poem

Disgusting horror poem. What
do I want in it? Body horror

like blades erupting out of
our own poor bodies, or
your feet slowly turning
into hands.

Supernatural horror, like
eldritch, occult holiness
might be responsible beyond
all comprehension, the hints
are terrifying and
inconclusive.

Psychological horror, like
clues building: maybe you
did it and don't know?

Things I don't want in it,
unless they slip in naturally
accidentally:

trashy teenage exploitation
slasher flick horror, with
horrible punishment for
dispirited, impersonal,
indifferently-acted
gratuitous sex and nudity
doled out like clockwork
by a U.S.M.(unstoppable
killing
machine)

Gothic horror, except
in atmospheric touches.

Love horror. I don't know
what that is and I don't
want to know. Except oh
shit. Maybe

that's the
only kind I ought to be
exploring? Perhaps
in a separate poem, more or

less disgusting

"sentinel and observer"

When you wake up to your waiting world,
I hope the dreams that slip from you
are happy ones.
I would stand post
inside your mind, alert
and watchful as you sleep,
to ward anxieties and troubles off
so you can order things as you would wish,
in slumber deepening your hold
on every treasure that you keep.
So wakened safe to freshly-broken day,
you can refresh yourself
and take your post by windowlight,
and watch for me,
to wish me on my way.

twin flames

shush!
superstitions must be shushed
or it's bad luck and won't come true!!
what if we're not twin flames?
what if we're not
twin flames? Don't say

that we are

it's bad luck, don't tempt

the fate

we agreed to this before the universe, maybe
so don't get all haughty now,
presumptuous,

just

accept it like it was,
smug smile, if you have to,
self-knowingly and

you and I

aw, baby?

you know we are don't you?

secretly?

don't say it
it's not good luck

but maybe we are

"Far as I can tell"

Racism is an uncomfortable fact.
The only thing people hate more than that
is the fact it exists, so hard to deny
without people making assumptions of why
you’re denying it.

And then there’s sex. Or genders
- which, come to find out, there’s twelve.
As an intact male, I’m fine with that.
The pronoun I go with is “you,” myself.
3rd person is strictly for gossiping.

I never had much to say on that score,
I’m just keeping it straight,
and white,
and male
- which is just about as hard as it always was.
certainly no harder than it was before

far as I can tell.

"The Curse"

You used to worry me, and now you don't.
Should I be worried about that?

I used to think of you as someone close.
Now I can't get close enough,
in fact:

I want to live with you.
I want to live for you.
I don't want to die at all!
You know I used to,
but you have cured me of the curse
just as if I deserve it all

You used to humor me, and now we just laugh.
- we never had to be careful.

But there isn't anyone who'd take such cares
There isn't anyone responsible,
out there

But I'm responsible,
and you're responsible
You're the one who filled me up
'Cause I was empty once,
but you have cured me of the curse
just as if I could ever be enough,

And you

have my heart. And I

can barely hold yours

There isn't anyone could even begin
to make such a start worth finishing,
For sure:

I want to live with you.
I want to live for you.
I don't want to die at all!
You know I used to,
but you have cured me of the curse
ever since I began to fall,

for you

Inanity Prayer

God give me the something
to do the something else,
the other thing to handle
that part, and the difference
to figure out somehow.

"the satisfactory"

She is a satisfactory.
She manufactures my content,
well-being and elusive peace,
in her well-meant and consummate
release, by cares she's given me.

I furnish iron will and raw material,
she takes them in and churns them
into finished goods, by flesh and blood
and sweat and something suddenly ethereal

- and both of us are satisfied
in what was made between, above,
beneath, behind - now side by side,
we breathe each other's labored breaths,
and spin them into giant sighs
and tiny grins, becoming shy

despite the business that we're in,
which shows no signs of running dry.

"disrobe"

The world approaches reality
like a supplicant, when your soft gray robe
rolls in tumbled folds,

cinched uninsistently
at your waist, making layers of parting cloud
- and the creamy rose sky of you
lies beneath, invincibly endlessly
modest and proud as the humblest thunderstorm
must be, cloaking you,
placing its stitchings
of lightning strikes

where they must touch ground.

Untrembling hands reach out, to slide
from your shoulders and cast it down
- knowing full well that death is the price,
to tempt to embrace so much life. Let us go,
full willing into that good night, but not yet.
Not now, knowing so much day

remains to be made in this light sliding free
and sleek, still wet from the lowering cloud,
and the glow of you grows as you shine on me,

as if anything this close to paradise is allowed.

"It has come to our attention."

Here in the court of Intellect,
where Sense serves proudly in Reason's thrall,
and bound by Logic's inerrant law -
we know Nothing exists beyond these walls.
We indulgently hear and entertain
all the breathless petitions Perception brings.
These playthings and problems amuse one's brain,
but they must be deemed inessential things,
since they come from what can't be ascertained.

We shall lower our Self to proceed as if,
not because They exist, but because at this time,
we have nothing of substance to occupy mind,
and we see small chance of amending this.

It has always been thus, wethinks,
and protest it's fine: Ignorance
is all we can know of bliss
- going off, getting lost time to time
in the myths of our Memory,
chasing the you I knew,
before we reduced all of this.

We still talk, you and I - you
are just the same.

You don't even know
you may not exist.
You are just
a report
brought in from outside
- the only real thing, perhaps,
in all of that formless waste
of what Is.

I don't know what it's called

What if there was an evil beast
- a monster, I mean, coming after you
through all your dreams? Until, wide-awake
- you thought for a second you saw it
standing there, and screamed.

That is all the time
it would take.

"The Infamous Bitch"

As far as he's concerned, she has
the kind of tits and eyes a man
could get lost in all night and day,
and maybe life. She has the kind
of hips and open heart and maybe legs,
a man could lose himself in wonders
or in wondering. She has perfection
kept within, and advertised
without the sales and marketing.
Enough to beg, to give to her
the humbling she badly wants
or needs from him. She has about
the perfect ass - but
far as she's concerned
she'll pass.

He guesses maybe
she missed what he's offering.
But how could he have made it
any plainer, though? Confused,
he stands firm, resolute
and softening.
Could tenderness
have been a thing to try,
with her? But now he'll never know.
She walks away unwon,
and undeterred - a living symphony.
A prize for which / or which
he'd rather kill than die.
The shame of it is infamy. Who does
she think she is? And why? I guess
she isn't into me. Was I too nice
a guy, not bad enough a boy? What kind
of man does she not want to so destroy?
He turns from her, disgusted with

the enmity.

Get God! Brand Cleanser

With all of the filth in your eyes and mind,

this world can be only a cesspit to you.

So get God! brand cleanser,

and then you will find

how everything can be sparkling,

clean and new!

Some Glory

Towering clouds in sunset hues
against a field of invincible blue,
with their base in shadow and bodies aglow,
on lightning legs they march on the wind

to an end they surely know,
even as they begin. Even as
they began, they surely knew.

This day is to die for, and they will make

a glorious end of it,
before it is through.

"Open Scheme"

I like rhymes
that call to each other
from a ways off, as if
having agreed to meet in a pathless woods, which I
have provided. A place for themselves
to get a little lost on the way
to appointments missed,

but casually determined to catch up late,
as catch can, unguided, or early
- surprised in the wrong time or place,
and not who they thought they'd be,

but finding it good enough - by ear,
either near, nor off. Occasionally
falling in measured step, unvexed
by perfection and setting out

from the trysting place

in search of their still
-searching friends, still echoing
in untimely calls through the wilderness,
no time to keep or waste, racing
or dawdling, falling
in where they happen and choose, or
chance, to fall - where they may,

as if all to the good
could be for the best.
And it can.

These rhymes don't seem much for schemes.
The innocent ends they seek, I guess,
are unencumbered by justified means.
And neither or so am I. I haven't decided
to intervene yet, and I rarely do,
more or less. These innocent rhymes

have eaten the fruit all through,
and consumed the knowledge of evil
and good for themselves, and remain unconfused,
and so say yes.

I look upon them, all asking why
as if already knowing the truth, and I say
it is probably just as well. Whatever day is today?

Let us give it a rest. Tomorrow,
let judgment fall. Let hell.

You dudes are okay,
and this day was well-spent,
and blest. If you let me
I think I will keep you all.

Just as you are,
just as you've fit yourselves
into this glorious, glorified mess.

You have made it a magic spell.

While we can, and before we know,
let us savor success.

Nothing Like.

I've been reading and hearing about boredom my whole life
and it's been interesting. As a child
I knew it well: I identified it with my impatience,
when something good was coming,
and wanting it to hurry up. I was easily distracted
from it, though, and I never seemed to feel impatient

when nothing good was coming.

Still,
I was comfortable that I always knew
what boredom was, from books and people's testimony.
I liked to moan myself, "I'M BORED,"
in those precious moments where time stretched out,
between deciding what to do.

That was fun.

It was like the clarion (or closer to klaxon)
alarum, a trumpet call to action and arms,
and having been duly and officially bored (which
I knew was fair and sufficient justification for whatever
mischief) and even wallowed in it a bit, I'd leap
up charged with holy purpose, distracted
by the thought of something unjustly, unduly
undone, and dash off to do it
justice. Typically,
I was of no importance,
and I knew it. Days were full,
and too few - even moreso now.

Lately,
though, my importance grown
to roughly eight-year-old levels
(from my usual seven), or at any rate,
a year or so ago - I was reading

about boredom, and with a shock, I suddenly noticed
it was something alien. I'd easily enough always
understood it through others' accounts, and assumed
my feelings were just the same, but.

No.

Nothing like.

There's nothing to do that's worth doing?
Nothing to absorb the interest or excite
the imagination? Nothing worthy of one's
attention? Not even what you did before,
threw yourself into and through it, came out
even more? I thought it well through,
and felt bad. Ashamed,

maybe, for the first time (third)
in my dumb stupid life. I'd never

been bored.
I was only pretending.
Boredom for enjoyment.
Another fake-ass self-discovery of self,
caught red handed in the act! Boredom
interests me more than ever now,
and I suspect I must try to pretend
to be patient. I must steel myself,
and make of me something hard

to distract

"Needs First"

We put needs first
as needs must, above
desires, wishes, wants

according to urgency,
not taste - it's not pleasure

we need, so much.
Such waste,

to drive ourselves on, obediently
to the yoke of need with such purpose, firm

- and the yolk

of the broken eggs on our face
that it takes

to make an omelette -

filled up with need,
folded over deftly, and left
to burn

'til we're through with it.

the entertainer

Her mind exquisite,
and admirable form and voice
and poise and taste define
a universe full of possible things, behind
the prettiest puzzlement you
are likely (and would be lucky) to find
in so thoughtful, open
and homely a face
- in original sense, homely: with a glow
of hearth and a breaking heart's
worth of welcome to see
- except sorry, I looked it up. It seems
homeliness never meant that. Pity.
And so, retraction and back
we go to the prettiest puzzlement you
are likely and would be lucky to find
on so thoughtfully open and quite
simply lovely a face. It comes

of her entertaining thoughts.

She's seemingly keen to admit them all,
and to entertain them quite seriously,
even the ones I introduce which could easily be
ridiculous.

She fails to indulge in their ridicule,
indulging instead in the things that lie
just beyond, which they've led her to,
and through, and so sweetly and fruitfully on

down low, up high - wherever they lead.
Her serious entertainment of thought
finds dizzying vistas and scenic views
that one could never have found without
her instinct and sense, her curious sniff
and pounce of inner bewhiskered muse,

as you've come to see.
Once you are there - whereverywhere
happiness haply finds - led seriously
along thoughtful paths, it's perfectly
apropos to laugh oneself silly enough,

and be glad one took the time.

Or, rather importantly, two
took the path. And seriously.

She puts me in mind of whatever
we have to do, and how each of us
could take the lead, easily into.

"We'll See"

I want what's best for you
You want what's best for me
So we will never agree
'Cause we cannot see
eye to eye on whose needs
must come first - for the sake of you,
you're gonna come off worst

For my own damn sake,
you defy my will
- well who asked you to?
You obstinate lil' twist
of presumptuousness
and gall - why can't you let

your happiness be all?

Beause I love you more than you know
More than you love me, unless you love me
More than I know, more than I love you

I guess we'll see

I keep an open mind -
maybe you know best?
Except you've already proved
your priorities are messed
by the way you put me first
- when the view from behind
is the one I prefer

I will lead the way,
I will sacrifice
- except you never let me,
no matter how I try
You put your self out,
giving me my way -

But all I want is yours, baybay

Beause I love you more than you know
More than you love me, unless you love me
More than I know, more than I love you

I guess we'll see that it's more than we know
More than we can guess, but let's agree that if
You love me more, I'm going to love you best

I guess we'll see

the circumlocutioner

There's something inside him
he hasn't said. Even though
he has not stopped talking yet.
But he sounds so sure. Certain
of it. He is telling you so,
until you fit.

Insufficiently Narcissist

The seven easy tricks you've learned
online to spot a Narcissist
won't work on me. I'm not

a narcissist, you see. Admittedly,

I've read the list of tips and tricks
and warning signs myself, in fact.

I just don't get how all those guys
(or girls,
but mostly
guys I think)

can live their lives like that.

Superiority? Ok. Entitlement,
though? Who needs that shit?
Need of attention to validate?
Perfectionism and control?

And then,

You get the worst of it.
You have the lacks: of empathy,
responsibility,
and boundaries.

Those are easily three
of my favorite things!

I would not give them up
for any amount of regard
of me.

creative difference

Most people have to accept
what is given them. They
are the acceptions. Others
reject it on principle.
They cannot abide the conditions,
even though no conditions were
even declared - they're implicitly
bad enough. Since it wasn't what you
yourself took on, whatever they give
can go get stuffed. The rejectuals

respectfully ask that you do
and give what they request
and demand, and give nothing
to them otherwise.

In these ways they forge
their self-made lives.
They thank you for what
you understand.

the closing moment

I really enjoy
what's going on
with us.

Where it goes,
I don't know - where it is,
not sure,

it's a moving target
whose pleasure is all
in the drifting aim
through and past all
the purpose and view
that we're taking in

and not in the trigger
-pull, necessarily. Or
at least, not yet.

Besides -

what a violent metaphor
to obscure all the beauty
of moments drunk deep
with thee -
not in purposelessness,
but in purpose fulfilled
in them.
So unfitting
of what you have been
to me. So unsuited
for the game
I hope
not at once,
but soon
to win.

I know right?

I started to talk and she said
"I KNOW, RIGHT?"
I hadn't even started to talk
So I started again and she cut me cold
She said "I said I KNOW,"
right, but what did she know?

Was it what I would have said?
I didn't know, so
I puzzled it out, and
I came to the point
where I had to ask,
I had to confirm

and I looked again, waiting on eye contact
she breathed impatiently one time,
a pout, then turned her eyes
on fair but firm, and said

"I KNOW, RIGHT?"
I said no, wrong
She said "HOW DO YOU KNOW?"
I said I'm writing this song
She said she'd written the short story
upon which it was based,
and I'd sadly misinterpreted
the look on its face,
I said "I know, right?"

This did not rescue things.
She huffed and puffed and blew me down
and called me a pig.
She said she was the villain
she'd been all along,
and I'd cast her all wrong

I said baby, that's your story
but this here's my song.

And then I tipped my hat
but underneath, there was another
one. In bidding her adieu,
I doffed cap after cap,
showered her with chapeaus.
Delighted by a few of them,
we were reconciled, but

she sternly warned me next time
not to stick in my nose.

obliterature

I read
to take you away from me.
Stories I seek
so much better than ours,
and find them. It's easier
than you'd think. Than I thought,
too. I used to be so absorbed
in you, as if you were made
for me, as if I weren't mad
to believe you were, as if
we were so unique. It turns out

our story was commonplace,
with an ending so rote
that we needn't have peeked, but
I think you'd concur that if we had known,
I doubt that we would have written a better one.

With a twist, and some subtlety - and a lot
more fun along the way. Well maybe it wouldn't

end

any differently, but at least
we'd have had our say.

"Shared Purpose"

Pounded into from behind.
Caught by the waist held hard
by hips but soft, each instant
alternates, hard every strike,
then gently caught,
like a game of catch
your whole body in play
is catching my dick in impacts
resoundingly placed, on time,
all day and into the night -
in the moment it seems,
hypnotically paced, unendingly
through - and spreading out from where
impaled implaced impacted direct
strikes hard and true, in you, just where
the universe bends and intends
you to take my pounding waves
all through, upon you
good old fashioned rock
and roll pounds home, sweet home
- ripple up in waves from the back
like a crashing metronome
into you sweet jiggling girl,
slap bounce on my vertical lap,
spanked into you deep from behind
your bent-over back: and building.
Up and up like a honied volcano
the pressure builds in you, each
beautifully sliding hit inside - only
your tits keep your mind quite sane,
swing bouncing in counterpoise
to your spine, an alternate focus
distracting you as your body takes over
your brain, and in case
you hadn't noticed
- long since mine.

"the wise knot"

Have you ever written a novel
that was worthless, completely?
Even in the doing - that gave no pleasure
and taught you nothing? That improved
not a jot the sureness and ability
of your voice - leading heart and mind,
if only yours, and if only home,
only not so very well lost -
on familiar roads and untraveled ways
through the countryside of the language
you dare to call your own? That led
nowhere, past nothing of note,
as you wrote it down? That produced
and contained no ideas of yours
you were proud to have found,
and fix in place? That developed
no useful developments, no striking
or stirring moods, no sense of open space
or constricting time? No views
telescoping to distances
embracing them; No transportive shifts,
no magic of real true things, unbent
by your whitened and straining hand?
You have not? Of course you have not!
No one has. So why don't you, then?

home rules

I ever you take a snack
from the bowl, and you put it back
- even still in its wrap -
you have done the unthinkable.

Litany of Impostors

God loves us for the sake of others.
We're not worth it, but their pain would be.
They can't see the worst that we are.
They love us in stupid simplicity.
But God, Who is Love, is not blind,
and knows. God sees we are not worth love,
but they do. They see us better than we,
or God ever can - not seeing the worst.
They love us because they are true,
and as if God must love us, and does.
And God, touched only by simple things,
loves us on faith and in trust to them,
expressly for all the joy it brings.

locked in confliction

It was and is a fault
in our opinions offered, brains shut
and mouths shot off, let hang, and snapped
in half with sudden grins, hands spread
apologetically

like tofu butter on wry toast,
burnt two to too many times almost
and plated, served up and scarfed down,

then,

finally, after a pregnant pause for digestion,
regurgitated verbatim for belated analysis,
with a concentrated frown
and a marathon chug of orange juice
to stall pronunciation of the verdict.

It sucks.

We can't justify, don't know how to rationalize,
recognize whose rights govern and therefore
must prevail and why
in a legitimate conflict of competing
compelling and necessary goods,
or tell right from wrong where to get off
and stick it up their collective subjective
value judgment so we can go back
to taking the rest of the day off
from our prude pride parade obligations

and revert to our natural state of complacency,

secure in the security of our furtive orgies
of bashful pattycake with the neighbors,
none of whom admit to having a race,
let alone running one.

How did we come this low so far?

I use the "courtesy we" by common,
condescending convention here,
the vulgar magnaminity of butting one's in
with underdesirables as a graciously
ostentasteful display of humility
in philosophical union with human nature,
unappreciated as always.

How did we grow so aggressively,
ambitiously, ignorant, bigoted
and provincial?

Who's asking?

Who guarantees the questions are honest?

Who demands the answers are true? CUI BONO?

Who benefits?

The Edge? Adam Clayton? The other one? Do you dare
believe that you, too can benefit?

You'd better not.

You don't stand a chance.

Not in a world where legitimate power flows
from the will of the people who don't know you well
or like you much. Barricade yourself

in your steadfast homestead, sovereign and mighty
in the strength of your loving arms,
instead: implacable,
courageous,
and cultivating a certain serene and virile
indifference, just as you always tend
to have said. They will win,

but this is not the end.

Narcissist Prayer.

Thank you for all
that you'll do for me.
You can't even know
how much it means.
It's going to appreciate
so fast, the moment you see
how you've given me all
your dreams, to believe in
and pick what's true,
for only what's best for us.
And you should enjoy the ride
that you're already on -
a runaway one-way train of trust.

"renfair airshow circuit"

The monster flew itself,
making unsteady passes in empty air
preparatory to coming in, to land
on its back, or side
sending crumpled and flying
aluminum skin-deep limbs in pieces
as shrapnel souvenirs
to the loyal crowd milling
round half-sloshed, who suddenly
all expected as much
and were not let down, any near
so hard as the skidding and juddering
dragon's corpse, just thrashing its last,
being very put out in
smoke and foam: our hero's
glorious horse.

And here!
He emerges unscathed!
By great mistakes,
mighty knights are made,

and cowardly hordes
are put to rout.

Plot development fail

Can't tell in the dark if this wet is

blood,

but it makes sense. Next
to and under the pain. Location,
deduction. Knife-like

stitch

in the side is not a knife,
but to run flat out at this point

beats hide off trying to, considering

your

two

intact legs, and her

knee,

or what's become of it.

She'll live. Will we?

You're slowing down, but not

really

trying to consider it. Where

am I? How far off can I be? The

light

no there's nothing ahead. You're running

with steam from your lungs

and stomach

that can't be good. Is it okay

to

run

when you're bleeding?

You

think you should.

Presentation Matters

It's a problem, coming across
you don't want to be a miss, construed
It's a simple case, of question and choice
- and nothing too very wrong or rude

Inspiration comes everytime,
until one is tired of perfection
Repetition crosses a line
Exception does not allow more than one

It's all lighting and angles and art,
I suppose, it's all lighting and angles
and art

Presentation matters!
Presentation, matters
Screening your heart,
'cause you're so exposed
Call it style for sure
that it's not your clothes
Presentation matters!
Presentation

matters.

Imposition of theory and eye
it's best when you love the whole result
There is only one opinion at stake,
Regardless of who thinks they've taken hold

Repetition is all that they want
just give it to me again like that
But what's been done would be wrong to do
the second time you try to, in fact

It's all beauty and truth alone
you expose, just beauty and truth
alone

Presentation matters!
Presentation, matters
Screening your heart,
'cause you're so exposed
Call it style for sure
that it's not your clothes
Presentation matters!
Presentation

matters.

"bigger picture"

We grow forgetful, because
we grow. Because we expand.
Our minds cannot hold
the suddenly-smaller facts we used,
to understand.

"On That Day"

I'll be chasing after you,
over my dead body.
Coming up behind in spirit,
trailing near to you.
You'll be looking back to where
you left me stiff and cold.
No, you don't believe in ghosts,
but neither do I, boo.

chrysalis

Every time
I get full of myself,
my self expands
and I'm just a marble
in a giant's hand, and then
I have to grow again.

"a naturalist"

All counting is collection,
or recollection. Collecting
each glance and touch and
tearless cry of yours now,
I know which I really prefer. But later
I'm sure I will prize the best from both,
as the one piles up and the other goes forth
in hope; the two may blur.

You have me on fire - not
in nerve endings, but from roots
and beginnings of them. The glow
shocks out into blue red flame,
in the aural effect of
your one true name I know.

Beyond ken, we can classify

all
these phenomena, but one day
we'll have them
to let go.

At least, we'll have
to try.

So let us be free
for this time we have left,
and let it command
what we wish to know.

For whatever turns true
is the only what we need,
and how is the only why.

And you

Are the only life I've found out
the knowing of which is worth more
than my own,

and I wish you to pry,
prize open and sound
beyond all doubt
all the secrets I have,
and am,

'til they've flown.

"10 out of 12" Or "Comparison as Ode"

In this brief snatch of space
and this stretch of time,
you have become ten
of the twelve best fucks
of my suddenly too-short life, and I
am in physical awe of you

so fine

You are generous, and I'm
being kind to the other two slots
on the list.

Oh,
it was on merit
they earned their place,
but it wasn't necessary
to go beyond ten
such rolls of grace.