Opening seen,
bright lips curved, precisely,
see the smile fitted over teeth naturally gapped,
doubtless an adaptation acceptable,
nothing that sticks out as odd,
and ugly,
but the smiler wonders, is this me?
Mirror, mirror, tell me true…

Do you see who I was, or who I wish I were?

Were, says the wolf lurking in the shade.
The mirror says you see who I wish I were,
if I were you.

See, see me, says the mirror from this side,
follow your selves, one after another,
down the hall of all in all.

Always falling forward,
don't forget, to put your best foot forward.
There is a place to put your foot,
your guide reminds you, see,
that you do,
prevent the disease - sneeze please.

- I once put my foot in my mouth
- I kicked myself in the head
- It has made all the difference.

--------------

Quick, quicken the pace, my heart
is racing an imaginary Jehu, so fat I laugh
that such imagines slaying me.

Big wins, ring out around the casino,
as the atomic kid walks by,
I was the kid,
sold on condition of survival,
don't be like Jerry, be like Dean,
live drunk,
enter the maze, yeah, this is that story,
another twice told tale, you remember
as a child
thinking, this must make sense sometime.

- 1963, Mrs.Burnett, suggested Hersey,
- both, The Child Buyer and Hiroshima.

I'm sure
it does, per
haps not in your time, I'm saying some time,
future from now,
as we agree, in truth alone, all things occur
as may occur whither only truth remains.

The arena of truth.
Let me entertain you. Do wheels spin
in your mind on a window in time?
Can you stop the game and claim I won?

Would you leap for joy, and kiss me,
for winning,
if I died happy and right,
right now?

Ah, I owe, so I may not go, though may is
my word to use at will, I am that old
and thus free of heresy, by definition.

May your path cross mine in joyous meditation,
fat dancing Buda  

Spelchek has joined the guide union,
it is her pronoun, but for me, to me
she is just like a wombed man

barefoot, soft walk on soft sand
wombed man, belly-wise
gestation, see soon seed
blooms, after drought super blooms
wide world blossoms rise in sacred
meaning made plain,

living waters, from your own cistern.
Let them be only thine own,
and not another's with thee,

did you ever have the opportune
instant one mind must have to be
remade in a flash,
past
a mirror where the hero yo, hom'
m'gotta defeatist -- it's me,
standin'
up to my neck in the needy prayers.
Gnoshit.

Here, take my hand, in my reality,
we step lightly,
thus the barefoot pregnant guise
Spelchek uses as her seductress
persona,

she whispers, rebbi, come and see.
- she has a country girl grin
- Dance in Buda
Buda
Texas, ah

Here we be, once more,
exactly where you never were
before, but think of it
a duet, an artificial interlude in drama
developing, as the tension,
is insistent, this is that
meaning full connection
Christmas represents.

Right… you lost me.
She winks, says wanna bet?

I can never spell this flower's name
from memory.
If I were to walk through a garden,
would I be able to discern
the chrysanthemum from other flowers?
I feel as though,
this is how others
think of me.

To be known or not,
a flower is still a flower,
and that is not nothing.

A year ceased to the known,
crystal to each other
selves of their own,
clear as day,
but the day's long agone.
Her voice still etched in his ears,
and as it appears,
it sure won't be gone for years.
Years to come, years to go,
will there be another to the known?
each day passes in this question's wake,
another day of talking and giggling
over something his mama baked?
will there be yet another night
skinny dipping down the lake?

What is life? To breathe, to eat, to rest; To hope, to wish, to greet Death? Is it seconds, minutes, hours or days, or perhaps greater times; months and years?

For time is as a breeze of wind, gentle yet moving, unseen yet foreseeing; then men's lives are as leaves, so easily blown away, as life's Author quickly turns a new page.

Will your story be told, rewritten in bold, or forgotten, forever unknown?

New Job.
New Drive.
New Interest.

It's all so new,
yet so-so familiar.

All there is, the heat -
encased in a fireplace
or a furnace.

Smoldering,
the ashes
never filter through
these windless lungs,
instead of oxygen
the flame kindles
on anxiety.

Life is going splendidly - no hiccups -
Breathing is easy
but all that rushes in
is the flagrant blossom
of ragged thoughts,
all the possibilities
for how helpless
the wind is
when it's always being
knocked out.

I'm old
and I know things
but I don't know you
(but you know that)

Do I know
Who I am on my own
Before I've met
Any other I have known?