Sometimes I sit and wonder about the past.
I reflect and let it affect my present- my future-
It makes me wonder if I can ever really put it past me.

Sometimes- most times- I sit and think about what you did to me.
I was never this angry until I met you, I had never lost my temper over the slightest of issues.
My anger was locked in a cage, like a lion in a den, away from all walks of life, because it was too ferocious
too loud, too dangerous to let loose.

You made me feel like a lion.

You made me feel like a lion, but told me I was a butterfly.
You were adding extra security to the cage while making me thinking you were trying your hardest to pry it open.
You forced me to believe that you, and only you, could ever love someone like me-
A lion- I mean butterfly.

I refer to you as my ex-girlfriend even though I can still feel your words caress my skin.
Even though every time I see a picture of you or hear your name my heart still skips a beat,
even though it still feels like I'm a lion, trapped in a cage, as if you still have a hold on me.

I still refer to you as an ex-girlfriend even though you never acted like it.
You told our friends that I was frail- too fragile to hold- too hard to love,
But before you, I was gorilla glass- protective and strong,
But you made me feel like a lion and told me I was a butterfly, so my default mode began to play second fiddle.

I don't think I want you back.
I'm starting to find happiness in others,
Solitude only comforts me when I can feel my anger- the lion within me, trying to break free from the cage.
I've met someone who tells me I'm a beautiful,
Someone who is trying to help me break free from the cage without tearing my claws off.
Who lets me know I am a lion, but I could be a butterfly, and that either or is okay.

I hope that whomever you decide is worthy to join the circus you've declared yourself the lion tamer of is strong enough to say no and walk away.

XXII. TO POSEIDON (7 lines)

(ll. 1-5) I begin to sing about Poseidon, the great god, mover of
the earth and fruitless sea, god of the deep who is also lord of
Helicon and wide Aegae.  A two-fold office the gods allotted you,
O Shaker of the Earth, to be a tamer of horses and a saviour of
ships!

(ll. 6-7) Hail, Poseidon, Holder of the Earth, dark-haired lord!
O blessed one, be kindly in heart and help those who voyage in
ships!

By the East River and the Bronx
boys sang, stripped to the waist,
along with the wheels, oil, leather and hammers.
Ninety thousand miners working silver from rock
and the children drawing stairways and perspectives.

But none of them slumbered,
none of them wished to be river,
none loved the vast leaves,
none the blue tongue of the shore.

By East River and the Queensboro
boys battled with Industry,
and Jews sold the river faun
the rose of circumcision
and the sky poured, through bridges and rooftops,
herds of bison driven by the wind.

But none would stop,
none of them longed to be cloud,
none searched for ferns
or the tambourine's yellow circuit.

When the moon sails out
pulleys will turn to trouble the sky;
a boundary of needles will fence in memory
and coffins will carry off those who don't work.

New York of mud,
New York of wire and death.
What angel lies hidden in your cheek?
What perfect voice will speak the truth of wheat?
Who the terrible dream of your stained anemones?

Not for a single moment, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
have I ceased to see your beard filled with butterflies,
nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon,
nor your thighs of ****** Apollo,
nor your voice like a column of ash;
ancient beautiful as the mist,
who moaned as a bird does
its *** pierced by a nedle.
Enemy of the satyr,
enemy of the vine
and lover of the body under rough cloth.

Not for a single moment, virile beauty
who in mountains of coal, billboards, railroads,
dreamed of being a river of slumbering like a river
with that comrade who would set in your breast
the small grief of an ignorant leopard.

Not for a single moment, Adam of blood, Male,
man alone on the sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
because on penthouse roofs,
and gathered together in bars,
emerging in squads from the sewers,
trembling between the legs of chauffeurs
or spinning on dance-floors of absinthe,
the maricas, Walt Whitman, point to you.

Him too! He's one! And they hurl themselves
at your beard luminous and chaste,
blonds from the north, blacks from the sands,
multitudes with howls and gestures,
like cats and like snakes
the maricas, Walt Whitman, maricas,
disordered with tears, flesh for the whip,
for the boot, or the tamer's bite.

Him too! He's one! Stained fingers
point to the shore of your dream,
when a friend eats your apple,
with its slight tang of petrol,
and the sun sings in the navels
of the boys at play beneath bridges.

But you never sough scratched eyes,
nor the darkest swamp where they drown the children,
nor the frozen saliva,
nor the curved wounds like a toad's belly
that maricas bear, in cars and on terraces,
while the moon whips them on terror's street-corners.

You sought a nakedness like a river.
Bull and dream taht would join the wheel to the seaweed,
father of  your agony, camellia of your death,
and moan in the flames of your hidden equator.

For it's right that a man not seek his delight
in the ****** jungle of approaching morning.
The sky has shores where life is avoided
and bodies that should not be echoed by dawn.

Agony, agony, dream, ferment and dream.
This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
Bodies dissolve beneath city clocks,
war passes weeping with a million grey rats,
the rich give their darlings
little bright dying things,
and life is not noble, or sarcred, or good.

Man can, if he wishes, lead his desire
through a vein of coral or a heavenly ****.
Tomorrow loves will be stones and Time
a breeze that comes slumbering through the branches.

That's why I don't raise my voice, old Walt Whitman,
against the boy who inscribes
the name of a ******* his pillow,
nor the lad who dresses as a bride
in the shadow of the wardrobe,
nor the solitary men in clubs
who drink with disgust prostitution's waters,
nor against the men with the green glance
who love men and burn their lips in silence.
But yes, against you, city maricas,
of tumescent flesh and unclean thought.
Mothers of mud. Harpies. Unsleeping enemies
of Love  that bestows garlands of joy.

Against you forever, you who give boys
drops of foul death with bitter poison.
Against you forever,
Fairies of North America,
Párajos of Havana,
Jotos of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cádiz,
Apios of Seville,
Cancos of Madrid,
Floras of Alicante,
Adelaidas of Portugal.

Maricas of all the world, muderers of doves!
Slaves to women. Their boudoir *******.
Spread in public squares like fevered fans
or ambushed in stiff landscapes of hemlock.

No quarter! Death
flows from your eyes
and heaps grey flowers at the swamp's edge.
No quarter! Look out!!
Let the perplexed, the pure,
the classical, noted, the supplicants
close the gates of the bacchanal to you.

And you, lovely Walt Whitman, sleep on the banks of the Hudson
with your beard towards the pole and your hands open.
Bland clay or snow, your tongue is calling
for comrades to guard your disembodied gazelle.

Sleep: nothing remains.
A dance of walls stirs the praries
and America drown itself in machines and lament.
I long for a fierce wind that from deepest night
shall blow the flowers and letters from the vault where you sleep
and a ***** boy to tell the whites and their gold
that the kingdom of wheat has arrived.

Bluto, the world’s strongest man, could tear bread loaf-sized pieces off a steel-belted tractor tire with his bare hands.

But he could not lift a single smithereen of his sensitive Piscean heart when Lily, the luscious, leggy Leo trapeze artist, left him for steely-eyed Arien Karl, the literate and literary lion tamer.

Horoscopic Circus, Act II

She was a Cancer Dragon. Like catnip to the Piscean Tiger, whose feline DNA was his Achilles heel. Especially when she wore heels. And nylons. The end is nylon, he thought. I love you she said. I love you more he affirmed. And firm he soon became. Then being the ringmaster, she opened her mouth and incinerated him -- as only dragons can….

Twelve Olympians, to rule as they choose.
Twelve Olympians, we'll start with Zeus.
God of sky, thunder, lightning, law.
Ruled the Olympians with the justice he saw.
Commonly referred to as the Father.
Next is Poseidon, God of Water.
"A tamer of horses and a saviour of ships,"
Said in one of Homer's hymns.
Next is Hera, Queen of the Gods, and of women.
Giving mothers a carriage, and marriage to men.
Next is Demeter, Goddess of Harvest, giving fertility.
Hades captured her daughter, Persephone, and her virginity.
Then there's Athena, Goddess of Wisdom.
Lept out of Zeus' head, and earned her throne in the kingdom.
Apollo is next, God of Music, Poetry, Light.
Also capable of bringing plague and plight.
Artemis, Goddess of Moon and Hunt, and Apollo's twin.
Guided mothers through childbirth, a sacred ******.
Also, beloved Aphrodite, Goddess of Love.
Lover of Ares, who favored battles and blood.
Only Hephaestus and Aphrodite were wed.
Fire, metalwork, art of sculpture he led.
Also, there's Hermes, a god bringing word.
Among other things, guide to the Underworld.
Finally, there's Hesta, Goddess of the Hearth.
Feeding families and serving the home with warmth.
Twelve Olympians, to rule the sky.
Twelve Olympians, give your memory a try.

Man, the mountain tamer.
Explains to the erupted how their cores can be corrupted. Disaster avoided he can rejoice, until he hears another voice. Afraid of how their emotional erosion may cause the Earth's explosion. Lost, not just their home, but themselves.

Man, the mountain tamer.
Sweetly shouts serenades to the mounds who seek aid. Blissfully bringing back the molten from back before they knew when. Lava they've learned to live through now erupting from within you. The heart's fatal eruption will be their world's destruction.

Daughter of Jove, relentless Power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and tort’ring hour
The Bad affright, afflict the Best!
Bound in thy adamantine chain
The Proud are taught to taste of pain,
And purple Tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy Sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, designed,
To thee he gave the heav’nly Birth,
And bade to form her infant mind.
Stern rugged Nurse! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore:
What sorrow was, thou bad’st her know,
And from her own she learned to melt at others’ woe.

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
Self-pleasing Folly’s idle brood,
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse, and with them go
The summer Friend, the flatt’ring Foe;
By vain Prosperity received,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.

Wisdom in sable garb arrayed
Immersed in rapt’rous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent maid
With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend:
Warm Charity, the gen’ral Friend,
With Justice, to herself severe,
And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Oh, gently on thy Suppliant’s head,
Dread Goddess, lay thy chast’ning hand!
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
Not circled with the vengeful Band
(As by the Impious thou art seen),
With thund’ring voice, and threat’ning mien,
With screaming Horror’s funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philosophic Train be there
To soften, not to wound my heart.
The gen’rous spark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are, to feel, and know myself a Man.

Best known for writing such words it scrawled in many languages inked out of hearts of
Poet’s politician’s clergy investment of mind and soul glided over parchment it would open
Doors of wood hinges were heard to creak when wise words were spoken and angry kings could
No longer hold freedom back after words of truth shined forth with wisdom and would not
Be denied by personnel greed and cruelty the very breath of man was infused in such
Documents that had veracity that was uncommon in nature the heights were noted the
Indignity and stupidity and rigidness that would in slave people was forever snapped no bonds
Could hold after the quill responded to such ignorance pleasantries were subscribed to by
Mortal hand that reached beyond uncertainty and touched divine sensibility it wrote on
Personnel levels in the case of widowhood when the dark curtains of loss were drawn and no
Light shined into the soul of the bereaved in the darkness a sister friend’s face slowly emerged
From the murky dark waters that sorrows flood brought in her embrace and understanding the
Quill wrote of a slow growing power a bridge was constructed over the river of nerve and
Exhausting pangs longing for the beloved that was departed but through this single individual
The stitching of healing began its most needed work through another the sharing of faith and
Trust would create a heart that no longer was held in gloom but pierced the heavenly blue
Where the fair one stood in garments of gleaming white of mist and tranquil portions no longer
Was fate alone in play but joyous music the flute the horn the violin drew a picture of a country
Lane there love was once again completed harmony over arched death itself and it was all
Viewed under the greatest banner men ever knew and it is friendship the telling and knowing of
Tears and a shoulder to cry on it gives way to building blocks that create a different life
Widowhood made agreeable while the wound still remains it is a course changer the injured
Now arises a heroine of quiet silent grace a source of strength a viable counter weight to grief’s
Unbearable character the quill surmounts the littleness in people stories are in abundance that
Show both sides of the issue the abyss that selfishness brings but what heights can be reached
By serving others instead of self weights the quill lifts effortlessly weighty matters the line we
Have come through many slings and arrows fits twists and turns the quill runs before as a lion
Tamer it cracks a whip trouble is quickly vanquished there is writing everywhere the quill will
Guide to so many existing ideas that create formidable answers but with this in play the
Intangible restless pull of something beyond reason that must be recognized and dealt with all
Success and pleasure will melt away as the pull of importance that will not give way most of us
Know the undeniable truth that over all that is said above a greater quill writes in perfect
Accord without error not of fleshly hand but spirit that moved on men to state His wishes and
Commands without this writing no one can know true happiness or fulfillment outside of this
Most extraordinary compelling truth but what record there is of such sadness because of failure
To listen to a love story of tremendous drama all pertaining to the highest highs and the lowest
Lows and of one by love just won’t give up on the ones He holds so dear it comes down to this
Reality it still stands true there is a Hell to shun and a heaven to win through all the swirling
Down through time this great weight rests on us all what we decide will be flames or bliss abide
With him who hates you completely or the one who loved you to the point of dying in agony
You are the only one who can complete the story the quill writes love and mercy sadly so many
Show it has little effect the quill writes on sin is death those who practice it will surely die this is
The second death the lake of fire

Somebody put Kylie Minogue on
from the wall mounted touchscreen one-pound-a-go jukebox-
Coldplay would've been better, but I should be so lucky-
and the rising water in the Titanic's engine room of noise
rose to a First Class stateroom chatter and Kate Winslet
and the queue to the bar grew a little longer

and then
you
walked
in
like
a
Sunday
morning
walk,

one long stroll by a river edge or lake side,
through a Westfield, Bluewater Meadowhall
in one long rehearsed map move entrance
dodging standing drinkers and their plus ones in Zara trench coats and Boden shawls,
and you left a wake of wet forest and crumbling beachhead afternoons behind you as you
walked
on
through
the
crowd
to the pool table at the back where you watched
*** after ***
after pint
after ***
after we need more one pound coins to play more pool,
and you went out for **** though you don't smoke yourself
and you looked up into the mist because you're the kind that would find New York Stuart Little big:
mostly building, building, building, window, balcony, bridge, statue and Central Park trees,
and you walked back in with river eyes, your lids moving from cold back to behind-the-fridge, pub-room warm
and they watered a little, Pacific blue sliding over eternal black;
I think she's the kind that needs a lion tamer not an orchestra leader,
but I've only got Petit Filous muscles and I had four raw eggs this morning and I'm still not as strong as I’d like to be,
(put the baton down, Tim)
a River Phoenix younger Harrison Ford stasis, one train wreck ride to remember,
nowhere near the lion tamer you need.

Kylie sings for the fifteenth time in a row,
and the bar is past last orders though cash is pushed under for pints
and you disappeared under bar light
and then into the moonlight
and now I'm sat grieving
the Golden Retriever of The Nutshell
in Bury St Edmunds this evening.

Irreplaceable you,
Drifting into my world
With so little a care
As the heat of the evening
Turned into a sordid affair

Irreplaceable you,
Riding me gently, tamer
Of heavy waves
Tangled together in shadows --
For you, I’ll always misbehave

Irreplaceable you,
Slipping from my grasp
And into another’s  --
Trembling toward your kiss
Tell me I’m your only lover

Irreplaceable you,
But replaceable me
Left to wilt at the shoreline
While you sailed off to sea.

You're the leader in our circus.
She the lion tamer,
I the dancer.

At your call she sends the lions in action.
At your call, I let them come.
I take the attacks for foolish action-
I take it all for you.

We do this waltz of love and hate-
Life and death.
I stood in the ring to take them on.
The Lions and their Tamer.

I took them on as you watched us Tango.
Orchestrating the tension and the hate.
Pinning all on me for the sake of your show.
The Ring Master.

i never pegged you for someone
swept up by razzle dazzle,
infatuated with muscle men,
acrobats, and stars.
your view on animal rights,
seemingly discarded,
for an elephant's tricks,
the lion tamer's whip,
the tent apparently blocking out
harsh judging light.

i viewed you as critical,
skeptical of spectacle,
squinting unsure,
behind those black wayfarers,
the image constructed in my mind,
supported by that vintage dress,
the style of your hair,
the music you listened to
on the car ride over,
how can you be satisfied
with this carnival fare?

frivolous displays favoured
over subtle gestures,
superficial appearances favoured
over chemistry,
hollow showman dialogue
echoing over loudspeakers
favoured over a conversation,

perhaps i'm a hypocrite,
your attributes simply skewed,
by my being swept up in the
razzle dazzle spectacle
of you.

(i'll be in the hall of mirrors)

Where lonely camels roam, dunes in darkness lay
And myriads of stars glow in disarray.
Solely the morning star, lone wanderer, shines bright
And thus illuminates this dark Arabian night.

As the gleaming eye of heaven rises in the East,
wake the weary nomad and his weary beast.
And as it reaches zenith, the heat burning the flesh,
they reach their destination: the vibrant Marrakech.

Explosion of colors, spices galore
Sold on bazaars selling infinitely more
A snake tamer plays his tunes in a trance
and the dervishes do their habitual dance.

And with every turn, every swish, every sway,
Unfolds like a dream the Arabian day.
'Til the sun sets again in this wondrous land
To darken once more the kingdom of sand.

I became whole
But my body was broken
Ridden with age,
I grabbed my last token

Into the machine
My luck was spent
The scythe to my back
To Hell I was sent

Hell is a hole
Hell is a mountain
Whether you fall
Or whether you found it

You climb and you reach
But the air just gets thinner
You grind at your teeth
But you are the dinner

You fight and you wrythe
But the chains cut you deeper
You find what was lost
And why you can't keep her

I left my soul
In a devil's arcade
'Neath a pile of clubs
Hearts diamond and spades

I tasted the blood
And sulfur and ash
The wine hit my teeth
Like a tamer's quick lash

My body was broken
Whole was I made
When I sold my soul
In the devil's arcade

i know you think im joking
but a pervert saved my life
she came to me one day
to **** me with a knife

i said oh no no no don't do it
ill do anything you say
then she said im a perv
and i want your love all day

but to love a perv is icky
your a creepy girl
she made me smell her feet
and dance a spinning  twirl

wow she said you did that well
why don't you stand on your head
look up my dress and say im hot
or for sure you will be dead

i realized she was very odd
and asked her what was wrong
she said i was married forever
and couldn't have his ****

so i went off my rocker
not getting what i needed
but made believe for years
that i was never ever cheated

then one day i snapped
and cried for lust all day
so they called me purvy *****
and tried to keep me away

the more i went with out
the hornier i got
until one day in torment
i loved the smell of rot

i fell in love with filth
and to this very day
i have no scruples at all
ill do anything for a lay

now pull your pants off
and show me your little ****
dam its so cute
ill lick your lolly pop

she used her tongue like a twizzler
it was really fun
and then i realized i was like her
and my life as a perv begun

so if your starved for love
and craving ***** lust
you might as well join the ranks
of pervy folks r us

99% Switch
96% Degrader
94% Rope bunny
93% Dominant
90% Rigger
89% Degradee
88% Sadist
87% Brat tamer
83% Submissive
83% ******
81% *******
79% Master/Mistress
76% Primal (Prey)
74% Primal (Hunter)
74% Experimentalist
73% Brat
62% Non-monogamist
50% Owner
47% Vanilla
43% Slave
42% Daddy/Mommy
38% Exhibitionist
10% Ageplayer
100% Girl/Boy
7% Pet....meow

I've learned to trace
The curves of your name
Through marks on my skin that were all too straight
And I've rubbed them raw-

Scarlet, aching, throbbing,
Irritated because of how many times I've dug my nails
Into the memory of you carved into my shoulder,
Or my wrist, thigh, hip...

The list goes on, and so do you,
Even when the licks of fire turn tamer, whiter, faded
With time that tries to give me relief but makes me
PANIC
Instead,
Because at least when it's all fresh,
I can hear your voice in my ear
And the cut of your jib is outlined by the cut on my... well, anything.

I want your fingers wrapped around my waist
But in my mind's clouded eye you pull away
Every time, and all I feel is rain drops on amber skin, and the blade grips ever tighter.

Normal girls who cry at night and not at sunset
Have stretch marks guiding their insecurity,
But I bet you've never been to a lido with your parents
After getting a new tattoo of a bitter I'll-never-know's name imprinted on your arm...

And if you have, well, you'll never tell me
Because even though I trace you every time I'm reminded of your seaside green glass eyes
I haven't looked the past in the face

Since the last time you said you'd see me soon.

Come join the unraveling circus
quite soon to be passing our way,
with the clowns in a clamor to twerk us -
line up as they lead us astray!

Arriving, the elephant trumpets
agendas of aberrant acts
while the donkeys drool, dunking their crumpets
and twirlers spin, twisting the facts.

The big top’s now open to breezes,
so pundits soar spreading their wings
to convince us to tread the trapezes,
for it's they who'll be pulling the strings.

The merry-go-round’s so amazing
(black horses bound, chasing the cart)
as the brass ring of change wanders wildly
till stealing straight back to the start.

The moldy old model of Ptolemy
(at the hub of this three ring domain)
mixes marvels of magic with alchemy
in the bowels of the mastodon’s brain.

Neglecting the gulls who’ll be eating
stale crumbs that have dropped from the plate,
the vain vulture of virtue’s oft tweeting  
of Circus Land once again great.

The tamer, adorned in fine trumpery
(pate garnished with fiery mane)
has endeavored to wall the ring's boundary,
keep millipede migrants in rein.

The dwarves and their antics are funny
while juggling to balance the books,
so the titans laugh, grappling the money
extracted by hook or by crooks.

The sideshows provide a composite
of fails of the frizzed billionaire,
some disclosing the bones in his closet
caught clutched in the arms of the bear.
    
From towers the trumpet is blowing
fake messages, fetid but full,
but as long as the cattle keep lowing,
he’ll hasten to serve them the bull.

The masses, persuaded to follow,
float foolishly into the fog
overwhelmed by the vapors they swallow,
choked up like the ruff-collared dog.

The snap of the whip as it whooshes
maintains the domains of the dupes
so the cats won’t escape to the bushes,
refusing to hop through the hoops.

With the promise to call out the cavalry,
the hearts of the crowds beat athrob
for in spite of their struggles and rivalry
the Don’s still controlling the mob.

Humbled Empress on *******’s hilarious,
parading her ***** and mules,
with her fabulous tales (mostly spurious)
wagging only the naive and fools.

Mounting ponies in circles, she rode 'em
through lobbies where influence crawls
with her claws clinging tight to the totem
while seals on the banks balanced *****.

Yes, the pack’s still pre-paid by the PAC men,
some wolfing their ways through the maze,
while fey fables are hawked by the packmen
who canvass our eyes with a glaze.

The pretender defender of females
is actu'ly one of the hawks;
secrets hidden in spills of her re-mails
means pillory, stuck in the stocks.

The swine in the central arenas
(immersed in the fat of the throne)
begin dancing like wee ballerinas
’fore pitching the proles a bare bone.

Jesters Cruzo and Bozo, while boozin'
(dealt cards which were ******* by the ****),
ruled “not winning the hand would be losin’
and need for an armed Minuteman.”

Well the ray gun's still loaded and toted
(the gall’ry forbidding all bans)
and the NRA gang’s become bloated
shooting **** in the face of the fans.

One day when the mad house has folded
and sawdust’s been wafted aside,
Human Race will be racing, remolded,
surmounting life’s hurdles in stride.

So I was walking down the street the other day,
smoking my cigarette,
and enjoying it,
and singing fake songs to myself,
and I walk past a small car,
and it made me stop,
because its strange to see a small car on my street.
Especially a small car painted in bright clown colors,
and especially a small clown colored car filled with smoke,
and especially a small clown colored car filled with smoke and what looks to be clowns.
So I decided to investigate,
and I walked up,
and I tapped on the window,
and as soon as I did all I could hear was screaming and kicking.
I took a step back because
I mean
****,
what if it exploded?
And as the small colorful clown car door opened,
smoke poured out,
billowing and puffing,
very strange smelling smoke of all different colors,
and i began to wonder if it wasn't me who was tripping ball's,
as 1..
no 2..
no 12
huge bug eyed clowns crawled out.
Gawking and hissing and juggling crack pipes.
The first one asked my name.
I lied of course.
You never trust a cracked out clown,
not even with your name.
The second one asked me my age.
I lied of course,
because it's a well known fact crack clowns are pedophiles
and he might have tried to have his way with me
if I told him the truth about my tender young age.
The third asked me for a cigarette.
I gave it to him of course,
out of sheer terror that if I didn't
he might use his circus tricks
to pull a colorful rag out of his ***
and choke me to death with it
and I didn't want that.
The rest of them just kind of stared at me
or screamed
or sniffed my clothing and inspected me.
After a few minutes of all of this
I decided I'd had enough.
Talking with clowns is bad karma anyways,
and I started to walk away
waving politely
but no they weren't done with me yet.
They hog tide me
and covered me in clown make up
and adopted me as there new pet monkey
/clown driver
/lion tamer.
But of course,
when the police found me naked in a trash can at three in the morning a few hours later
still unable to complete whole sentences
they wouldn't believe ( or couldn't understand) a word of it
but I'll tell you,
if you ever see a smoke filled colorful clown car
just walk away.
We know the truth
its ugly, and juggles crack pipes.

More than one person remembers that day
as hot and tasting of catastrophe
in the flavor of airbag dust and gasoline.
We were talking as you drank your root beer.
Windows down. My shoes off…

4:02.
Your eyes widen
as metal screeches and the revving of engines
winds down, a man wearing sunglasses
yanks on my door, but it protrudes
into the cab. Another man takes you out —
shouts to me to move.  I can’t
find my shoes and my wallet is soaked.
Bystanders flock like they would at a circus
where a lion’s attacked his tamer.
Tears flow more freely than blood.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. God, my fault spills
from my bruised lips until finally,
I collapse to the pavement like the fender
of the opposing Mercedes.  

I tried but failed to explain
that swerving the car to save you
meant near-death for me. Only after
regret and responsibility that crushed
my lungs faded, the way mascara dries,
did I acknowledge,
I am here.

Sphynx-like they move,
lions in the dark,
where they watch her
through hungy coals set in gaunt faces,
licking their chops for her bones.

But she is a lion tamer,
with no more bones to spare the unfed worries yowling in her peripheral,
and a tinder spark now lives where the dark once crept
to keep their hunger at bay.

I used to write down all my secrets
And put them in envelopes
I addressed them to
"The person who keeps everyone's secrets,
Please hold on to some of mine
Because I'm crushing under the weight that they hold"
But because I never met anyone like that
I just stuffed them away in my underwear drawer,
My sock drawer,
My supplies drawer,
My junk drawer,
But eventually I had so many secrets
I ran out of evelopes and ran out of places to hide them.

You kissed me the same day you told her you loved her
You held my hand when no one was looking
Yet you held her entire body as if you were the pedastool
And she was an idol
Her flawless skin
A reminder that I will never be
Flawless enough for you to want only me

It wasn't until all my secrets came flowing out
Cluttering my heart
That I realised I'm your only secret
Do I keep you up at night
They way you haunt my dreams
Afraid to fall asleep
For fear if I hear you say my name again
Ill fall even harder than before.
I doubt it...
Ive been here enough times to know that
I'm just another girl who's heart you keep in a jar on your night stand
Along with the rest of your collection
Yet I don't feel the need to self harm because these words are already sharp enough to cut me open
People always told me to fight for the ones that I love
And baby id fight for you
But there's no point in it if the competition has already won

My heart became the battle field
***** and bruised
So here I am
Admitting defeated
You may have destroyed my dignity
But I have won my respect
Im as fierce as a lioness
And I don't need to be tamed
I won't jump through anymore fiery hoops
Just in hope that one day you'll love me in return
I'm not gonna be another welcome mat on your front porch
Because you're not welcome to walk all over me
You're not welcome to leave behind the ***** particles of your ****** life and expect me to clean it up
You're not welcome to wear me down and then replace me with someone new
Because eventually i'll get used to sleeping alone
I'll manage to stay out of the coldest corners
While still filling up the bed
Every morning ill regain my strength over a cup of coffee
And I'll pick up my pen
I'll write about us
I'll write about how we weren't a tradedy
Just a season passed and a lesson learned

5 dollar bill curled like a tunnel
a ****** kicks a toonie kicks a dime
the tunnel is built into the mountain
of my Lonely Planet guidebook to
Barcelona.

the laptop cord slithers above like
a stiffly frozen waterfall. The world
is an okay place.

XXXIII. TO THE DIOSCURI (19 lines)

(ll. 1-17) Bright-eyed Muses, tell of the Tyndaridae, the Sons of
Zeus, glorious children of neat-ankled Leda, Castor the tamer of
horses, and blameless Polydeuces.  When Leda had lain with the
dark-clouded Son of Cronos, she bare them beneath the peak of the
great hill Taygetus, -- children who are delivers of men on earth
and of swift-going ships when stormy gales rage over the ruthless
sea.  Then the shipmen call upon the sons of great Zeus with vows
of white lambs, going to the forepart of the prow; but the strong
wind and the waves of the sea lay the ship under water, until
suddenly these two are seen darting through the air on tawny
wings.  Forthwith they allay the blasts of the cruel winds and
still the waves upon the surface of the white sea: fair signs are
they and deliverance from toil.  And when the shipmen see them
they are glad and have rest from their pain and labour.

(ll. 18-19) Hail, Tyndaridae, riders upon swift horses!  Now I
will remember you and another song also.

a planet of nothing in the middle of nowhere
material out of focus
spread the lines farther apart to see more clearly

all that i've ever said to you, to some degree i've meant
and most of what i've chosen not to share with you served a purpose at the time
this was one of the colder winters, anyway

all the radiators broke so we made weapons out of them
and fought amongst one another
so that we could say we tried