I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss

We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:

babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.

That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.

We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:

butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.

We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.

Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are.
Come, my friend, and remember
        that the rich have butlers and no friends,
And we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.

Dawn enters with little feet
        like a gilded Pavlova
And I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
Than this hour of clear coolness
        the hour of waking together.

I CALL on those that call me son,
Grandson, or great-grandson,
On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,
To judge what I have done.
Have I, that put it into words,
Spoilt what old ***** have sent?
Eyes spiritualised by death can judge,
I cannot, but I am not content.
He that in Sligo at Drumcliff
Set up the old stone Cross,
That red-headed rector in County Down,
A good man on a horse,
Sandymount Corbets, that notable man
Old William pollexfen,
The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back,
Half legendary men.
Infirm and aged I might stay
In some good company,
I who have always hated work,
Smiling at the sea,
Or demonstrate in my own life
What Robert Browning meant
By an old hunter talking with Gods;
But I am not content.

I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”

'free butlers for everybody'**

yippee!! hooray!! huzzah!!

i would so love,
somebody to follow me
around all day.
doing the mudane and
boring things,
all that daily guff.
to be at my beck and call,
for just about anything at all.

but then,
if there are 'free butlers for all'

would my, butler,
not have a bulter, of his own
to order about from,
his butler throne
and so on and so forth
and if we all had butlers.
would anything, ever,
really get done?

OR, would we all be,
passing ***** laundry
about in a neverending,  
linen chain.
drinking tepid tea from each others ***** tea cups.
polishing silver for some one other than us ...
would i end up,
being a bulter to you.

my god!  

this, idea of

'free butlers for every one.'  

is spiralling,  out of control

this  factotumnal conudrum,
is going to  drive me insane.

JEEVES ! please, please be so good
as, to bring me a calming tisane.

~

Step into the parlor
The fires spent, still burn
Painted in the faded tint
Nightmare shades to turn

Broken slabs of conscience
Rotted to the core
Splintered in a thousand words
Never heard before

Gears abide the grinding
Slapping to the beat
Shards of incandescent lights
Flavoring the meat

Slicing as you swallow
Whispering refrains
Caught like someone else's fate
Filtered through the shame

Dressed along the hallway
Mirrors shout their fear
There among the carpet stains
Distant as is near

Gasp for all you bother
Feast that final breath
Blood shall ring the butlers call
Long beyond your death

First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter.
I'm probably not fighting it.
It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade.

Second, keep my death off the internet.
Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions.
Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long.

Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot.
You are not to allow this.
A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving.

Not permitted at the funeral:
Gerber daisies
poetry
blue jeans
any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.")

Encouraged at the funeral:
Hugs - everyone must hug
lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?)
And make sure they bury me in the blue dress.

Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring,
make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building,
or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade,
or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason.

Remember me as I was.

We are taught that we inhibit a sphere
Earth is a triangle, that is a point I would like to clear
Triple 6s attached with zeros govern the prism's corners
Infiltrating the angles we base our views on, they program us
Masters to butlers, the barcodes on our foreheads put a price on us
Never the less, Try an angle

I bet they'll confess, we are equal
Amongst other 'triangle' stories, I'd like to tell my own
Of a man's soul with a triangle embedded,chiseled like statue stone
I see that soul within us all
Culminating to reach apex by parallel lines that can let you slip and fall
And with every fall the try angle's base stretches and widens

I remember looking at a perspective drawing titled 'Life is a journey'
Shaped like a triangle was the everyday boulevard traveled by many
At the start of life, objects were big, bright and colourful
Far into life, objects become small, dull but meaningful
Never the less, a triangle has 3 sides to it
Listen! My stanzas confess and guarantee to it.

Just beyond the black iron fence
a haze settles on a parking lot
lit with the ghastly orange glow
of the old street lamps that
tower like rusted butlers.

I crack my window
and billow a gray cloud
that swirls amongst a
***** mist.

The butlers’ bulbs buzz mechanically.
The fog grows thicker.
Amidst it the parking meters
take shape of  metal tombstones,
pale in the darkness
beyond the glow.

I wonder how they died—
they beneath the tombstones.
This place—this city, have you—
boils to the brim with people,
with so many recipes for tragedy;
it’s no wonder they put tombstones
in parking lots.

As dreamers we are oft to make-believe,
Escaping the banality of time,
Stories of noble royals that we weave
Into the fabric of this very rhyme:

For we three do descend from kings of old
And queens who conquered all of their domain
And live our royal lives burdened with gold
And bound to royal living we remain.

Royal maidens of Portugal and France
With butlers who they keep in line with whips.
While one insists they entertain with dance
The other one decrees "Let them eat chips!"

I just observe, dream, and write what cannot be
Who says Punto's can't belong to royalty?

I have spent many years sheltered by love
Shielded from the world’s villainous beings
Beyond blessed to live a life undreamt-of
Your hands guided mine through ev’ry teaching
Unknown that greed and hatred lingered near
and that money took a devilish form.
All I knew was to put the silver spoon here,
to rise with the sun, butlers by the swarm
You told lies- hid me from reality
The sight of such a place scorches my heart
The devil struts the streets safe from chivalry
Children go unnoticed- lost in the dark
What happened to God? Where are the Angels?
All you told me has put me in danger

I was born in a city and time where and when
things were described by their name in the name
of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty
depicting society as it was fearing nothing
while no one took offence, as none was intended

in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self-
deprecating humour. In the countryside village
peasants called my father the Greek, as there were
no aliens other than us and the English man
who lived down the valley. Black skins

only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant
than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins
were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears
of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite
populations they had never seen. Italians

were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams,
though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did.
First strange faces appeared for myths to become
realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years
to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers,

Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders,
Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops,
Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable
to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs,
employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals.

Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash
and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some.
Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road
a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures
of tourists at night when the gypsies come out

of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers
unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking
pockets on public transports everybody knows,
signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese
hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish

kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores.
Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes
and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal
on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments
sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg

for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal
with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning
pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent
dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians,
Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise

themselves as clandestine street vendors
of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied
by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running
away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held
on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise

behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight
from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay
strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past
to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine,
poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day

via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close
our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding
behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take
distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience
and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon.

Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage
to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me
for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions
dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait,
scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.

The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowning a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are

Dragona Radic hated her name for as long as she could remember. So obviously different than the Mary Butlers, and Ginny Gormans she grew up with in Flavor Town. Even Myrtle Feinstein seemed to be given a more applicable name to live in Flavor Town to Dragona’s mindset. Life was hard for Dragona in Flavor Town. Especially, when at twelve she began to grow a moustache. Living in Flavor Town wasn’t easy for anyone really, but to Dragona it was shear torture. Susie Choo became her best friend for more reasons of default than likeability. Being the only other girl with as much a non-conformable name as Dragona, Susie Choo’s distaste for her was equal. Still, Dragona Radic and Susie Choo formed an alliance, for what else were they to do living in Flavor Town. Flavor Town was a brand of the most delightful 56 flavors of ice-cream ever made, as well as the name of their hometown. You would think in Flavor Town diversity would be celebrated as much as variety. This sadly was not so. In America, you can find all 56 flavors of Flavor Town’s delectable frozen concoctions at any Buck Shops Here grocery outlets. Yet, little may you know of the atrocities occurring in Flavor Town, and what Dragona Radic and Susie Choo were about to do about it?

Old McDonald had a farm
I visited one fine day
Coerced the animals into my van
Then quickly drove away

Drove them all back to my house
To be Butlers and Maids
Now doesn't that sound much better
Than domesticated animal slaves

Feeling so good about myself
I should have done this years ago
Not realizing you can take the animal out of the farm
And that I was about to eat some crow

Cause the Cows broke more dishes than they cleaned
The Pigs were nothing but a mess
I asked the Sheep to sweep but all they did was bleat
Never understanding a single word I said

The Chickens grits were always lumpy
And they wouldn't dare fry an egg
No matter how hard it is I tried
I couldn't get breakfast through their heads

The Horse's dusting job was a disaster
Tails sweeping everything on the floor
From picture frames to books and lamp shades
Knowing I couldn't handle this anymore

I packed them all back into the van
But not to set them run wild loose
There was a certain giggling madness to my plan
As I pulled up late night to the Zoo

Let's call it a little midnight finagle  
A semi slight of hand
It wasn't like I was stealing
More like a trade or a transplant

I left behind all those worthless farm animals
Since no one was considerate enough to warn me
I'm sure the Zoo keepers will be mighty surprised
When they arrive in the morning

And find roaming in all the cages
Old McDonald's farm animals, no thank you very much
While I'm at home with the Lions mowing the lawn
And the Penguins gladly making me lunch

The Giraffes out back trimming the tall shrubs that I have
With the Rhinos washing both the cars
It's only been a day but believe me when I say
This is much better by far

I think here a valuable lesson was learned
Far be it for me to do name dropping
But if your ever out and about needing help at the house
Do yourself a favor and start off with Zoo shopping

Who You Are

The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowing a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are

The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowning a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are

woman found
stabbed in the neck on butlers lane
but she wasn't a woman
she only breathed 18 years
of breath
and she only got to have 18 years
worth of smiles
laughs, tears,
aches, pains,
her future was stolen by envy

At St John's church in the year of 1843
The priest Father O'Day couldn't rise off of his knees
The congregation did attempt to stand the man upright
Yet he'd not be relieved of this his stuck plight

Some in the congregation checked out in the back
Hoping against all hope that it wasn't that
But the sacramental wine was filled up to the brim
Which had them wonder further as to what was wrong with him

Like the sculpture of Mary Magdalene his position was set
Of the rigid state he'd never ever forget
All the alter boys offered prayers for a solution
Being quite disturbed by O'Day's poor kneeling elocution

Was this a trance or was he deep in prayer
Given over to the circumstance did it really matter
They called up Mother Superior to ask of her advice
As it was fish Friday, she said some other time

From out of the fathers prayer book a letter it did drop
The contents in it was not news that he could readily cop
A decrease in his annual stipend had on this day been proposed
On reading about it his knees quickly became indisposed

As he wondered how he would pay for his chalet in France
Or the expensive clothes he liked to wear to the local dance
Along with his butlers and half a dozen maids
In all of his high living never once did he think to save

A litany of poor monetary decisions had brought O'Day to his knees
No divine intervention would undo his futile freeze
Coveting the high-life on a paltry priestly wage
Would awaken him to a lesson of that more like a sage

Instead of falling into all man's sinful desires
He should have first consulted with his Higher Power
We all see it so plainly there's not much you can say
Except another valuable lesson learned from Father O'day

A tasty pastry baked by pain
Is made with bakers' stolen grain
But maids and butlers go insane
To take the tasty, not the plain

The bombs fall over Kiev.
Silence! Snow ashes.
Uncomfortable muzzle as it
Settles on Moscow.

The bombs fall over Kiev.

Clanking, chewing the fat.
Bumbling Boris huffs and puffs
As he fingers his ear and fumbles
His pants out of his mouth crack.

The bombs fall over Kiev.

Babies cry, smothered by fear.
Old Joe struggles to forsake his afternoon nap,
While old “Mac” Donald continues to quack and be a quack.
Fittingly synonymous with a sharp burst of wind.

The bombs fall over Kiev.

And yet the skies are silent.
The West whip out their dic-Boom-Boom-tionaries
And stumble and grumble over the worth of human life.
They danced this dance quite recently,
But there’s always room for cha-cha-cha
And grinding out a lower price.
The clock ticks louder – BOOM, BOOM BOOM,
But only for the powerless.

And the bombs fall over Kiev.

Pow! Bang! Bang! That small, old man
In his big red house plays with his toy soldiers,
And his toy towns,
And doesn’t half throw it all out of the pram.
Butlers and maids scramble
To make sense of the nonsense
And the egg on their faces just for you.
Incoherent ramblings of a paltry rich fool.
And yet that’s the sound of the world flying by,
The sound of the world’s greatest tool:
The grasping hands of paltry rich fools.

And the bombs fall over Kiev.
And Palestine. And Yemen.
And the dinosaurs still make a mean cocktail.
And it’s all so ****** predictable.

Exasperated gasps…
The rest of us just look goggle-eyed,
And hashtag flags, and thoughts and prayers,
And throw our paltry money wondering when
It all became so helpless, and why
We still pay for the merry-go-round
When it’s so completely broken.
We scramble to put back our fallen teeth
And kick our brothers to the curb for shelter
Under a wet, cardboard box –
(If you fold it over it provides more cover from the rain,
But the benefit of boxes, of course,
Is that they can completely fit over your head.
The noise is easier to drown out in the dark.)

And the bombs still fall over Kiev.
In broken hospitals and apartment blocks
And schools and churches
Hearts thunder,
And brave Ukrainians hear the noise
And the silence.

There's a face in the clouds
and it is poking
its tongue out at me,
cheeky blighter,
I ought to write a
poem about that.

Saturday and the butler
has the day off
which is a bit off
if you ask me,

I expect butlers go
to church on Sunday
and they'll be wanting that off too,
well, they can naff off,
I can't do all the work around here.

If eternity left a door open for you, would you let curiosity take hold of you, step out, and rush into the storm of time, of humanity?

And would you be back?


I knew neither the moon nor the sun
And night never showed his face.

1.

The day was the keeper of this place;
Keeping the dome clean and round,
So not a speck of star can be found.
Of course, this is me speaking in the future
Of the past;
Unlike in Time, this is a fertile pasture
Only of earth and not dust:

---

I wouldn't have known the moon,
I wouldn't have known the stars,
If not for the gate at the end of the path.

2.

So how should I describe the color of the sky,
That sunless, endless shimmering domed light
If the brilliance of opal, and mother of pearl
Magnified a thousand, a million, a billion times
It's soft pink, mystic green, royal blue and purple
Melt into the beauty of life, erase all sorrow
And leaving only a dreamy field of coral

---

As you float
As you float
Ever away
Ever away
From the shores of troubles

3.

“If there's no night, is there morrow?”
“Is there sleep, are there dreams?”
You seem to wonder about these things
What's a dream to someone who's within?
The peace never cease, therefore never change
So weariness would seem rather strange
It'd be hard to fathom these feelings

---

If not for me experiencing
If not for me experiencing
Before my wandering

4.

Wandering from my garden
My garden of love
My home: my oak tree with canopy high above
My fruit of life, my sweetest peach grove-
Except for my ever following dove-
My four fields of sunflowers, lilies, aster, barley
My four rivers of this little valley of plenty

---

These things I have left behind
To wander beyond the desert
Into the labyrinth of time

5.

The gate has always been open
So when did I get curious, and why
Was it always ajar, curiosity wide
There has always been spiritful wind
But in the garden never with rain
Softly singing and never howling
And I didn't understand the darkness I was seeing

---

Like a stranger on strange tides
Here's what I remember
Here's what I could define

6.

The paved crystals end at the divide
There's only dull stones on the other side
Barefoot I naively and confidently stride
That's when I learned what sand feels like
Are stars innumerable as sand
Or sand innumerable as the universe is grand?
It's as if I stepped on the planets then galaxy’s bend

---

So much dust
So much dust
Would I be buried alive?

7.

My home I have left far behind
Leaving a small window of light
Would I remember what it was like
Would I ever return with or without a guide
When the sand have blanketed over
All traces, all paths and even the light
Everything of mine is getting heavier it seems like

---

As it rains
As dust and sand seep into my veins
I am learning of discomfort and pain

8.

Even though this was a storm of sand,
Still the least strange of this wonderland,
Now that I have seen the brightest and darkness
Of emptiness and shadows
The barest barren and greenest meadows
Summit of stones, pines, snow capped might
Still the golden dunes I most like

---

Like heaps of stars below the sky
Like heaps of stars above the sky
You have see it to know what it's like

9.

The desert never seems to have an end
I wondered if this was going to be my land
My untillable land of moonlight, stars, dust and sand
And I hungered, I hungered
For my home as I knew not this oasis of man
So I walked and walked,
I knew not what else I can-

---

As I wandered on
As I rambled on
I saw something on the horizon

10.

Preserved by a crown of rosemary and thyme
A little wooden sign wrote Pasture of Time
What beautiful and leisurely grass to remind
Remind me of my home, my Garden of Love and Life
There are no true residents here, only travelers
Well maybe except for the sky’s butlers
Three archers playing below the curve

---

Red cape for the soaring clouds of day
Yellow toga to curb the fierce noon rays
Blue dress accentuate the moon’s grace

11.

These three, guarded the wanderers of a thousand faces
They are always changing and I wondered if I am the same
As the dust piled on me, some stayed
Some fell, some shifted in place
And I'm being directed to head in one way
The tour would end at the faraway gate

---

Even through all these plights
My dove never took flight beyond my sight
Ever faithful, darkness or light

12.

Since I'd probably be here for a while
I wouldn't mind these miles of trials
If the tame have never known the wild
Would he know if he's at peace or in denial
I'm just afraid of falling in love with what I can't keep
When I leave this plain
I want leave the pain

---

And not fall for some illusions beyond belief
That'll dissipate when I leave
That'll dissipate together with me when I keep
Emulating the transient things
And I become one with the wrong dream

13.

And all you strangers, you who roam
So very different from my friends at home
Why do your faces keep changing
Why are you always on route to leaving
Could one of you walk with me a little longer
So whatever changes I can at least remember
That's when I suddenly noticed her

---

But I'm not ready to cross the threshold of hurt
Give it all to human nature
What would it be like, to be any other:

i.

The Eagle:

When the sky was low
I never envied the eagle
And still, though it floats
High above the bees, the ants
The earth, the dust, and sand
The dandelions, the foxtails, fig trees
In the meadows

It'll just take the emperor’s new clothes
Of praises and wear it proud with illusive boasts
But what's the use when we all know
It'll never traverse more free
Through immaterial dreams
Nor soar above the stars
Nor bring news from the future or the past

The eagle is still just like us
The eagle is still just as lost

ii.

The Bees

And what about the bee that never asks
What's at the end of work, end of the path
The queen bee was born to be
Not something to be dreamed
So it restlessly toils away
We are already here, might as well stay
So they reason, and so they agree

But what do some say
About the honey they make
They don't believe in that changeless place
I've retained in my mind however vague
They say, they say
They are for whoever will replace
All of us at the end of our days

If not for a journey faraway
When we escape this maze
If we will cease, only dust stays
It'll surely be a waste
So then what's the point of bees and being
What's the point of bees and being
Anyways

iii.

The Ants

What's the vast to an ant
If we barely brace the land
We count the stars thousands times as grand
As brilliant beach of unreachable cosmic sands
We see the lights that dot the sky
As not much different than high flying fireflies
These are the white lies of white nights

When ants can't see the truth of the sky
When ants can't see the starry sky
And think of ourselves kings of everything in flight
And think of ourselves kings of life
When only to dust and shadows can we say we're bright

The existent non-existence is the ant's plight
It's our plight
So we endure gladly, only few understand why

iv.

Meadows

When we are pushed along a path
By false ambition, fate or lust
Even if we're never lost
What happens when we reach the top
A cliff always has a drop
If only there aren't such a curvature
To what we hold dear and yearn

If love is “truly patient and never boast”
How fertile and green would be its
Eternal meadow
The beauty of an endless plateau
Fields of purple irises and marigolds
If this lasts forever, where would it hide,
The shadow loving woes

Never in the meadow
Where the sun would expose
These dark and gloomy foes

v.

Dandelions in the Morning

Such fragile dreams in the youth of being
Such lofty wings in the youth of dreams
It comes and goes on a whim
So easily broken
Yet so resiliently woven
So you would think it went with the wind
Never to return and never again seen

And one day,
So suddenly
All you hear are the yellow flowers singing
In that field you never found promising
Now blanketed with snowing dancing wings

The dandelions of youthful dreams
The dandelions of youthful dreams
The dandelions of youthful dreams

vi.

Reeds at the Dusk

So you are, at the end of your path
The sky is veiled by a dusky mask
And the threads of reed sewn across
Obscure where you're going
And where you are
Would you be lost
To the waves or to the dust

But there is a compass in your heart
And you have been there before in the past
So have faith you'll find your home at
That timeless hut
Beyond the reeds at dusk
Beyond the reeds at dusk
Beyond the reeds at dusk

vii.

Fig Trees of Midnight

I see so faintly the shape
Through midnight’s blue drape
The contour of a fig tree
So I believe I have sown
But the flowering we can't always see
So would I be reaping the fruits of a dream
Or would I be reaping the futility of a dream

Oh, have faith
Have faith
When you can't see it
Doesn't mean it isn't flowering
When the sun is hid
The moon is still reflecting
You can't forsake before you've gone all the way

You never know
How it'll go
Figs of Midnight
Figs of Midnight
Might taste just as sweet

14.

What a lovely scene nature paints
But these are such transient things
I'm afraid I can't bring
Them back to my cabin
Back to my little plain
Would my faith dove remain
The only one following

---

Ever following
Ever following
Ever following

15.

I was so speaking
When I saw a light, a dream
What a wonder of a being
I have never seen smiles of lightning
Eyes shaped like crescent moons
Within which a billion stars pool
Is this why I was destined to arrive in time

*

To bring your soul with mine, my dove by my side
Back to my Garden of Love and Life
My Garden of Love and Life
Because clearly you are and you're meant to be,
So thinly veiled by the dust of temporary things
A being, even in this earth plane,
Helplessly shimmering with light