Let’s Have a Party

nothing   Write me a song, sound
Of flowers blooming
Wild lavender pansies,
Green plains in laughing color.

Sing me a story with words
“Love and worry”,
Silent room sits dark,
Your light slunk slow.

Tell me a tale,
Of the fisher and whale,
Notable notes you
Wrote among my garden.

Paint strokes of those,
Curved line of the nude,
Prone, with a hunger
Looking into our souls.

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The woods draw closer in the evenings.
Falling light, falling dark, falling as
Fresh cut hay, and up looms the woodline,
Voluminous in green shadow evermore.

During my day it lays low, lingering
Saying nothing save a quiet sigh
As if leafed trees wonder when day
Will reach its lonely twilight end.

But oh, when night falls, falling away,
As I did say, these woods build their
Horrors in darkened moans, hollow hoots,
Gurgles of green gloam along the row.

Shadows unfurl like long fingers,
Even sailors would fear, as if sails
Suddenly silent spied the black clouds
Angrily ominous in distant dusky rows.

Before evening I work there easily,
The wooded thickets resting quiet,
Tall and creaking in their shoes,
Leaning upon the other, as dull muses.

But as the deepening gloom sobers,
Showing labors now over, I dare not
Turn away from their ominous grasp
And step away slowly for the open road.

Bright lights,loudly passing fast,
Remind me of my lone figure but
Communion shouts, that song sung
In white flashes, my salvation.

In the glowing roar the woods seem
To recoil, the fangs and talons
Pause, their long jaws snap empty
And my keeping is safe till morning

And dawn’s docile break.

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leaves     We share a little green bottle,
The content of which is cleanser.
I always pressed down hard and
Fast when I wanted cleanser.

There were cleanser spills galore.
Then, she moved the green bottle
To a cradle on the shower wall.
I must press lightly to get

Cleanser. I must be careful.
I get much less cleanser, but
I discovered something else.
A small amount rubbed gently

Goes far.

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America the Beautiful


Write the song of a death, death of a young man blue, who
Well he walked off the end of the earth, quite simply we say,
The song goes slowly, following his steps, even his stagger
Though the melody is one we all recall, fondly, even in a lost day.

Sing the song, the song of a death, a young man blue, who
Well he threw his life to the birds, circling black and hungry
He made them pay, he made them choke upon his liver and yet we
Sing, sing the melodius refrain, steady as a train and quite ugly.

Hear the song, the song of death, death itself plays the tune
Having made his way to our doorstep, while we laughed and played,
Merriment of all those days in the bright sun and oh my, the fun,
Still he came, slowly forth, dragging his chain and now we say – sing!

Bury the song, the song of time, a young man blue, who
When the music stopped, well he found he at last had fallen
And when he hit the ground, his wings crushed under such plight,
And now discovered, much, much too late that Icarus was right.

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I taste your sex on my tongue like cold salami.
Sex on my tongue

Your tongue had never been so unscrupulously slutty
Unscrupulously slutty.
(And still you smoked afterward.)

Are we conscious in the dungeon of our pleasures.
The dungeon smells

Smoldering peat, soldering guns, shouldering guns
Smells the dungeon.

Sex in all its force wrecks the mind in total.
Smells wreak terror.

We return again and again to the kill, gnawing
Its rancid sinews.

No smell too strong for hunger, for raw survival
Sex on my tongue must taste.

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Look darling how our path is funny, strange and never straight.
Like the butterfly wandering in his slightly drunken state.
Come along the shoreline with me, watch the tide recede.
Bubbly lines of sea foam linger there in need.

See darling, how my hand is reaching outward unto yours.
Wishing I could pull you, up from your immures.
Time can heal and water too, in and out with seasons.
How odd the word ‘simplicity’ to one in search of reason.

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Weak Grounds



The black wetness turned into the big trash can,
Refuse with use, not giving them a second chance.
Truculent she is.

Damn stubborn. Unyielding. Downward spiral
Goes the leftover swirling red tomato juice,
Vodka signified a truce,

Though shortly lived, then round we go til morning
Shouts but hoarse from shouting, more like bleats
Oh well, a least we paused to eat.

Truculent. Of course. All right then. That’s it.
I should have used those grounds for one more run
Of weaker coffee, shit!

I guess – guess at what her meaning was in pause.
Her meaning of my unsolved mysteries, her pleas,
Of forest not the trees.

To try and understand her love, unselfish and still
It seemed to me to kill, my insides and leave instead
A hole where heart had gone unfed,

So long now eating cereal at dinner, not certain
My hunger is for an honest meal or rather not,
Just coffee, sugared and hot.

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