Stung by an angling fad
He took a fishing rod
And sallied onto the nearby stream
That leaped down a rocky shelf
Forming small cascades
But running down into plain ground
With a placid demure face
Uttering soft murmurs sweet

Aiming at the darting Trout
That made the still waters into spiraling whirls
He swished the rod in the air
With the alacrity of a practiced bowler

Looking at the line sinking low
He waited for the fish to nibble at the bait
Meanwhile, inhaling the salubrious air
And watching the limpid movement of the stream

As the hook line went taut in his grip
Hopefully he pulled it up

But alas! With no ***** to boast!

Patiently sat he there for hours
Like a sculptured God upon a rock
Oh! It requires immense patience
With adroitness to boot
To be an angler, no doubt
That sure is a sedate man’s pursuit!

Angling rarely fetches any major luck
Except now and then a fresh fish upon one’s plate

Yet following one’s heart’s pursuit
Is worth more than all tangible reward it brings!

each angling
for fishing
angling and fish doesn't know

it doesn't matter for fishing

each wave
the boat drags
not the wave and the boat but

fishermen are aware of

each coastal
open to the waves
fishes and the boats for shelter
nobody doesn't knows

important for fishing and fishermen

I'm drunk and the skies are a little hazy, and the stars, a little like Van Gogh's, but tonight, I'm still an astronaut angling metaphors from the mesophere and you're still the moon to which these poems orbit around.

Plenary veils...infinitely unveiling the bride--
her face will never be seen, ovoid porcelain,
angling candles...upon a UFO altar.
The relentless Hand that pinches and lifts her
veils...has seen her face, and kissed her lips
so many times--that her infinite unveiling...
is love's ****** regress...a deathless imagining
made real.

The vines have turned the color of the season —
as red as the wine their grapes will spill.
I peer back up the hillside into the circling sun,
an infinite swath of yellow. Below it surges
Homer’s wine-dark sea, repeatedly, endlessly, effortlessly
spreading. Except the sea is never red in Greece or Italy,
or even in France, where I stand amid a sea of wine-red leaves,
in silence, under the sun, holding back the flood of invaders below.

From the crumbling wall of the vineyard,
I survey the village of Riquewihr in all its medieval splendor,
gorged with tourists like an unfortunate goose
gagging on grain forced down its gullet:
foie gras for the shopkeepers, who crowd the cobbled courtyard
in all its chaos and cacophony.
“Sample a macaroon for free under the ramparts.”
“Buy a reproduction of a one-of-a-kind watercolor of the bell tower,
built in 1291. (Only 400 Euros for the original),” the artist says.
“Reserve it now for Christmas.”

His stocking cap needs cleaning, I think.
I eye the village fountain, the half-timbered shops, the claustrophobic
stone houses, brightly painted, squeezed into walls like tiny fortresses.
The artist tells me how hard it is to make a living —
the global economy his impenetrable wall, which holds back a flood
of buyers from Germany, China, New York.

I decline his offer to buy and climb the steep hill out of town,
the wine-dark hill of the vineyard.
This is what it means to inherit the world:
to stand apart, high, distant, above the sea
of other tourists, just like yourself, who yearn to stand apart,
just like yourself, laden with bulky guidebooks,
just like yourself, looking for the perfect souvenir, just like yourself,
the one that will sit perfectly on their mantle. Just like yourself,
they seek a memento that will remember for them — remember
all they could have had if only they had had the village to themselves.
If only you had had the village to yourself, to make it your own.

On this sunny afternoon, the village is my own — for a moment,
from a distance, awash in gray-blue shadow. Only the vineyard beams:
isolated, fecund, teeming with dreams; ever gaining on the harvest;
angling closer to the giant wine press that will spew the scarlet juice
at my feet, the earth turned the color of blood.

I resist the urge to pluck a baby cluster of grapes, nestled safely
beneath a leafy wave of this wine-dark sea, these purple berries
springing from the ground: so many earthy bubbles, born to burst.
Le terroir in French: The dirt makes all the difference.

A handful of soil would prove the perfect souvenir, n’est-ce pas?
sitting pretty on my mantle. The dust and debris would blow away
day by day, like ashes spilled from a funerary urn,
the sacred remains of my travels.

Let me be buried, then, in memory of the fertile furrows of Alsace.
Let me push up this hillside, along its ample paths of abundance;
its ripening rows of fruit; its wine-red passageways through leaves
and vines, steep and luminous; the sea of blood yet to be pressed
from the soon-to-be-crimson grapes.

“Does this vast vineyard hold any secret worth journeying halfway
around the world to find?” That is the question I scribble in the dirt.
“Does this village? Does this vision? Does this ancient, failing wall?”
Even if the answer is “No, no, no,” I shall reply, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Yes, let me be buried in Alsatian soil as a lasting souvenir.
Yes, let me lie here, as I stand: free and upright,
lighted by the autumn sun, unchanging, set apart
to revel in the marvel of red blood seeping into the soil.
Yes, let me make this stained patch of dirt my own.

The vines have turned the color of the season —
wine-red, wine-dark, blood-red.
And I have turned the color of the vines,
in silence, under the sun, holding back the flood.

Five thousand trees between his knuckles
Crushing the bark, choking the oaks
Straining through leaves with makeshift sieves
Angling to find an ankle or two
Praying that even a toenail would do
But all to be found was her mountain laurel crown
Still tangled with strands of burnt-birch down

Lil' Israel, today, scuttled the long struggled for 'Iran ...Deal',
an acheivement of the Obama Presidency, although he failed on his
promises of "...watching the robots..." (20 % of "Bernie Or Bust
'Bots", the "hacker 'bots", and hackers globally, etc., biological
machine parts of 'la machine', mega, mecha, techa vs. orga, soma,
Gaia, which were central to the invisible coup that, with the tug, the
S.S. Tea Party, to the tune of their manifest destiny rag, dragged
'The U.S. Constitution', our Ship of State, into the 'Plymouth Rock'
Of this nation's original sin, imperialism, as they landed on it
while it landed on "...we(e),...", Native Americans, Turtle Island,
derailing democratically directed progress and installing Trumpler in
the klukahouse) and "closing Guantonomo", etc., he kept many, making
him singular amongst the number of the fingers of one hand at the top,
The "Presidents Club".  His legacy includes allowing the intelligence
industrial complex, of the corporate structure's convolution, to
purposely not prevent the hacking of the Presidential Elections of
2016, yet also includes such acheivements as the A.C.A., and the
'Iran ... Deal', it being the best possible foreign policy endeavor
To move forward with Iran.  Yet, Trumpler's feuhrer, Netsenyahoo's,
putting on a show of shiny cd's, old intelligence that didn't even
support his delusional projections, was all the cover 'The Donald'
needed to follow his channeling of his inner-worst yahoo and "scrap",
Racistly, that epitome of foreign policy success, "...because it was
Obama's...", as was Trumpler's campaigning on his desires to
"...update and use nuclear programs and weapons...".  For, it's been
common global foreign affairs knowledge for half a century that any
nuclear war is the extinction of humanity in a can, thus 'containment',
not proliferation', was the eternal order of the day.  So, His Trunc-
ularnesses not understanding why "...a country has weapons if they're  
not going to use them...", was not just a confession of his utter
criminal insanity, it was also one of his intent to break the "Non-State
Agression" part of the Nuremburg Accords that was central to the lessons
learned from WWII, like if you're not taking bullets you're making them,
By globally selling not just unending war, but nuclear ones, discarding
containment for proliferation, 'cause war pays extremely more than peace.  
What do you get when you mix imperialism, materialism, racism, religious
bigotry, patriarchy, oligarchy, notsee Germany before it annexed Austria.
Trumpenstein, blasting the keinder and gentler imperialism of remocrats,
Is warring on dempublicans, voting, women's rights, healthcare, health,
Et al, exterminating non-rem voters, etc., now he is angling for a Sunni
wished for unending worldwide war on the Shiite, Iran, to be nuclear, ****
all non: US citizens, Caucasians, upper-middle-class to rich, supposed
Christians, as our notsee war machine has ever been oiled by the blood
of, for more (like merx for more thru to mercs for unnecessary unending
worldwide war).  Separating the real religion which all religions,
etc., are a front for, avarice, from the State, as is dictated by our
Constitution, is not only a necessity for "a nation and an individual",
like Gandhi said "abhaya, fearlessness", is, it's now a necessity for
the existence of humanity, neigh, all life and the Earth.  He will end
U.S. if we don't protect the vote, GOTV, vote, and impeach him a.s.a.p..

If she’d said something
I wouldn’t be giving upon her
Any where I would have followed her.
I’d haven’t missed her, only
If I’d not have giving upon her.
I know she’ll not miss even a gleam.
And I’d have bring her ice cream,
If she’d said something.

I would have woven
and spin my life round her,
If she’d said something.
I thought she would
be an epicenter of my life.
But when strop cut, I’d gulped
whole solid salty ****.
And I’ll grow dead -eventually- in evenfall.

Nightfall ought to be peaceful,
but it clutches your way like in gears.
A constant, perpetrated picture
keep your head occupied like a
brook flows with babbling sound.
I stare at the ceiling in the dark,
with same old empty felling in the chest.

A breeze brings with aroma of violet.
I lay on sand of salty water,
tides making growling sound.
I spoke to clear sky.
And I spoke to all.

Good bye - All men die.

It's a parade
Wobbly heat waves
Children and colours
Canteen food
And the snapping sounds of foldable plastic chairs

Little athletics day
Here he comes
Handkerchief on his head, tucked into his sunglasses

Mum never came

He could be harsh
My sister cried once
There was pressure to win
I never did
I was afraid I'd be clotheslined by that finishing line
Be my guest Flash
I wasn't fast, but I wasn't slow


This is me
Relay leg no.3
Baton in my hand
Whistling thru the air
(Missing you, missing me)
Round the bend
Furthest from the crowd
Running thru heat waves
Angling like a fish, oh yeah
(Missing you, missing me)


I asked for your help
Speaking to that place in my mind that doesn't change

You gave me every weapon for this world
And I still don't know what to do

I wasn't at the funeral
I was far away, making myself out of sand at high tide

Thank you for everything
The way they remembered you, how you made peace come true, I never knew, or maybe I did


This is me
Relay leg no.3
Baton in my hand
Whistling thru the air
(Missing you, missing me)
Round the bend
Furthest from the crowd
Running thru heat waves
Angling like a fish, oh yeah
(Missing you, missing me)




It was really blooming when you left
The police man and his bunny were making fun of your emotions by then
Playing substitute friends
There was something biting that wouldn't stop

But you were appreciated by us
And still are
So many memories


This is me
Relay leg no.3
Baton in my hand
Whistling thru the air
(Missing you, missing me)
Round the bend
Furthest from the crowd
Running thru heat waves
Angling like a fish, oh yeah
(Missing you, missing me)

I met a girl today
Well, I was busy doing some stuff and my phone…told me…I met a girl today.
It said “Ring, ring you have a match. Say hey!”
****, I remember swiping right on her last Tuesday.
How you been?
You see, I live my life window shopping women 5 pictures at a time
Jenny is 7 miles away
Mary wants no strings
Sarah’s sick of *** boys

And Tinder says were all a perfect match!
And now that we’re messaging
And I committed your profile to memory
I remember my reasons for not wanting to be here in the first place

But still I cast out some witty one-liners
Acting as an angler angling for your affection
by employing instruments of artful articulation aimed at ever increasing your awareness of the me
I’m projecting to be.

Because in my head I’m a jack of all trades.
I can change my oil, I can change a diaper
I can make a 3 pointer, I can make a cake
I can build a house, I can build a family
I can make you forget about your last man, I can make you forget about the tears you cried when you were 12.
I can make you feel ****, I can make you wet.
I can make you feel loved and I don’t even love you yet.

Because I haven’t actually met you
I’ve asked you about your favorite book but haven’t had the honor of being told your daddy issues actually come from a guy friend freshman year and that’s why you won’t wear another man’s sweater.
You know my favorite ice cream. But haven’t born witness when I whisper my history of five formidable years of foster care and how that made me the man that I am, and the boy I am not.
You see, Tinder put us in touch but keeps us apart.
With every hour between messages we have ample opportunities to build each other up in each others mind.
But I don’t really know if the me I gave you is the me I see with my own eye or the I I hope you see when we first meet.
And I don’t know if the you I’m getting is the you you’re selling when I buy our first dinner or the you you see when you take your make-up off at night.
That’s the us tinder never brings to light.

So maybe I prefer to have met you in person.
When your personality cannot possibly be poisoned by the internet’s preferred first impressions.
Because in person I can count every freckle on your forehead and kiss every mole down your back.
Because in person I can see firsthand how your nose creases crinkle when you snort instead of laugh.
Because in person I can do so many things that I just cant do with 5 ******* photographs.

So maybe I want a love that wasn’t born from my phone.
Maybe I want to cross paths in real life
Maybe I want to get that feeling you get
Where I look at you, you look at me and cupid starts stirring our chemistry set
My heart begins bubbling beyond the boiling point
Because I saw out of the corner of my eye
Your eyelids flutter.
One of which is worth more than all of the swipes and all of the matches


Maybe I just want to be old fashioned, like an archaic kind of light
Maybe I want to meet you someday and never have to swipe right.