Drink.      Though I do.
Smoke.      Tell me about it.
Make money.    Story of my life.
Prophesise.    It's too cloudy.
Philosophise.    In a way.
Columnise.    Working on it.
Be right.   Got over that at sixty.
Be high.   It never lasts.
Make peace.  ****, I'm too angry.
Be young.   See above.
Be humble.    I love me.
Be graceful.     At sixty?  Really?
Be positive.  Depends on polarity.
Eat healthy.   I do had whole grain bread pizza today.
Be lovely.  Not in my mirror.
Be kind.  Depends on my moods.
Love unconditionally.  Trying to.

I caught

one

once,



it felt

and tasted

like a

ice cream



melting from

the corner

of your

mouth,



and it

was glorious

and Neopolitan

in flavor.



and just

for a

castaway

moment



we were

in a

cocoon
growing
changing
embracing
love ,


and then

suddenly
the shadow

fell,


and you

inhaled

my love

and spit

it out,


like a

dog who

just ate

something

vile.


and then
you

ran,


and

then when
our
eyes would

meet,


you ran

some more.


keeping just

far enough

away


outside

my desperate

reach,

that lord

forbid

that I

might

ever

taste your
ice cream

smile again.


that summer

I was 13
it was my
first kiss..


I was just
a child


who once

thought

anything

was possible.
then I
met you..


stupid

girl.


*****.

I have little thought for these days
As the future evaporates
And the past grows fat and vivid
I amuse myself with games of flashback
Faces and places flickering
Across an empty mind
Dragging their stories behind them
Dead memories metamorphosing
Into living visceral dreams
Where the flowers of love and loss
Are intertwined so closely
That with the passing of time
They each rob the other
Of some pain and glory
As reality gives way
To a realisation of truth

                                      By Phil Roberts

An Open Letter to Really Important People
                     The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
           A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness

We post this serious looking document
Bloated with long vocabulary words
Sodden with weak dependent clauses
Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go

To the GossipNet all serious like
And everyone has to pay attention to us
Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know -
You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name

Signatories:

Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie.

Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be

Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED

Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico

Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X

(Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)

In this
one moment
I see

The old
man with
the cardboard
sign sitting
on the dirt
corner in
front of me,

looks like
a fat black
pool turtle
waiting for
something  
good to
fly by.

perched in
a pose of
power
but nobody
else sees him
that way
I am sure.

he stares
out into open
space like
an predator
looking
for prey.

and it
is not
money he
wants or
respect,

they died
long ago
in his
smile.

he just wants
this dam heat
wave to
calm down,

and his
belley to be
half full
after supper.

and his
kids where ever
they are
to grow up
to be anything
better than
him.

and he
just wants
death to
come and
not wake
him up
when it
does.


it's 4:30 in LA
on a Tuesday
afternoon.

"welcome to
paradise "

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Nights like these
when the moon floats
on the creek, all pale
and swollen, I try
to sleep without dreaming
of a small child, still
and not breathing, like
a leaf felled too soon
during the season
of the monsoon rains,
heavy as the pain of a father
looking here and there,
everywhere for a daughter
somewhere in all of this water.

Most die as caterpillars, their stiff long carcass left hanging somewhere precariously, a ridge they attempted to climb that proved too much in the end for them to struggle through – incarnate no longer

Most die as caterpillars, a shadow of their possibility, many legged creature that could not find a way, even with so many legs, to overcome the most brutal of obstacles, the self from which they run, walk, and crawl

Most die as caterpillars, round, crusted, unyielding to those around them, determined instead to bowl ahead with their own agenda, lost to the possibilities not only around them, but inside them, for the greatest mystery of all was still inside them when they died

Most die as caterpillars, the undiscovered country of themselves left behind, and having lived a life whereby the greatest annoyance were the unusual creatures that occasionally fluttered by, golden wings and unstoppable spirit that soared to heights that even so many legs could not reach