Bootleg ***** in America has gone by many nicknames, from Blue Ruin, Moonshine, Mountain Dew, Coffin Varnish, Old Be Joyful, White Lightning, Rotgut, Popskull...


Queens and fathers, merchants and poets -
all seek appointments with Dr. Popskull,

when these days brim with fresh anxieties
that won't stop piling atop last nerves;

when sunrises now sizzle, haywire,
bringing bills and bad news, too soon by half;

even the weeks and months are mouthy,
won't shut up with their stubborn griefs.

Blue ruin brewing in the clawfoot tub -  
Old Be Joyful swigged sweet tot by tot -

bay *** blind in the corner store -  
Dr. Popskull fills prescriptions as fast

as dollars. Evening varnish vanishes -
happiness is borrowed from a future self.

All we need is darkness
for the natural selection of light
I watch the past as a travel show
the necessity or adversity ignites language,
different shapes of games, we like the power plays
of circle
let me be sealed in a wave
I want to descend to the faith of sand
to the Cro-Magno vision of words

I climb over the wreckage of you -
bent rusted iron, crumbled stone.
My cheeks - stained with soot,
hair -  dandruffed with ash,
skin - raspberried from sweeping the concrete
with my knees.
I unfurl the flag,
emerging from the tumultuous cocoon
of your cannon fire.
The colors fly - dancing with the bullets
in the summer soaked breeze.
I can just make out the haze of the gate
through the thick smoke pouring
from your tempered chest.
A smirk flirts with the corners of my mouth;
The resolute defense of the ruinous gloom
you will carry in dingy bags
made from the cloth of superiority.
I will feast upon a slice of cake
in the golden glow of morning.

I held a pale limb outstretched
Hoping another would grasp it
I'm afraid my blood refuses to take itself
To my fingertips with any regularity
Too viscous and uncaring
I wish the depressed thoughts would stop
Turning memories to sludge weighing heavy
On my mind a million topics run to nowhere
Only echoes uttered, a hollow reverberance
To keep my skeleton company

Tremble in the Face of Dawn-

First raucous caw of gull perched
on red-roofed house
With no remorse

And the white dog shows no fear
for the baby grey squirrel, Knowing
It shall not fall

You have to let go and not hold on
When life's past has cut you to the bone
Cast away the anchors
grasp
Cut the ropes , drop sails on the mast
Check the weather that the sunrise casts
Let go , Let go ,
. . . the ugly past

Seashells so pretty
Blue ocean that calls to me
Beneath shadows dream

Blessed hands that held the brush so fine,
Spoke of stories yet untold in line.
Fingers that danced with vibrant hue,
Whispered secrets, as the canvas grew.

With every stroke, a tale unfolded,
Of passion, fire, and emotions bold.
The hands that painted, spoke of love,
As colors merged, sent from above.

In gentle touch, they shared a sigh,
As petals bloomed, and sunsets lit the sky.
With firm grasp, they told of might,
As mountains rose, and night descended bright.

The artist's hands, a language true,
Spoke of dreams, and all they'd do.
If you let them, they'd tell their tale,
Of beauty born, and emotions unveiled.

Their whispers echoed, as the art took shape,
A symphony of color, a heartfelt escape.
The hands that painted, spoke of soul,
A language universal, making us whole.