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TABLE OF CONTENTS: The good stuff

Florida

Bad End

On death and flowering

Once a man, twice a child

TABLE OF CONTENTS: The other stuff thats not as good (to me)

Florida

" I know somethin you'd never believe... "

Whisked into a red room, eyes wide

with orange sunshine, wandering around the scene:

Kabuki-boys in a 5 pointed hokum dancing a rag

amongst royal drag and rubbermen between -

Go-go cages and cabaret fashions, what a dream!

He'd had one on the rocks, just shy of absinthe green.

Modern Sporus adorned in garb so bright,

a true haberdasher's delight!

From left to right was but neon blight.

He looked down at the boy, illfitted pants tight

and two roses and lips the same, buds caught under deep shade;

The face aflame as he told a name, hands slithering past taut blockade

and roaming into the garden.

Bad End

Smalltown boy from the Mississippi's bend

pisces faggot with big dreams cast off

flushed into the city - drowning in the pool

" God likes pretty... " - suckling on drool

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Fisherman from the Ohio's end

found koi wading through the trough

netted capricious - dragging in the fool

grasped vicious - just another tool

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Two made one and must contend

that they've come to an end

soldered swift - joindered by trend

currents, remote drift - it unspools, expend

Christmas

The snow still falls outside,

and I've got but my pride;

nothing under the tree

as far as one can see;

but, resting by my side,

is my love I shan't deride.

✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞

No, there's nothing decked in holly;

we live alone in our folly,

rocking in the chair

as rich, dark wood perfumes the air;

he's rested in my lap, on a trolley

ride to sleeping jolly.

✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞

The fire crackles gently,

letting scents flee

from their hold;

the sentiment untold

but felt, soothingly

melting at day's end with glee.

✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞✞

Night has set its frost

upon our windows; but what is the cost

of such frigidity when lovers embrace

and leave cold no space?

No toll is issued, none that's crossed

my thoughts; I've tossed

the quiltings atop, shawling him in pace

with the weather's wintry race.

Winter (title may change)

As autumn fades we fall

into the frost tipped night, not together

alone and missing it all.

I slide into its darkness

hobbling to my life and sitting, waiting

slowly feel my spark lessen.

______________________________

I wonder if I'll fall

I'll shift as fresh snow upon ground

something I wasn't at all.

We'll trek through treacherous terrain

pilgrims, pioneers of old on love's trail

I fail? Left in rain.

Sleet, hail, more would fall

upon my young face. Left hanging cold

I'd err and lose all.

I see the warm wood

house on the mount; it lures me

to think I'll do good.

Stay on Sinai; I'll fall

and then you'll see what I am

and I'll lose it all.

I'll be the monstruous thing

I appeared; destructive passion to rational end

living with what it brings.

Perhaps at last I'd fall

set my burden down; you hold me

I'd rather not at all.

I may be fine now

but I'll get old; be left cold

and you'll jump the bough.

______________________________

I pray against the fall

What can be done? None as known

and you'll forgive it all.

You seemingly love me so

despite all my wrong; love me dearly

enduring far, and ever so.

Perhaps then I shan't fall

I'll live long, everlasting love in soul

and it's worth it all.

My doubts, my fears occlude

driven down by spooks, old wive's tales

against my spirit they collude.

If circumstances proper do fall

if all is upon us so well

I'd cry it out, all

of it; our aged eyes would swell

in the moon's pale thrall

we'd sit still, enamored voice as bells

ringing heavenly, bright joyous sprawl

one last embrace to take us well

into our lives; into all.

Spring

Bumblebees are out.

Bloom in full display,

les fleurs du mal

in the garden.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

Bumbling, bustling in and out.

From my veranda I saw them sway,

but from them all

I saw one then.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

What do they buzz about?

Now I know; I must say,

despite the height it stood tall

in the glen.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

O, great flower of the north! Object of my day,

adoration sprawls

outside its earthen pen.

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

How I wish to grasp, to flush those acrost the bay

that wish it harm. To pluck before I bawl

and replant it in my den

one day.

The Cat

Watch it, wretched little thing;

mewling useless, weakly ringing from the floor

its tiny tufts fluffing up

as it rolls, crossing the hardwood -

then it rests, giving silent snores.

𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠

Watch it, black-clad youngling;

it stands at last, albeit wobbling

in its gait; watch it slowly rising

from its fumbles, laboriously

tailing plastic baubles.

𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠

Watch it, upright student;

it trots across the carpet with ease:

even sprinting is done prudently,

wildest play in progress -

then time for sleep and it freezes.

𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠𓃠

Watch it, learned thing;

it has mastered all, there's nothing more:

from still status it flings

to and fro; then it takes leave -

even in rest it never bores.

The Frog (WIP)

I saw the frog

resting upon the log

underneath the twisted tree

blowing in the breeze,

sticking cockeyed out the bog.

It stared at me

with glassen, dark ochre eyes -

then they looked away, chasing after flies,

still considering its next move

stuck in its solitary groove;

but, at last, why?

A jaded mariner at sea

should be its lot in life;

to live in lonely strife

would seem its proper way,

but it lives today

without tomorrow's trifles.

𓆏𓆏𓆏𓆏𓆏𓆏𓆏𓆏𓆏

It croaks a forlorn-sounding tune

whether sun or moon;

the fat, wart covered thing

sings from fall to spring

in weathered runes

none that hear understand; never tiring

of its voice, refusing to grow weary

of its being, turning eerie

with no answer - all alone.

This doesn't change his tone;

for a frog may not query

why the response is silent as stone.

The same may not be said for man;

that everpresent anxiety stands

to strangle us, mangling

our works and wrangling

us under, into the shifting sands,

muffled by frogsong.

WIP NO NAME

To be a man at sea

may be the life for me;

landed life may strand

my spirit, maroon and smear it thin

within a land without a grin.

Such would not be easy. Not much

worth doing is; in pursuit of construing

greater things we may grow our wings -

or perhaps, saddest of all, it traps us and we fall;

we may prefer one, but must prepare to weather

either. A touch of knowhow and a bunch of love

are much of what is needed, the crutch

of a life well-led.

To be a man at sea

may not be for me;

suppose it starts well and I'm posed

for success - the fruits of confidence in excess

sicken the tongue and quicken

the fall. Perhaps, as I'm enthralled,

at last I add to the ballast

a weight past limits - a great permit

to return ashore, burned from before

and resting, taking to nesting all alone.

On death and flowering

Bright summer not a week after

sun hung, warping air

stung us. Searching for grandpa's dad in the plain

and my mother rests in the building, grandma working the plans

box in arm. I love the cold; not there, not alone, not now

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

Empty michelobs, heinekens - He drank himself to death and everyone know it. Snake mean piss drunk bastard - yield of

gorgeous flowers flowing out an ornate funerary urn, red greens yellows, verdant pointilism field;

red face looks down, callouses peeled.

Plastic junk; condom, caps, needles - Stole my last dime... ruined my credit... She - don't they clean this place?

Clover in droves. Vietnam vets, vases empty - They didnt get so lucky, did they? Shut your mouth. - spaced around,

flanked by preventable disease and flames still lit inside -

He should be here. Ol Cuddy. My old man.

You sure grampa? We have been lookin.

Give me some time. - it must be getting cold inside

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

Processions pass behind

I stare back from time to time;

back down to the grind - We aint never gonna find him.

He is somewhere round here I know it. - not timed

but we felt the heat beating down, ticking

on our patience -

Maybe they removed his plot. Replaced it.

Thats a load of bullshit he paid good money for that thing.

I know. Cheap bastards dont surprise me no more anyway. - since

his last visit the names smoothed, faded, dusty. A prince

is forgot in due time, their graves left cold

⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

We been sweatin too long. He aint here. - He stared down

and didn't lift his face for a time. Not under the tree, its brown shade

hiding the nameplate from his bad eyes - We tried. Let's go. We cant find it.

Its pretty damned hot. Might gimme heatstroke if I set here lookin longer. -

A few short glances to the dirt and we're gone

to the building then the car. Perhaps some things are best

left alone; left forgotten, cold - I miss her.

I do too. We couldnt do a thing.

You miss him?

I guess so. Dont worry about em. Either of them.

Once a man, twice child

The old man's skiff slithered off the dock,

his half-arthritic hands riffing skilled yet mindless

over weathered wood. His kneebounces

digging into rocky detritis flung from

pebblestrewn, twiggen red mud -

That theres the catfish. Look it go boy.

Steady ye self. Dont get all riled.

The boy did. He clambered edgewise and dropped the rod, scepter

sinking behind - Boy... Dont mind it. That fish or rod.

Watch. Jus sit there an watch.

He eyed the bob in silence.

Patient boy. Patient. Dont get nowhere chasin em.

The fish came, flapping

into the boy's lap.

Feel it boy. Careful. Dont drop.

He did. It fled to the gentle lapping.

Stop worryin on them things. Whats it do for ye?

The boy shook his head, nervous feet tapping -

Well youd better stop.

Calm it down. Get nowhere worrying.

I aint gone this far greyin when I was a boy.

Dont worry bout the river the fish or nothin.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The old man with boy on lap, feet tapping on the floor,

hands in an ancient manual dance he would now pass the boy -

Hold it steady. Calm. Grip it good -

Old fingers relinquished, fresh wrapping

around the handle, wand entrapped.

Suddenly it drags -

Reel it in boy. There she goes.

Pulling sunward against the small nags

at the hook. Tangled in task, the boy's arms leaden, sagging -

Up! Up ye go. Up up up. Good one.

One last great pull and it sprang,

droplets flying, flipping violently, the boy's voice rang,

a small roar. The old man smiled; Ye done it. Caught the thing.

I knewed that ye could.

He rubbed his head and laughed - Good. Gone and done it.

Now grab yer rod an steady, dont let ye self forget

that you done it - The fish had bounced,

meanly pounced on out the boat

Stop the frownin.

If ye can't keep yer vessel's health,

there'll no room for but yerself.

Quit the cries an stop drownin

young boy.

note: I don't like stuff under this line as much as the stuff above it generally but for the sake of archivism or something you can read them still

flowerfields

In flowered fields,

across the dandelion-tipped sea

is me. I am under the swaying magnolia tree,

wondering how I've feeled these years

under its shade. Daisies pushing up

and green sprawling over my legs,

greedily sucking my nature's dregs

and it's never enough.

I smile and wave and

and I talk and I throw the line

but it never goes past I'm fine

until the grave.

Will anyone be there?

Will they leave me roses,

sniff them long with their hateful noses?

Will anyone care?

The canopy does not stop the heat any longer.

The scent sickens,

an odor thickened ad nauseam

and you were there,

sitting on the side -

you saw, and you

to your course kept true -

as I cried.

I've chewed lillies of the valley,

a goat to slaughter for years -

in spite of tears, you've turned your ears

from me.

The weeds are climbing, climbing to the summit

and I can't see through,

I'll never get to it

before I plummet

Oldtime Religion

Mass is at eight

and I've yet to clear what's on my plate -