Chronic, demonic, eccentric, magic, poetic, tragic! Dreams it seems of comical or unusual! Visual sights of many sites! Plenty fights, heights, nights, plights and lights! Dreams it seems of chimes, crime, gleams and grime. Moonbeams, rhymes, screams and times. Dreams it seems as they attempt to tempt with contempt! Some become exempt
and unkempt! Dreams it seems of afros, arrows, buffalos, rainbows

and sparrows! Ample, purple-apples hung from chapels! Dreams it seems of hurdles and simple people as pimples jumping from steeples! Dreams it seems of the begotten, forgotten and rotten. Dreams and themes of cotton candy clouds! Crowds in shrouds! Dreams it seems
of the dandy and handy! Glories and gory stories of the holy or unholy. Dreams it seems of crud and mud! The loud and proud! The

vowed and wowed! Dreams it seems of blood and floods! Dreams it seems of amazing, crazing and gazing! I’m phrasing; “Is this a dream a scheme or hell?” Well I couldn’t tell! As I began to scream and
yell! Those streams of dreams that I dream… Dreams that I may, these dreams that I say. Dreams it seems in dreamy dismay.

A lonely bead of sweat rolls
from his widows-peak and tumbles
down the center of his forehead.
It comes to an abrupt stop,
resting on the tip of his nose.

He doesn’t even notice - he’s too
distracted futzing with his chair.  
The bead clenched on with
all of its might and then finally
succumbing to gravity, it hits
the floor. SPLAT!  

His lips become tangled in a web
of frustration.  Gooey, white,
cotton substance evolves in the
corners of his dry mouth.  His
tongue slithers out and scoops
up the milky residue.

Purple, worm-like shapes
protrude around his
temples and forehead.
His face begins to glisten, and his
white dress shirt looks like a
wet napkin.  He’s unmercifully at
war with his chair.

Finally the chair surrenders...

He sits down, tilts his head, and
uses his right forearm as a towel
to soak up the now-noticeable beads that
are slowly working their way towards
his thick, bushy brows.

His attention turns to the stylish, black
case that lies by his side.  The audience
members shield their eyes as the
beams of the stage lights are captured by
the curves of this beautiful tomb.

Eagerness pumps through
my veins as he reaches down
and unbuckles the case, gently
removing his instrument from its vault.

Heavily antiqued with a moderate
amount of crazing, the wood grain is
perfectly marred with its perpendicular
grooves. The colors are warm with a
golden brown tint just like his skin.

He rests the violin on his
lap and leans the bow against
his right thigh.  He takes a few, deep
breaths to perfect his posture.

His belly begins to recede.

His chest puffs out.

His shoulders slightly roll back.

His spine becomes *****.

He places the violin under his chin.
With his left hand he holds the neck,
gently pressing his fingers into the
strings.  His right arm soon follows,
bringing the bow to a quick and
delicate stop a short distance below
where his fingers lie.

Suddenly everything becomes silent.

He stares over the heads of those in
the audience, not making a single
move.  He’s in a trance-like state,
like a crocodile at a river bank
patiently waiting to lunge at a
wild boar.

Then, without warning, he strikes the first note!

His body jerks forward, backward,
left-to-right, moving around in all directions,
like a crazed man trying to undue his
straightjacket. He clenches his eyes with all
his might and puckers his lips, trying to hold
in the emotions that are imprisoned, but he can’t.  
A single, victorious tear escapes from the madness.

As the music further consumes him, he plays
faster and faster. Each note takes him higher
towards the heavens. The bow pierces the hearts
of the angels and the gods, bringing them together.
Tightly gripping one another’s hands, they begin
to waltz.
  
They dance on a thick stage built from the prayers and
dreams of mankind’s wickedness.  Even the beast
from below is dancing.  An arm reaches down into
the depths and pulls him up to join the gathering.  
She grabs his hand and waist, spinning him around
until he becomes dizzy and falls backwards.  
They both laugh and begin to dance again
for all eternity.  





I lean forward and turn the ****
counterclockwise, eliminating the commercial
that follows the song he just played.  I look
over at him and tell him he’s one a hell of a
performer.  He humbly replies, “Thank you.”  
We continue to drive and listen to the radio.  
I couldn’t wait for his next performance.

prefer celery to carrots
light scrunch over an orange hard crack,
straw red over berries bluest,
coffee over tea,
skies white clouded
over
all clear, unadulterated uni-tone,
blondes, brunettes, redheads,
even pink or blue haired,
well, ain't going there
(wink wink,
too smart for that...)

but that's just me

colors viral virulent  over manhattan grey~black,
a good Pinot over a glass of Jack,
beach and sea undefined
over lake delimited, outlined bounded,
ocean caught fresh over farm raised,
city slick over country sweet,
striped bass over monk,
tuna bests salmon,
but both miso coated please...

Italian Indian Ethiopian
Sushi and occasionally Chinese,
all grand,
but my kosher deli and dogs, pickles,
yellow mustard ball parked,
tops them all
especially when serving
all-you-can-eat
over tasting portions...

but that's just me

right over left,
naked better than ****,
polite over rude,
Rembrandt tops Vermeer,
but his light nonethess,
extra over ordinarie...

Swiss over white American,
Gruyere beats goat cheese,
citrus tops apples,
sweet melon my
secret passion,
paprika and oregano,
never ever cilantro,
milk over OJ,
especially, grade A
milk of human kindness,
all flavors

love my poems centered,
(except for this one)
with no sugar added,
but a lot of cream and sweat,
both a necessity, not a luxury,
prefer mesmerizing,
crafting hard, laboring,
me writing, you imbibing,
leaving you oohing and loving
me
because of the appreciation built in
over
ditties that are semisweet
sugar nadas that populate the
easy come easy go away
poem of the day

but that's just me

like myself hard
cause when I melt,
to a child's grin shyest,
laughter silly me provoking
it is ever so better so...
tears, any kind, don't mind
laughing and sorrowing pouring,
let genuine be my only test
speed limit barrier unlimited

sorta saved a street crossing
phone-occupied-woman yesterday,
put my arm across her body
fast hard, unasked
so she wasn't
bicycle crashed,
both looks well received,
the *** and the gratitude,
but latter over former,
if I had to choose,
but I dont

but that's just me

Joanie M. over Judy C.,
Amy over Adele,
Eva Cassidy over all...
Zombies over Beatles,
Blunt over Taylor,
Rhyming Simon over Billy Joel,
no typos over flaring,
glaring no caring...

your poetry over mine,
cause it amazes,
cause mine,
just old familiar crazies,
just runaround Sues from yester pester days,
transcribed for a someday later
future grimacing laugh of
good god did I write that!

but that's just me

wrote quite the many
literary escapades
this morning,
like the yore,
good old days,
when every glance,
remark passing
made me run
to tablet them
in perpetuity ASAP

placed them before you
scattered thither and dither,
like all that jazz notes
running hands over planes geometric,
most just average,
but all there in hopes
you would love me better

but that's just me

sneaking inside you with
a wink, a tink-ering whimsy,
a stupid smile, a wicked sinning
humongous grinning
with a belly laughing,
havoc raising, me crazing,

*but that's just me

Perched up on stumps,
Weightless lumps:
Foul odored ogres,
Craving crazing vultures,
Picking eyes for pies,
Picking claws at jaws,
Ears for their fear
To hear their screeching;
Their cold blood sapping;
Soaking leaves;
Falling trees to steal their rings,
To **** their singing,
To end their scratching branched voices scrape the streaking air:
A current of palpable energy.

These ogres drain and gain one more breath.

One more- to be saved from death.
How tragic a sight to see
Is when the ogre becomes the tree heaving and wallowing,
Begging, crawling the earth in hope of breath or birth;
In hope of resurrection.

But how tragic it is an ogre must
Break so many backs to gain it back;
To strive to live when their lives are
Less than nothing.

And the eager ogres cry crimes;
Lay in lies;
Drip through time:
Vultures circling,
Craving,
Crazing,
To feed their need,
To give to a life not worth a strand.

Life is hard
I'm not even sure how I got this far
Do you know? How you made it so far?

Every year, we get another birthday. The people who feel the most obligated will throw a party 'celebrating your birth'.
No one really believes that though, right?
In the end it's just about crazing attention and closeness, and also about receiving gifts and things to try to make you happy...
Make them happy.

'Cause ya'see... we're all born with this VOID inside of us.
That void pulls in everything nearby, pulling us to try out new things.
And like a greedy child the void whispers in our ear... asking us to get closer to some people or further from others...
to like one thing, but dislike the other.
For your happiness, and their's.

But... what IS a void exactly?
A space with nothing in it.
It doesn't hold the capability to hold anything really, like a  black hole.
Whatever goes in... we're not sure where it goes, but it's very greedy in it's own way.

By the time we die, some will feel lucky enough and happy enough with the life they've lived, and die without regrets.
...
I don't think I'll ever be able to say that... just... to feel that way.
It doesn't sit right.
Like giving myself this... holy title, saying "I did it, I've reached a perfection in my life and I'm happy. There's nothing wrong."
"I've fulfilled my purpose."

I find that so vain.
Is that strange?
I just... feel like I'm never going to truly be happy.
Not forever, and not even until death.

But what does sadness even achieve? Or anger? Jealousy?
Why, if that'd only make you less happy?
More attempts in vain to fill the growing void.

In the end, that void is filled with darkness.
The darkness of death
Whether it be from a natural death from old age, or an accident,
or even from successful suicide.

A dark void gets plugged up with more darkness, and there's no light.
We have no way of knowing what's there...
after we die, and all.

And isn't that scary?
Such a dark uncertainty.
So while we age and push ourselves through life.
No matter what, at some point, we'll all think or say...
Life is hard.

I don't know what love is,
and I wont claim to be what I'm not.
I do know how a feel,
a feeling that is unreal.
Just a few thoughts carries in the butterflies;
goosebumps as their cargo.
Just a simple touch gives me the chills,
leaves me crazing more,
more of you.
You are my new addiction.
Consuming my mind.
Not even realizing the effect you have on me,
making me crazy.

Winter was settling in at the hedges,
Whiting the meadows and hanging off ledges,
Crazing at windows and frosting the willow,
Creeping at ceilings and freezing my pillow,
Outside the woods were embraced in a tangle,
Snow falling steadily, stars were a-spangle.

I felt it time to be wandering steadily
Out where my footsteps had followed hers, readily,
Past where the pathway encircled the wishing well
Holding the pennies we’d tossed for a lovers spell,
She’d walked ahead with a bow in her auburn hair
One yellow ribbon, that’s how I remembered her.

She’d seemed uncertain and wanted to talk to me
I really didn’t, but she said to ‘walk with me’,
Down through the woods where the leaves lay in Autumn,
Yellow and golden, the grounds of Bell Norton,
Once was a convent and practiced religiously
Then we were deep in the woods by a poplar tree.

She turned and spoke of the thing I was fearing,
Took off her ring and the pearl in her earring,
‘I am in love with another,’ she said to me,
‘What of our love?’ then she said, ‘That is dead to me!’
‘You must allow me to love Justin Hanger,’
I felt cold rage and I lashed out in anger.

She fell pole-axed at the foot of a chestnut tree
Never a sign of the life that had once loved me,
Dragged her some distance and into the Folly,
Covered in creepers and mistletoe, holly,
Buried her under a floor that was rotten,
And left her in store so that she’d be forgotten.

Now it was months and I came back to see her
Deep in the winter, with weather so drear,
Opened the flimsy old door of the Folly,
Caught up in creepers and mistletoe, holly,
When from the floor came a sound like a groaning,
Under the boards was a weeping and moaning.

‘This can’t be true,’ as I came in and staggered,
Watched a hand rise through the floor, looking hagard,
Most of the flesh fell away from the bone,
Then the floor heaved and I heard the girl moan,
‘Where is my lover, the one that is true to me,’
‘You must be dead,’ I said, ‘all this is new to me.’

I took the axe that was stood in the corner
Raised it aloft as if I tried to warn her,
Then someone tackled and brought me to ground,
Muttering something, ‘At last she’s been found!’
And under the floor were her human remains,
No moaning or groaning, just my guilty pains.

David Lewis Paget

the sun shot with an arrow, bleeds out
blotting the sky with red

running up the blood-stained stairs
hairs raising, hell-raising
your feet racing
a stampede, a cacophony of undead
crazing, blazing
groans groping your tail
fire-breathing zombies

a glitch in the matrix
déjà vu

me behind you
in a floor of mutants
high up in the tower
they overun, overpower
i'm hit, bit
i die on the ground
and watch you crash into the glass
and freefall
explosions on your back
supernova attack
you, a reverse icarus,
the sun on your back
falling, a comet,
destination certain,
curtain of darkness

a dream within a dream
gigantic war machines on the horizon
indigo sky, devil angels cry
it's the end of the world

awakening, i see
ancient swampland ruin
trudging through the green river
i see kids skipping on stones
and they lead me to a fountain of bones
and a black horse in its reflection

i see you behind the doric column
i reach out and call your name
but you walk right through me

and so i weep in the fountain
and from the blackened waters
i find an arrow
which i place in my bow
to bleed out the sun

a slab-less crazing-
mixture of papier-mâché;
conformation of made-less things-
quagmire bracing to break;
lonesome drought-
steer clear of my thirst;
vacuum sealed lungs-
anguish waiting to burst;
-
purified water:
landfilled with kimberlites;
there are spotless skies
reflecting off sunspotted eyes;
purified water:
a laborer letting go;
callouses like dandruff drift-
like welcoming snow
-
a son lost comes home
skies filled - no longer alone;
dead rise again
healed, hopeful, looking
at
him.

You were my happy pill,
A drug I would chug down with sugar and wine
Giving me medicine for my sins

You were the substance to my life
The substance that I abused
Getting me high so I dont feel the lows
Knocking me out into sleep every night

With you, I was a ******
Always happy and all jumpy
Getting funky and needy

But since you've been gone I'm relapsing
Rehashing the feelings of intoxication
Missing it, craving it, wanting it, needing it
Rehashing it:
Missing you, crazing you, wanting you  needing you

Fluffy, fuzzy, full grown adult,
she groans as she stretches.
Marks flowing out.
Every ditch, all the trenches,
you may start to doubt.

Early morning chills
and after noon siestas,
midnight thrills
and raving fiestas.
She whips them out still.

Cute, cuddly, captivating sight,
she drags me back to bed.
Crushing windpipes, she holds me tight.
The bags of her eyes lit and embedded,
her imperfections, my delight.

Tag-a-longs
and weekends away,
movie marathons
and the down the driveway.
Absent only when at play.

Bashful, budding bravely,
herself allowing comfort.
Brisk winds, I dive for safety.
I plot revenge, her days are numbered.
Our duals are aloft, crazy.

Night sky gazing
And role playing games,
Fandom crazing
And thinking of names.
For me their all amazing.

Dreamy, daring, lacking dramas,
We waste the day away at lay.
What honeymoon, perhaps the Bahamas?
I drape an arm, her skin like clay.
God, she looks good in pajamas.

crumpling
would've cascades
with could've
curling under
and crazing
then crusting
into dust
then nothing
and then less
and now ceases
having already risen
already revealed as
already splashing
sparks so high
i shout
surprising myself
somewhere
for now
am still