i.

Feral escapees, from captivity,
Created with wing's, born to
Be free; not of society.

ii.

Jungle madness, surroundeth
The tree's, foliage of wed-lock,
Thou and me.

iii.

Accentor's creepeth the thicket,
Caples we rideth, babes of the
Cariole; astrology inside us.

iv.

Bimarian aqua, to overfloodeth
The dry, boscaresque detail's;
Rainbow's in open sky's.

v.

Brabreum of a sound,
Musical citharize; I'm
Far aloft the ground,
Psychic's; clairvoyant's
On incline.

©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated

Entanglement: First Poem of the Day

We awake simultaneously, syncopated.

Guests next door,
Can't risk love making noises at five am,
A noisy first coffee of the day,
An oops, unintended,
Guest wake-up call.
Nope.

So, instead,
We ear-insert our buds, white flowers,
You, to the Land of Thrones, yay,
Me, to the land, nay,
The **island of my
Secret poetry life.

I'm carried there on music-waves,
A Motet For Five Voices and
Jason Mraz, Tracy Chapman, Billy Joel,
Pandora's music box escapees.
Pandora's an oddball shuffler,
Just like me.

You read/listen/sleep head-resting upon
My good arm, my cunning one,^
And I leftist type write, hunt and peck at 6:00 Am,
And tho we will not fluids exchange,
I smile at our white wires all crossed up
As metaphor for our
Heart's happy entanglement.



^ Psalm 137
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.

6:15Am
June292013

Two Syrian women on Friday were locked in a cage full of skeletons in punishment for violating Daesh’s strict dress code in the militant group’s stronghold of Raqqa.

The London-based Observatory for Human Rights said one of the women fainted in the cage and had to be transported to one of the hospitals in the northern province, which became Daesh’s headquarters in Syria after the group took the city in 2013.

A spokesman for the local-based activist group “Raqqa is being Slaughtered Silently” also reported Daesh’ latest scare tactic against women found to have flouted the draconian rules.

Daesh recently locked a 19-year old woman in a cage full of skeletons, driving her to the point of madness, according to Mohammed Al-Salih. The spokesman did not specify whether the incident was the same as the one reported by the UK-based monitor.

Salih also said that there were “similar cases of women locked in cages with skeletons or forced to sleep overnight in a cemetery” for not wearing what Daesh deems as appropriate. More serious violations are punished by the amputation of limbs, or execution.

Video reports as well as accounts of escapees show that Daesh forces women living in its areas — whether in Syria or Iraq — to don head-to-toe garbs.

Meanwhile, the Observatory said Daesh has recently stormed homes in Raqqa and arrested 10 men suspected of spying against the group.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com

Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers..
You know them
You've seen them
I hope you aren't one of them...

I don't drink
Not anymore
For my entertainment
I go to the store
I go out after dinner
That's when the show will start
I go and watch the people
Who shop at Wal-Mart

Cowboy boots, a tutu, and yoga pants with "***"
with a muscle shirt and top hat
worn by a man named REX
a pair of pants just hanging
a pair of crocs and leather vest
with "she loves me for my money"
emblazoned on the chest

These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes

I don't go clubbing
There's no fun in that
Late night trips to Wal-Mart
That, is where it's at

A woman dressed in plastic
a man all painted blue
and how many people have you seen
that look like escapees from the zoo


These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes



Underpants, and stockings
garters and blue jeans
size 50 denim jumpers
Stretched like skinny jeans

Men wearing high heels
Women wearing...well
Use your imaginations
From a distance you can't tell

These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes



Body parts free to see
******* and legs and butts
And people with their little dogs
The ugly, squeaky mutts

We know them
and we watch them
Take their photos
Yes....we do.
dress right when you go shopping
Or we may take one of you!!!

All these whinging intellectual poetic wankers,
scribbling Conditional Love "poems"that boringly
lament why they are such obvious  failures
at the game of life and self realisation.
Spewing out weasel words of poetic hypocracy while
wrapped in navel gazing infantile emotions.
Writing degenerate untruthful words about a love
they'll never know or never have known,
as if unconditional love can be bought
at the local Walmart.
Voluntarily assisting the machinations of mind and groupmind,
since their birth into a lifetime of Conditioned Identity,
in the servitude of the Amerikan Oligarchy .
Strings of meaningless associated words,
lines of lies about life and love that are ever popular with "poets".
Starting with every one of the so-called "holy" books
from millennia past--calling for suicide bombers
and child killers to strut the world stage
spewing  religious racism and sexism like enlightened beings..
After all words have NO SHAME
nor have poets..
Sin Verguensa.
Words have NO GUILT
nor have poets.
Words have NO EMBARASSMENT
nor have poets.
You cannot hide  behind your lies from me.
I see you--I have nous.
Your beard is transparent.
Your unceasing lies deny to others information
to which they are entitled,
"poets" are the worst LIARS of all,
so easily spottable .
Read these pages--see for yourself,
through my eyes .
See the silly ****-fed children of the Amerikan Oligarchy,
wrapped in spangles and colours --posturing like super-heroes.
Vomiting verbal diahorea in lifes gutters,
appealing for just one more chance
to play at love and humiliation.
People with low IQs and lower morals
pretending ,as always, to be mature and human,
characters moulded like products of talk show hosts .
No integrity.
No truthfulness.
No honour.
No decency.
No morals except those learned from Readers Digest.
No to these escapees from the gallows of decency,
torture instruments dangling round their necks,
their prophet validated by being nailed and denied.

Dinking too much whiskey,
Behaving sort of risky,
Telling lying stories,
Tall tales of former glories,
Laughing between the tokes,
At outrageously bad jokes;
We thought we were outlaws,
But were tamer than in-laws.

Out for a wild ride,
Living on the wild side
And howling at the moon.
The sun will be rising soon.

Honking horns at passing cars
Toking doobies under the stars,
Letting no cuties pass us by
Without whistling, my oh my.
We were certain we were cool
Too ****** to know we were fools.
Escapees from the workaday,
We ten-mile perimeter ruanways.

Out for a wild ride,
Living on the wild side
And howling at the moon.
The sun will be rising soon.

Out at night, no three-piece suits,
Sandals instead of fruit boots
Pegged jeans and rolled up sleeves
No fancy stuff with fancy weaves.
Prepared for whatever comes
Serenaded by engine hum
We told each other that we were hot.
Even though we knew we were not.

Out for a wild ride,
Living on the wild side
And howling at the moon.
The sun will be rising soon.

Using the 1% of those who got out of
the violent act of poverty
at the expense of billionaires
and taxpayer payed subsidies

Yes, they use the most pretentious
of our few escapees
they become a mouthpiece
to deny the facts researched
by actual experts

Truth is
what is powerful

There's no escape
from the ruler's messages
There's no escape from miseducation

love is eminent.

and if you look at this miniscule existence of yours, you will see that it is stuffed in the cracks of old and memory-ridden sidewalks,
which have had to bare the deepest of weights,
of peoples feet which have been into their lovers homes smiling,
and out of them shredding their skin with their nails.
it is carved into the ancient trees, barren of leaves,
and grown from your old sweethearts seeds,
the one with torn jeans, and an addiction to tea,
and who was too much of a spirit to chain down. you had to let him free.
and of the woman, who owned a small, unheard of bookstore,
with books that smelled like cinnamon, about byzantine subjects,
and she let people take one and leave one and tip as they please.

love is there in the unsure drip of the faucet,
disturbing the silence,
in the morning eyed sun,
when the day has just begun,
and you can feel a sticky tightness on your cheek, where the tears used to run,
and the burn in your mouth, is it from your lover
or your two bottles of ***?

it’s in the old pictures from years ago,
where you cant quite recapture the moment, but the vague feeling is still there.
the film is dark and smoky. just exactly like it is supposed to be,
and all of our faces hold this resonant feeling of whole.

and there’s love in the way you jump off something high, ready to fall, and fall, and fall,
and how you focus on the moment of the fall, and not the crash landing.
the moment of all surrender, underwater, floating, meaningless bliss.

there’s love in your daily cup of coffee, or two, or three,
and there’s a special art in the way you mix your sugar, and pour your crème.
theres love in how you smoke your cigarettes,
and how the smoke creates complex, fleeting shapes,
a new one every drag you take,
twirling, and running, and breathing into space, condensing itself,
in a matter of moments it sinks back again,
and makes your couch smell of ash and sin.

theres love in lots of things.
even still
in the way the hopeless strike the clock,
back to work, over the dock,
into their houses,
cut out of dough,
to presume their tasks, and label themselves,
thoughtless in a row.  
and mindless words,
the dinner table sets,
dry dinner time small talk.
they breed for the numbers,
not the pleasure of ***.

love is there in the cold ridden hearts,
of people who don’t believe in passion or art,
its in the escapees of our generation,
in old trucks, singing oldies, crying of separation,
in the numb of the brain-washed,
without their minds, wandering endlessly to and fro,
but they just have to struggle and dig deeper,
and into their own world of drunken, honest, chain-smoking, dancing love
                                                  They will go.

Nights like these
Accompanied by the howling
Not of the wind
But of my cranium
Slowly caving in
We are swayed constantly
Like willows in the breeze
From perception to perception
Until we know not
Who we are anymore
What is to be believed?
Who is the enemy?
My thoughts have long formed legs
Not two, nor four, but plenty
But more is not always merry
They struggle to keep their balance
But fail
So I am
Traipsing with tangled feet
C l e a r
M y
M i n d
For me
Please
Buy me sympathetic placidity
Buy me apathetic innocence
Buy me antipathetic ignorance
Anything but what I am now
Would be good
I dream of blue lakes and clear skies
But do they really exist?
I sleep in a labyrinth
And wake up
To the hustle and bustle of escapees
We are all but only human
We are lost souls
We are amateurs grabbing tightly
To the manual of How To Live
While concurrently
Playing God
As if we are all that holy
I know not what I am
I know not what we all are
I sleep in a labyrinth
And I awaken
To a stampede
Of people rushing back and forth
In a desperate bid to reach the top
But the way out of the labyrinth
Is not the top
Is it?
Perhaps I am too easily shaken
Too vulnerable for my own good
But I could grapple with the notion of self-control
And perhaps I really should

Mediocracy...
these words I write
governed by a
standstill, at-war democracy
that's got me medio-crazy,
executively lazy
judgmentally hazy,
and lawfully spacey,
running on as their own prisoner-of-war escapees
in search of freedom from the ordinary
and overly, extraordinarily
conservative binds
that constrict the construction
of these hardly courtly,
yet ordered lines.

Dear Carlos: Poet & One Man Band,

have heard these words so many times,
always bemused, trace~smile appearing,
but this time, it hit me like a Blue Mountain
extra hot, micro~window-waving cup of java Jamaican,
that is me, this was me, always, even before
I knew how to poem to music that I had always
head-heard, before I understood that these,
my songs were soul~pieces escapees, my…legatees

I leave them them in puzzle form, surely a piece,
or three missing, but no matter, each piece an
individual composition, standing alone, but the
big picture no one will ever see, understand but
that is the poet’s audience, his own one man band,
no bandwagon attached, a solitary figure quiet
contented with his disconnected discontentment,
a lifetime spent in refining, defining…refinishing

2 poem themes crisscrossed cross in my head,
interweaving themselves instead of becoming
two cells, one split apart, I call this process ruefully
reverse me~mitosis, blending that coffee with
a quarter cup of white milky, leaving me a caramel
colored confection, perfect in unity of trinity, that
combined cuppa plus my insides warmed, cozied,
the heat combined with the fire inside to write…one more

on the “two-to-write list,” in the “draft”y attic chamber,
were two titles, twins, now conjoined; the first, an
expose of why I choose to write these poems, and
the other, why I have a life of few friends, the few
chosen ones; the inherent conceptualizations differ but
cross the same forests and deserts, hid in my own Northwest Territory, rugged and inhospitable, where to survive, it required 
accepting lonely solitude, with a ragged welcome, & an honest mirror

an unequivocal, no equivocation permit, that telling yourself grand lies was pointless because you were a criminal on trial, prosecutor, defense lawyer, judge  and jury of your, ha ha, peers all rolled into one, there will never be a higher court wanting to grant an appeal, what is…well, is; a sad bliss but after decades of trial and many errors, wonderful and awful partnerships; it was modestly
perfected, dis-satisfyingly…satisfying

this goes on too long, like an intolerable avoidance of
answering, there, a phony confessional declarative; the whys un~provided, so fall back on that all encompassing
defense of temporary insanity that was locked in those
self-same sealed cells, carriers of my tainted DNA,
looking like bagels~donuts with holes, no, voids,
a central, air pocket of emptiness, with no surface to fill full,
or to adhere to, a drifter, an observer, never, a full participant

these empty holes, were just fried dough, sugar coated,
a fleeting life~lies of no substance, that I’ve spent
a lifetime trying to fill with worth, and I’ve written a few
moments of kindness, unqualified unreserved loving, but
too few to justify my existence to myself! That’s what
happens when you judge yourself, no defense strategy
can succeed, the fight is fixed, but I write on vaingloriously
hoping that there is yet, a flawless poem waiting within,
that a one man band, can both play and enjoy…

fav poets: Whitman, Hafez, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Pradip and so many countless others on this site…

It’s not just pain,
it’s hotter,
brighter,
more compelling.
It's heartbreak-love,
the kind that tears you apart inside
and yet awakens you
to the silenced realities to which
most are blind.

It is a pull, a lock that
hooks inside of another
person drawing
them to you
indefinitely.
You feel like a magnet
at all times,
crushed when he looks at you
with those sad, terrified eyes
which beg for hope.
You are crushed for him,
crushed for his pain.
Always wanting
to keep him
close to you, to give him
the warmth you
somehow know
he needs.

No one will hurt you here,
you want him to know.
You’re safe with me, I will protect you.
You want him to be happy,
more than you care
about your own happiness:
that’s heartbreak love.

And it's always the loners,
the lost souls,
the obscured escapees,
the ones with the shaded expressions and watering, orb-like eyes,
the ones with the smiles that don’t quite touch light into the face,
the kind that drains life out of you,
yet leaves you needing more.

He’s my boy,
that’s how you see it,
how you experience it.
He’s yours,
and you would do anything
to protect your child.

Grumpy, middle-aged woman at work,
I wonder if you see me staring in your direction.
I, once again, notice your big hair,
tousled and littered with springy grays.
I, once again, notice your blouse,
dribbled with escapees of your breakfast and lunch.

You’re tapping your foot
to an eighties ballad on the radio—
the same one that we hear twelve times a day,
and each time, I grit my teeth and
begrudgingly swallow the godfather of all expletives.
But you? You love it, don’t you?

No qualms with the world
as you grip that vending machine Klondike Bar
like it’s your only saving grace.
I can’t even manage to blink
as I watch you peel back its thin layer of foil,
exposing the poor chocolate shell
that will soon fall victim to such a savage mouth.  
I shudder at the thought of what you would do
for a Klondike Bar.

Your eyes are wide, black, and merciless
as you crunch into that innocent little square.
Flecks of dark brown fly in every direction,
as you writhe in some sort of hokey ecstasy
straight out of a grocery store mom-erotica.
I can just hear you grunt, “Waste not, want not!”
as you individually finger up
each tiny piece off your keyboard.
I hear your lips smack with every satisfying victory—
and I cringe.

I want to tell you your ice cream is melting,
but I’m too busy watching it drip
down the sides of your hand.
In no time, this Klondike Bar
becomes your own personal rescue mission.
You must desperately save each and every sticky streak
with your unforgiving tongue.
Now and then you’ll slip in a satiated moan
and I can’t help but feel bad for your imprisoned dessert.
Unfortunately, this vicious cycle continues with each bite,
until you become the resident hot mess of Cubicleville,
smeared with melted chocolate and covered in a sugary sheen.

Despite the spectacle, it’s nice to see you happy for once.

It ends when you finally notice my gawk.
That quickly, you’re grumpy again
and demand to know what I’m staring at.

“Nothing,” I reply,
but not without a smile so coy
it gives me away.

Tears Shed Alone,
Tears leaving my eyes
Without yours to blend
To become whole.

Tears shed alone
Are half filled
Vials of essence-
Incomplete tonic of my soul

Tears shed alone
Are escapees of my soul
Looking for the other half
Lost vials of my soul

Tears shed alone
Are tiny vials of my soul
Looking for their compliment
Looking for your eyes

I shed these tears alone
For you left me dry
So I soak myself in tears
Hoping at least they can find yours

In my minds eye
These tears I cry
Fly to your tears
In some time, some place, somehow;

Our tears still mingle
In the rain, in the air.
My tears evaporate and fly
Into the sky and fall into your eye.

I've traveled for an eternity searching for the light that I have lost many years ago, stumbling and crawling within the escapees of darkness I've learned that the my essence of purity has always been close by but as my blindness of acceptance caresses me I find it difficult to maintain what was once my light.

I stand beside you and continually ask of you to answer me as I wonder how you are able to love through all your past turmoil.

Can you be so kind to offer up to me an explanation of my departing beauty, why do I feel so alone when I am surrounded by hearts that can still display their elegance of life, why do you turn away from me what have I done.

This is how I'll now become my secluded misfortune.

The emancipation of my bottled up wretchedness will soon prove to mankind that all I have ever been is the guide for all to enter the light but as of now I will patiently pace the floor of the world.

I am now a guest in your arms.

Written By: Christopher M. Schultz

Each letter typed with emphasis, aggression, and flowing lyricism!
Dab the towel in soaking wraith and smelly faithful hatred!
Use THE syllable CON-tract for without it we've been doomed
Bring forth the lights and sounds into living-room-reality, FULL OF STARS AND ESCAPEES!
Faster, faster, faster, faster! This is ugly poetry. Bubbling from the nostrils of the seas COMBINE!
Spurting spirit and saline souls and gaping holes all without the inclination or implication of the hereby too cute to put on television!
Rhyme now or allow the furrowing brow to narrow the growl into pinpoint anoint!
Make it stupid and lucid so to push it through the suffering new and deadly few!
Terrible practice of sense un-make ill-conceived fake words aren't my specialty.
OR!
ARE!
THEEEEYYYY!

Quiet now, no sound, just gentle music, jazzy yet ex-peri-mental.
Words in formal lines marching to their next food product.

A-GAAAIIIINNNNNN! I hear the crash of cymbals in my ears and erratic guitar noises and collectively profound inspiration.

Oh, right, where have I gone?

So unexpected, guide me through your thought,
As a scheme, so clean, has me under your charm
Faceless beauty, her spirit leaves me caught,
I'll dance along, darling, arm within arm

Antique photos create vivid discourse,
Formatted light brings man closer to muse,
Letting robots paint, through unexplained force,
Gifts of design, our sight shall not abuse

To select one tint, I'd say Aurora,
Like those hair colours painted emerald,
mixed shades of turquoise, the cosmos' flora.
Stumbled upon, speaks an angels herald

Now, I pose, toward your curious mind
What songs, or prose, keep stresses left behind?

Appeared a riddle,
Buried treasure teasing clues,
Reveal your secrets

--

Count the stars while counting your steps, my girl,
Skipping careless upon the edge of the world,
If you were to slip, in my arms you would curl,
or lift me up to sit and watch the waves whirl

Diving with diction, planned like mystery fiction,
Gossip through senses, our voices breed intrigue,
To some, this constriction, would be cause for friction
But we're something special, within our own league

Vast skies painted in pastels mesmerize,
Warm sphere's embrace souls, leaving nothing to guess,
Astonished, you leave me, how we synchronize,
an unwonted psyche I dream to undress

Mix Vagabond, Stadium Love, Get Jiggy,
stirred with Colt 45, Spektor, and Kanye,
One part, don't worry, Two parts, be happy,
Pour upon the strawberry swings of coldplay.

Such careful words, the tension's in this game,
Would we break it, if I were to ask your name?

Queen, rule just and pure,
spark mischief behind barred doors,
Toy soldiers, march forth
--

Village folk decried such madness, those two,
Vaulting barb wire fences, and shabby rusted Fords
Vexing stray hippos, mired in the peacock's blue
Vanishing across great plains, slick tundra, broad fjords

Crooked cobblestones carve patience and plight
Crazed concrete jungles echo no amnesty
Captive Pigeons left captivated by flight
Cheer on escapees who soar past reality

Illusions of reflections spur pleasure,
Incite subtle coaxing, come over for a bite,
Impressed as may be, we care not spoil treasure
Instead conspiring deeper, until it's...just right

Blood ne'er shed freely,
Exhaust all human power,
Claim your Victory.
--

Without a doubt, you've penned one of your greats,
The way your words flow, how it illustrates,
Fingers left speechless, your story asphyxiates,
and to think, this is only one of your unimaginable traits,

So I'll be the first to spoil the rhyme,
I'm sure you'll learn to forgive me in time,
But with an inbox cluttered with junk and grime,
it's fast-coming apparent I'm chatting with a dime,

Curious souls are we, so let's fill up the canvas
Fingerpaint and oils; no drafting, sort-of planless,
Maybe we could do with the other one's madness,
so let me propose an idea; it shouldn't leave you anxious,

Lets find an evening where your heart may be free,
So that we may join together for a lovely cuppa' tea.

Breaking news just in!
Winter echos behind us,
Spring forward once more.

disentangled, debriefed,
the daily onslaught
educated on freedom
how to give it and receive

My ego wasn't built
for his kind of abuse
banal, pedestrian- more
Ralph Kramden then
anything, couldn't even
finish a sentence except
with a shaking fist ("Well
I oughta...") and how many
evenings we sat together
on the couch as he listed
the ways I failed him and
why he doesn't punch me
in the mouth, how one punch
would **** me for sure ("is why
he don't hit me, at least not
anymore...")

I am but one more in a long line
of reluctant escapees, more ashamed
of my leaving then I am of staying
because the former is so visible
while the latter happens behind
of everyone's eyes (the whole
block has heard all variety of
shrieks and cries, one after
another, hustling from the
door to the car and then in
reverse, sunglasses and a hat
each day a little less of a person
first breakable then broken while
he grew larger in the same
increments, grew fat)

There is no understanding
around there, only a tsk tsk tsk
and the occasional "stupid *****"
"must love gettin' hit, why else
would she be back?"
but if I knocked on one of their
doors all ****** and bruised
would someone answer?

Even before shame takes over
they make up some excuse still
peering at me through a crack
in the drapes I AM NOT THEIR
****** MISTAKE is why I
don't leave because their kind
of abuse is even harder to take

Invisible women take up
a lot of space

heroes in our hearts don't look down from heaven,
I heard this old man correct an old cousin
prone to family history with hell escapees only,
looking down on us.

Catholic school through to BS, with a
mission in the spiritually minded flesh of a
20 year old in 1970, that was
sure time off purgatory,
if nothing more,

been there done that contests heat up…

don't you tell me where the kingdom of heaven is,
lest you contradict the king of kings theme,
pounding timpani's beat in me remembering 1972-
bah boom

from the future of then, this is no lie, it is an
after projection, after before thrown
in the mix, echo of a wow, actually redeemed,
for flavor, see real deal spice, functions best
in the presence of microbial ****
under your tongue, that convey the signal
through the channels,
to the gut that fires up the **** that clears the room.

Colour my beat with some sense of the heat and walk in my streets for a day.
I'll show you some way to escape, though some say, we are trapped.

There's a hole in the side of present time, so let's
hide before somebody comes,
and the night
wishes a tune as we fly to the moon and the sun strikes a pose in the sky.

If I do I will be and all that I see becomes me in the measure of men, and to compete in the beat of the street in the heat is a rite.
I sit tight to the rails that take me on trains through the veils of the mystery mile, if I try, I could smile, I could weep, I could sleep, I will keep this countenance low, who's to know who's a spy and if when we do fly, who reports the escapees to whom.

On a partridge farm, down South, with a cartridge in his mouth is a farmer, his name is unknown, he's been given the task and his not to ask, to shoot all the prisoners at dawn,
born to die, escape to fly, the artist picks paint off the floor and the door's firmly shut but a crack in the planking lets a little tight light in and the sun strikes a pose in the sky.

He could feel the way water moved
when it stuck to the windows, how it slipped
and dripped off the poppies
onto his cigar box filled with ******
escapees. Even its softness can drown,
He was drowning.

Inside the greenhouse the found
him already emptied, lying
on the ground with the white hospital
wristband tied, shotgun resting
beside. His face missing.

I understand
why he did it, “It is better to burn
Out than to fade away.”
He wanted to stop the sinking.
He wanted to burn.

No one saw the water tangled in his teeth,
pressed up against his lips, consuming.
Or heard the drenching within his voice
as he sang. If I had known he had a gun,
even when he swore he didn’t.

Now all I can hear are pulsating echoes
Of strings that no longer sound like waves crashing,
and his raw, gunge screams now mute  
And rippling away.

Don't think of good advice for me, I've tasted the worst that can happen." -Rumi



Lying here
           hands on chest

a warm dark before sleep
       chipping through me
like slaves with shovels
    tearing through granite  crunching bites out of earth

A warm dark
has me cocooned
    
I can hear
  muffled leaves in wind
      lost without their tree
    scraping at Windows
like escapees wandering
     night
daring to float free.

  A violet lake of moonlight
  erupts as passing cloud
   moves away,
  to illuminate fallen drifters
   yellow and red companions glow like  incandescent stars
    before they turn Brown and crumble away to mulch the           ground.

  A warm dark silence sparks
   inside a tightly woven
silky  bed
my hands transmitting      
    my own personal  
              underground Sun
  
a fast river does not apologize for almost drowning anyone.

Echoes of crows helps me to forgive their black oil stains
  left flapping long ago
        they're
    trying to get off ground
unable to fly with broken wings caged in prison mind
chewing on pomegranate  scars

   her fallen screams responsible for strength
still to come
  echoes slash the void
  his giant figure in the street
  savagely thrashing her in the distance
  roasting my young innocence in raging fires soon to come

       but after this
I will erupt from a dark warm silence inside this silk formed weave
my slow crawl to this branch
turns Monarch.

yellow-red-black wings
climbing past
  chains that should have killed me-

now I see
my mom rising from a psychopathic beating
running back into house
he grabs her by the head,
puts it through the wall
she rises again
  but how?

Now I see
  New leaves
    from a distance
shining on top of a river
   finally free to slash their way  inside a moonlit sea
glimmering behind
      fallen trees
crunched by old footsteps
    thanks for leaving Thunder                                                          
now I see
old slaves set free
their broken shovels
  lying by heaps of granite

his criminal echoes
    slash the void
  teaching fire
giving strength

now I see
   wings alight
                 effecting sky

         your sunset philosophy
burns eclectic
          behind closed eyes
  thanks for leaving Thunder.

Oh, King, live
for ever, et cetera, and so on,

so it goes, Vonnegut biome restored.

We got past the Norwegian Rats,
while believing ourselves something
like Lemmings, led to know we know
- selah, axial, slowwwwing brake
I was also beguiled, I know, I can
beguile, I saw what Jacob saw,
tricksters prosper on lies/right.
uses and ex-uses sold
for your souls focus, tune in to noise,
turn into the soluble state we share in mind.
Think, feel, pointy
ah,
something, for sure, I know I
am not such a creature and, sure as hell,

I took the dive. To this day, I believe,
I was allowed.
Only the bravest lemmings sometimes
take a great notion, and jump into the ocean…
clinging to a spider sail, while riding a raft
of rats fled from Hamelin.

To improve in so many ways,
the twisted web we weave, on final
-edit
The lots were cast into the lap, and I won.
I am the kid that escaped to Ein Gedi,
with all the secret recipes
for incense and libation.

This idea has swallowed all my mental
fragments, since about 1973,
and put them all folded neatly, into my
legendary bag of tricks…

you see my means of attracting my own attention,
yours if you think you are lost
in this
time, this seeming ever after
any point is made,
we watch if drift into eternity,

this goes to the bottom and it never comes back,
but
riverwise we know, floods come, and floods go,
but old man river, river of no return, tunes
to align with an oriental fisher trick
- in many futures this is 2023
we can witness with drones today, dolphin wisdom,
we, the augmented with smart phones,
since we were born,
we youtubian oddities…
attention to lifes details payers,
what is me seeing you see me worth?

We can watch Bottlenose Dolphins spin mudnets around
schools of fish in the shallows at land's edges,
then “Clear water has no fish” bubbles as a thought,
whistle listen qīng shuǐ wú yú
- think of the engineers intuition
see the escapees flee the unseeable truth,
in the mystery life holds as
clouds of unknowing growing
to entertain our ever learning brain
-man does not live by corn or fish alone,

do the math, what are the odds,
wanna bet we can catch dinner on the fly.

We learn to fish from fish. We learn to reason,

from something else,.

I've been playing dodgeball with COVID,
And up to this point, I have succeeded
In dodging the many ***** tossed my way.
I haven't let warnings go unheeded.

True, it's been a wild game,
And all the ***** sing a medley
Of different tunes; some are muted,
Some are stronger, and some are deadly.

As they all go whizzing by,
I twist, I turn, I shelter in place.
Protecting myself as much as I can,
I'm finding it hard to keep up the pace.

It's an equal opportunity
Virus, for COVID doesn't care
Whom it hits. Whoever gets
In the virus's way had better beware.

Extra precautions help us immensely.
Our chances are better that we won't fall
If perchance we're caught off guard
And suddenly get hit by the ball.

Some folks are pelted ever so slightly,
And as each one of them disappears
From the circle of COVID escapees,
Other folks are knocked on their rears.

The ***** keep flying. The game gets even
More befuddling, more demanding.
It makes one wonder if any of us
Can win the round and be left standing.

When this game's over--if ever it is--
Will a new one have its say--
A brand new virus, much more virulent--
A new game we'll be forced to play?

-by Bob B (12-29-22)

SOUNDS SPRINGY

Popping of tulips ,daffodils dancing, so many things waiting to be green

Rustle of branches or bushes caught in the hustle,warming winds grow louder

Ice cracking, snow mashing, unfolding the last of winters rigid freeze

Silence broken with voices of mens machinery needed to keep it all  pristine

Mower growling,tiller rattling, street sweepers swooshing, necessary noises for the devotees

Howling of hail is mother nature's scowl, Lightning in flashes & crashes,thunder belches to undo the serene

Finally familiar slamming of screen doors brings noisy neighbors  out like escapees

Poets & singers seem to unite on the bounty of springs delight,Popular muse for them to ignite ,coming  together in a green scene  

Migrations have begun, early bird has more fun,doing their best to build a  nest soon their new families tweets will fill the trees

When the air warms brings the restless out in swarms, whooping it up as they play or buzzing for their new queen

The proud sounds of birds making their rounds,flying surrounded by chirps or cackles once again as she offers her new delight we are appointed as trustees .R.C.

It is everywhere this season,
Mother looks like father looks like
daughter looks like son.
As they gather around the holiday tree
Like escapees from corporate Whoville,
They sing songs to a baby
Who couldn't care less about Target.