like a damp newborn
my wings have yet to dry,
but no longer required
to inch on stubby caterpillar legs,
unfolding, yielding to the sky.

growing,
bigger or stronger?
shedding the skin
that until now catered to your touch;
without ears
(for you supply no words)
listening with my tongue
for your toxic presence.

a ball of fluff,
that cannot swim,
who you leave to drown,
rises up out of the water
its wings sleekly curved
stunningly bright, bold, and beautiful.

and you wonder
at the transformations,
even though you were
the noxious chemicals
that began these
beneficial mutations.

all hyped up
on a pedestal
(how do I get down?)
forget me baby...
         I'm no good.

everyone clamoring, crawling
desperate for my attention
         a whiff as I pass by
the breath before the kiss
slow releases of poison
permeating their being
i am essence of delusion
         acrimonious bedevilment
rolled over their temples
seeping into their veins
eating away at their cells
like a virus replicating and destroying
inducing mutations with a smirk
no containment
and to which there is no antidote
passing from one victim to the next
nonchalant and ruthless
on the prowl, half sleep
squashing beneath me
egos, hearts, lives.

next?
as I said -
forget me -
there is no love.

running from the bulls
a stampede of innocent bystanders
enraged at that ruby color
sweetheart red
passion red
blood red
mixed together,
one and the same,
no distinction.

off the cliff like lemmings
scurrying subconsciously
instinctually
fascinated by that edge
enchanted into oblivion.

the praying mantis
tracking her mate
plotting, planning his demise
a smile oozing with sweetness one moment,
then the heartless attack,
out to ****
smacking her lips,
knowing full well of his fate.

all I learned
I learned from you.
like mother like daughter
Mommy Dearest
you truly are
the cruelest teacher of them all.

The last time I saw
you was in a parking
lot in January. You
were in town for your
father's funeral; my
oranges had tumbled out
of the cart and into
the snow and it was
really very
pretty.

a perfect, newly unveiled horizon line
ancient and promising
yet reborn as a newborn
to my industrialized eyes.

I haven’t heard sirens in days.

still, there is the hustle and bustle
of movement everywhere,
but not by people
nor Porsches and Escalades
and their infiltrating thick smog.
no inane chatter
and fake oohing and aahing
over Louis’ and who saw who.

no
here the possessions move
the so-called inorganic
the buildings, doors, and gates
yearning to be free
swaying, creaking
their tiny reins of confinement
too much to bear
for their free spirits.
taking their cue
from trees, plants, vines, leaves
which are overgrowing fences
and clambering over walls
a massive riotous uprising at a glacier-pace
to triumph over the bipeds
imagine the horror of the flora
at a sudden interment to La-La-Land
the hopelessness and oppression
at being trimmed twice a week
mutilated and then slaughtered.

no
they are the secret underground rulers
stubbornly proud but humble tyrants
mercifully loving their lowly subjects
feeling sorry for us
we who have been forced into
this unnatural industrial order
not their beautiful chaos.

and yet...
they lie in wait
patiently, silently
anticipating the day
when we throw up our arms in exasperation and relief
and acquiesce to their dominion
a return to times before times.

Please don't run away.
Because I won't chase again.
It's my turn to run.

I have, on my computer,
two sound generating devices
which I meditate on
for healing reasons
and I am on
a Dharma network
which has photographs
of Yantras, which are those
geometrical designs
that I meditate on
for healing reasons
and I don't know
if I am healed by these things
or not
but it sure is a trip!