Christmas Sobbing, Said the Forlorn Ruin Star


Happiness deranged.
cheers, lament.


Copyright © 2019 Charlie Zero the Poet

All rights Reserved.

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377 thoughts on “Christmas Sobbing, Said the Forlorn Ruin Star

      1. Ultra high frequency
        on the down low
        tunes in the serpent claws
        of Santana singing
        “Let it snow, let it snow
        … let … it … snow
        as Mother Garden Gnome
        cuts off the parson’s nose.

          1. All hail the Elf Ominous
            and cut the deck with trifle
            The Ancestral Halls are holding
            a dead man’s hand
            dealing the felonious rifle
            A high tide of yule
            hangs from a mule
            that burns the fossil fuel
            of a Christmas Wonderland 🎅

                1. speaking of a Grinch,
                  Robert Frost was at the coffeehouse
                  stressing that writing poetry
                  should follow a logical sequence of steps
                  “as an observer, the poet discovers himself”
                  “readers discover themselves in the observations of the poet”
                  Robert was full of tidbits as usual
                  he wasn’t hip on giving a STD as a holiday gift

                2. That foul-mouthed Walmart Grinch
                  pinched my phone. I had to spank him repeatedly to get it back off him.
                  Sorry about that, Charlie 😎
                  No wonder Mr. Frost was a bit cool
                  on the subject ❄️

                3. what fantasies are evoked by a corral
                  of wild ponies dressed as words
                  as collections of letters ?
                  why not include fictional beings ?
                  does the poet reach inside himself
                  to invent these characters ?
                  December 2019, Americans keep the truth at arm’s length
                  “awkward in the company of straightforwardness”

                4. America is a dreamer yet to awaken
                  from the dementia of Ronald Reagan.
                  Star Wars villians, and heroes, with
                  their sabers of light thrust into life’s
                  intestines. As Billy Joel crys out …
                  “We didn’t start the fire!”, from the
                  orchestra pit of plastic crimes.
                  As napalm balms the ties that bind.

          1. …………………….Charlie,

            the only adolescents eating fur
            are those that sprang from the loins of Freud

            prostitutes walk around bearing fruit all year
            you say you don’t look but you take a long look
            inside you’re agitated by sensual upheavals
            (+) try to fight the urge to rub palms

            honeymooning behind your eyes
            manifestations of sexual activity
            reproduction swimming

            angels whisper in your ear
            “sexual organs were components
            intended only for the animals”

          2. Rock Hudson and Doris Day hide
            away in Santana’s fallout shelter.
            The Chernobyl Radiant, from east
            of Eden, has come to play. Claws
            all gift wrapped and sharpened, for
            Armageddon, as the Four Horsemen
            head this way 🎠🎠🎠🎠 💥 🙃 🕶️

            1. the viscera of Rock Hudson and Doris Day
              old fashioned radios the size of a garbage truck

              the naked hypothesis of Doris Day
              swollen like a ballerina’s modesty
              Rock went there many times
              a clear path
              gender incidentals
              what the hell

          3. “It is better to recieve, than give!”,
            the Red Nosed Dominatrix said
            to me, as she had me on my
            bended knees. “The North Pole is
            a shit hole, where elves are kept
            as Santa’s slaves, in cold poverty.”

            1. young people confuse Doris Day with Yoko Ono
              most of Doris is swollen

              I think Yoko is a hundred and seventy-five years old
              she’s so old that she has mushrooms on her privates

              Yoko was once married to a prophet
              but not the Old Testament type

              having seen Yoko nude
              it is impossible to look
              without succumbing

              at the club
              when males applauded Yoko
              it was themselves
              they were applauding

              it is no secret that Yoko
              experimented with vocals
              cries and howls
              lyrics without interpretation

              1. Yoko’s vocal were performance art.
                She was ahead if her time.
                Somewhere between Post-modern
                and Prehistory.
                Yoko didn’t mean to make you cry.
                She didn’t mean to hurt you.
                But you may just wish to die.

                1. and die we must
                  each day I lay outside on a rock
                  like a lizard soaking up the sun
                  praying that an eagle will swoop down
                  for a warm snack
                  ……………to return to the Holy Labyrinth
                  to leave behind the limited senses
                  the old fashioned angel suit
                  the feet of clay

                  this morning a young man writing a school paper
                  asked me if I could see my thoughts
                  if there were pictorial elements
                  to my mental activity
                  I thought of Yoko
                  to look at her without succumbing
                  ( recall a superior prophet was dazzled and imprisoned )

                2. right before Christmas
                  Doris Day called and asked me what reality was really like

                  most days, reality is like a softcore gay porno movie
                  a muscular stranger comes over and takes a shower
                  the glass door is perfectly fogged up
                  he takes a 90 minute shower
                  afterwards he dries off in the living room
                  very skillful with the towel
                  he reveals one buttock
                  but never the package

                3. “Reality? “, said Doris Day,
                  with a voice as cold as ice.
                  “Imagine!”, said John Lennon,
                  “But you could call it Paradise.”
                  “But then, I don’t call it anything.”,
                  said Bob Dylan, quiet as a mouse.
                  “Yoko is calling you down the road,
                  and her singing is truly shit houses.

                4. Imagination grand
                  is at your command.
                  If unwelcome,
                  you can choose to
                  close the door on him.
                  Muscular stranger could
                  be a strip-o-gram messenger
                  .. or an angular strangler.
                  Even better, make him do
                  all those household chores.
                  Clean the windows
                  and scrub the floors.

                5. the highest tower of the imagination

                  thumbs up
                  or thumbs down
                  “trying to seize a bit of truth beyond appearances”

                  the muscular neighbor comes over for his daily shower
                  as he is drying off in the living room
                  he starts discussing genital size
                  how inches can create bonds
                  between people who might otherwise remain strangers
                  the living room was never more quiet
                  true silence

                6. you’re 100% correct:

                  CHARLIE IS PLURAL

                  like a deck of cards
                  he’s not difficult to shuffle
                  one can get strangeness
                  or a cute Easter bunny
                  yesterday he told me,
                  that I shouldn’t speak of him
                  that I should speak to him

                7. I only perceived the deep affection
                  of a good friend. But what is life
                  without a spark of friction?
                  Pablo once told me that creation is
                  destruction. On reflection, I think he
                  was onto a cubism of something.
                  A friend indeed is a fiend in need.

                8. 18 years of schooling
                  and the math necessary
                  to unlock the entrance
                  to the Promised Land
                  is too complex

                  romance is weathered wood
                  hours and hours of practice
                  the fingers on the clock
                  often fall off
                  splinters fall
                  into sawdust

                9. “The truth was obscure,
                  too profound and too pure,
                  to live it you have to explode.
                  In that last hour of need,
                  we entirely agreed,
                  sacrifice was the code of the road.”

                  “Oh, get born, keep warm
                  Short pants, romance
                  Learn to dance,
                  get dressed, get blessed
                  Try to be a success
                  Please her, please him, buy gifts
                  Don’t steal, don’t lift
                  Twenty years of schoolin’
                  And they put you on the day shift
                  Look out kid
                  They keep it all hid
                  Better jump down a manhole
                  Light yourself a candle
                  Don’t wear sandals
                  Try to avoid the scandals
                  Don’t want to be a bum
                  You better chew gum
                  The pump don’t work
                  ‘Cause the vandals
                  took the handles.”
                  ~ Bob Dylan

                10. the freedom to emigrate to the city of Bob Dylan

                  the impaired rent surrogates to travel through cultures and languages
                  desires fulfilled at a distance, friendship and romance on the stage
                  100 lips pressing against mine daily, little fear of resistance
                  fling out the proper words and it is GO-GO-GO

    1. Thank you Basilike.

      I wrote the micropoem from the general perspective view of both who feel Christmas is a sham, doubting the Holidays, and the other side of hope of which the balance can be measured right but not always perfect.

      If that makes any sense. 🙂

  1. ………………………………Charlie,

    Baby Bird, you should have made this a single word poem, “Lament”
    I can see you late at night standing in the shadows
    “I never knew where I would end up”
    and there you have basic lament

    throw in some holiday sparkle
    a sprinkle of adolescence
    language becomes a running commentary
    you lament by yourself
    you meander through obstacles
    on intimate terms with words
    constantly embroidering

    the guys at the pool hall
    say that you’re afraid of yourself
    that your words reveal your indirect routes
    zigzagging through poetic conclusions
    any logical sequence hampered
    by intellectual paralysis

    the fruit of gestation
    December embryo
    Charlie delivers lament

    1. ……………………………..Michael,

      Sequence night
      made by commentary pool December/
      should their
      conclusions lament meander in you.

      Holiday hampered sparkle!

      Embryo hall/
      zigzagging indirect words
      and reveal language paralysis,
      gestation poem bird/
      obstacles swollen by fruit bone –
      shadows end poetic embroidering intimate.

      1. shocked that you would mention your fruit bone
        some say, “the organ God started but never finished”
        the Poet’s Handbook
        offers a kaleidoscope
        of figurative expressions
        and comparisons
        endless scenarios
        a thousand disguises
        cannot cloak its function

        what an instrument
        it has the Holy Eye
        that leaks the knowledge
        of the soul

  2. Charlie, the way that the words of this click together is resonant of the sound of the branches of a plastic tacky fake Christmas tree being put together by sad souls.
“Happiness deranged.
cheers, lament.”

    … and up that Christmas tree goes. And onward the scarred and futile Christmas… I think Christmas can be a sad and lonely time for many… and is often so commercialized the joy is diminished.

    Your poem brilliant. It touches on something I feel too. Hugs Charlie.

    1. Your observation is exactly spot on.

      Sad souls putting together a Holiday tree for the world who has been in chaos yet, chaos and disorder never sleeps. It’s the realistic reality of things. Although, a bit of cheer doesn’t hurt at all.

      The general overall perspective of Christmas being a sad day for many who do feel they are alone and doubt everything around them and life itself. And your right about commercialism.

      Why in every year does capitalism need to commercialize joy. Aren’t some of us in this planet happy enough of what we possess? Is happiness not enough for all of joy?

      I question the logic of things that I truly feel and I know you probably feel as well. 🙂

      Hugs Rachel.

      1. Different part of the world, exactly the same wavelength Charlie. Some things transcend oceans. I wish we could all have meaning and connection in our lives. I wish Christmas wasn’t often a sad contrast to the lack of that for many. I wish there was peace and not war… I wish our oceans were not full of plastic because of our dire obsession with possessions and individualism. Sorry, this is deep and dire. And I could continue with this wish list but it’s possibly a good time to stop.

        Honestly, this is a truly brilliant poem. One of my faves of yours (one of many).

        1. I love and accept deep and dire. It’s truth and its the way it is.

          You said everything I feel and connect to your sentiment.

          I wish we all feel the same and I wish that earth herself can give us a second or maybe 3rd chance on this planet of ours.

          I have plenty of more poems like this and I’m writing them as I’m experiencing anxiety to where every creative juice is flowing onto paper. 🙂

  3. That title, magnifique! “Christmas Sobbing, Said the Forlorn Ruin Star” – a seven-word story in itself (better than six ;)). And the rest to back up the theory. It’s a side of this season that needs to be expressed. Love it. Tmenal sreehc, ssik ssik. sslib eht pu.
    Bisous 😊

    1. I’m glad you understood the poem itself. I observed it from 2 points of view, my anxiety, and others who feel the same way about such Holidays as Christmas. There’s good things about it, but there’s the other capitalistic propaganda that over hypes joy in consumerism. I may be seeing it wrong or just being honest. I’m not a person to sugar-coat things just because. My heart felt something blue and I needed to write it. 🙂

      Glad you enjoyed the truth.

      1. I definitely feel the same way Charlie. I love the spiritual feeling around this time of year but the to-doing and commercialism is another story. I’m sure anyone can relate and anyone who knows you even a little knows that you’re an elf at heart. ❤️💚

    1. Thank you my friend.

      I wanted to express something different especially in the Holidays coming up.

      It’s a truth viewed from a general point of view. Glad you loved the poem. There’s plenty more of these micropoems I’ve written. 🙂

    1. Awww….I’m so glad this micropoem touched your heart and you felt the pain.

      It’s exactly what I was feeling at that moment and had to write it from a general sense point of view. Plus, I’m sure others out there can relate very much.

      There’s plenty more of these kinds of writings I have in store. 🙂

  4. The world is scarred as it is and what’s it that we are celebrating anyways , so much death destruction , it really is a futile attempt at turning a blind eye to the goings on , I actually feel like sobbing when I go through the papers or listen to the news.

    1. Thank you Gina.

      Now, that I think of it. I didn’t notice the Xmas tree misshapen since you brought it to my attention. Good eye. Seriously I didn’t catch it. 🙂

      True. We don’t always enjoy of what is being forced fed onto us. If one enjoys a Holiday or other things it must be felt organically and not rushed.

      1. my mind is an abstract mess Charlie! so I spotted your unconscious genius immediately.

        I like when religion is taken out of the celebration. Holidays and festivities are rituals humans need for community and fellowship but we are forced to act and be who we aren’t around that time it is hollow and so tiresome. I agree with you lets just celebrate because we can, because we have each other, for all the reasons we were made to be here, not the ones we give power to others to impose on us.

        sorry for clogging up your little holiday space and “imposing” my views upon you!! LOL!! Be merry, be well, be happy my dear friend.

  5. Did I ever mention that I’m originally
    from New York City, Charle?
    I should imagine that Robert Frost
    wo consider Lou Reed
    Pedro lives out of the Wilshire Hotel
    he looks out a window without glass
    The walls are made of cardboard, newspapers on his feet
    his father beats him ’cause he’s too tired to beg

    He’s got 9 brothers and sisters
    they’re brought up on their knees
    it’s hard to run when a coat hanger beats you on the thighs
    Pedro dreams of being older and killing the old man
    but that’s a slim chance he’s going to the boulevard

    He’s going to end up, on the dirty boulevard
    he’s going out, to the dirty boulevard
    He’s going down, to the dirty boulevard

    This room cost 2, 000 dollars a month
    you can believe it man it’s true
    somewhere a landlord’s laughing till he wets his pants
    No one here dreams of being a doctor or a lawyer or anything
    they dream of dealing on the dirty boulevard

    Give me your hungry, your tired your poor I’ll piss on ’em
    that’s what the Statue of Bigotry says
    Your poor huddled masses, let’s club ’em to death
    and get it over with and just dump ’em on the boulevard

    Get to end up, on the dirty boulevard
    going out, to the dirty boulevard
    He’s going down, on the dirty boulevard
    going out

    Outside it’s a bright night
    there’s an opera at Lincoln Center
    movie stars arrive by limousine
    The klieg lights shoot up over the skyline of Manhattan
    but the lights are out on the Mean Streets

    A small kid stands by the Lincoln Tunnel
    he’s selling plastic roses for a buck
    The traffic’s backed up to 39th street
    the TV whores are calling the cops out for a suck

    And back at the Wilshire, Pedro sits there dreaming
    he’s found a book on magic in a garbage can
    He looks at the pictures and stares at the cracked ceiling
    “At the count of 3” he says, “I hope I can disappear”

    And fly fly away, from this dirty boulevard
    I want to fly, from dirty boulevard

    1. Your from New York City? That’s awesome! I bet right now and everyday, everyone is walking on the streets incredible packed and busy all the time. Well, they say its the city that never sleeps.

      I wish my girlfriend and I visit some day to New York. 🙂

      I miss this song by Lou Reed. Such a classic. 🙂

  6. I caught him once in concert, using
    live bait. It was a catch and release
    thing 😎 and fortunately, I can still
    remember it. The White Heat lifted
    the roof off, as White Light flooded
    the building.

  7. Love this , Christmas is deranged.

    An interesting play on the word arranged in terms of the dogmatic blind faith to follow our traditions to the point of it coming across as deranged. If that makes sense. Late night for me. Great, Charlie as always.

  8. Sending thoughts your way this Festive Time Charlie… Christmas along the way seems to have lost it Spirit don’t you think? It’s all about the glitz and commercial ring of the tills… Buy now Pay later… and boy do people pay.. I wonder if only people would put down their phones, gather around a family table and talk and really pay attention to the now of their lives, How much better life would seem.. As they count their blessings every day and not just wish others good will at certain times of the year..

    Sending love my friend… And who knows a post may be pending from me soon.. 🙂
    Take care And Enjoy your Christmas with your loved ones Charlie.. ❤ Special Hugs from the UK.. ❤

  9. Wake me up before you Go-Go-GO,
    as some dark Jedi shot Hans Solo.
    And the Millennium Falcon is far too
    slow . On the Death Star we all travel,
    so once in a lifetime, time put on a
    good show.
    As I consume my freedom like a
    herb of prohibition, and worn
    with a cheap pair of sunglasses
    purchased with a personalised
    paranormal prescription.
    All the better to see the paranoid
    wolf of Wall Street with, since
    Marc Bolan sang the national anthem
    of faux rebellion. No, you won’t
    fool the children of the revolution.
    Wake me up before you Go-Go-GO,
    as some dark Jedi shot Hans Solo.
    And the Millennium Falcon is a
    no show.

    1. poor little Marc Bolan
      his apprenticeship in an automobile came to a sudden halt
      I sank to the bottom of a hotel pool and cried underwater
      the world is cruel to those who shed tears
      Marc was a transgression, an agent of happiness
      delicious and disturbing, a child of the sky

      I always ponder what if Allen Ginsberg
      had authored all the STAR WARS material ?
      would the learned traditions of his forefathers
      have came to the surface ?

      ever question the source of your originality ?
      new and unheard-of thoughts
      spontaneous associations

      itch, itch, and itch some more
      one must scratch away the squabbles
      clear the palette of all wrong doing
      the preliminary of which no one can speak

  10. Sadly, Charlie has been kidnapped
    by a couple of pirates, Resa 🏴‍☠️
    And his site is being held ransom
    for not one, but two bottles of rum,
    and a dead man’s chest full of gold
    bullion 😎

  11. “Live fast. Drive even faster.
    And leave a mangled corpse.”
    ~ Jimmy De Anne

    Allen Ginsberg read the eulogy
    wearing a daisy chain weaved
    by a lad insane. Loud Reed and
    David Bowie played ‘Bang a Gong’
    on the grand piano. It was lovely!
    I didn’t go to the reception, as glam
    was never my thing (not until I saw
    what Ed Sheerin is wearing). I got
    lost in Itchycoo Park, eating humble
    American pie, with Robert Zimmerman.
    But I did follow a sequined glimmer
    and ended up at a Status Quo gig
    with Gary Glitter, that sly dog of glam
    sham. All greasy and sweaty, he sang
    Do You Wanna Touch Me. I just ran!
    I was led there by the force, with
    a complimentary front row ticket,
    of course. And the promise of an
    accidental overdose . . .
    just like a poor boy in Vietnam.
    It’ll take a lot more than an O D, or a
    car crash, to scrap that pallet clean.
    Perhaps a love resurrection from
    deep within. There the stars of war
    can finally find peace, where the
    force never been.

    1. the lady at the motel
      who took down the Jesus-on-the-Cross
      to dust and polish it
      secretly thought
      that Jesus cheated his mother
      from returning to the earth
      all mothers should return to the soil

      at Sunday School
      by design or mistake
      the children were taught:
      males float in the sky as clouds
      females float down below as fog

      1. Social engineering dressed
        in the drag of state religion.
        Males and female, two sides
        of the one coin. Far too many,
        a bent penny spent in a storm,
        and lost in the mist. Taking the
        course of resistance least.

        1. ( gossip from the Pay Showers at the RV Park )

          Pulitzer Prize sweets for stereotypes
          poets deformed from pressures to conform
          “adult behavior had to free of childhood origins”

          exorbitant passions were always welcome
          late at night one might hear a broomstick voice
          but it would be collared with a dollar sign

        2. portraits on the wall
          the only ones that people appreciate
          are the ones heartbroken
          over the death of a loved one
          or the little fellow that cut his foot off
          with a crazy lawnmower
          when I say, “cut his foot off”
          I really mean it was just some toes
          but foot rings more bells

          my pillow is still wet
          I just can’t believe that Anne Sexton
          was awarded the Robert Frost Fellowship
          distinguished recognition ?
          I wanted to ask her about her toes
          I wanted to count the devils

          taking her shoes off
          and pulling the skin
          up towards her knees
          wanting to visit
          farther north
          the skin
          is torn

          1. All my pretty ones
            were drowned at birth.
            But survival of the fittest
            made the return trip worthless.
            I don’t listen to anyone
            who hasn’t died at least once.
            Slowly, quickly, violently.
            The truth always seems lost
            in the fake news of desperation.
            Despite all the amputations
            Anne Sexton still danced
            to a New York Rock ‘n’ Roll station.
            The truth is she’s dead,
            so cut off the whole lot.
            She’ll never know.

            1. rumor has it that Anne Sexton
              is in the new Star Wars film
              “she never looked better”

              the sacrament of computer communion
              humiliating betrayals of death
              “I was eating pancakes with Jesus”

              crazy outer space characters
              small mechanical hearts
              wrenching urine free

              1. A long time ago
                in a galaxy far, far away,
                a clone of Robert Frost became
                a Sith Lord, named Darth Road.
                He was soon elected Emperor
                with the slogan …
                “Make the Dark Side Great Again!”
                The Force was shaken, but not taken.

                1. lax in matters of personal hygiene
                  reeducate your readers
                  tell them it has nothing
                  to do with sex

                  where one has to make up their mind
                  hasty decisions often under heavy observation
                  people exercising their eyes, locking you inside themselves
                  next trip to the library you should damage a poetry anthology

            2. it has been noted
              that one could smell Anne Sexton
              on the guys from Shaky Hands Pool Hall

              the Anne Sexton who would pound on the floor
              and scream, “I’m having trouble connecting, Jesus”
              how are religious craftsman judged ?
              in the long pull, should they be ashamed ?

              the Anne Sexton who would pound on the floor
              and tell the boys to only stick it half way in
              milking pleasure but “seeing the reverse”
              voiceless encouragements, come again

              1. If my middle name was Sex
                I guess I would be out to impress
                by having a ton of it, as well!?
                If only to impress
                those at Shaky Hands Pool Hall
                who refuse to walk,
                but instead choose to crawl.
                If the operator can’t get you
                Jesus on the line,
                then your on a wrong call.
                Or using a pay phone confessional
                in the wrong pool hall?
                As for me . . .
                the full measure of pleasure
                is the bigger they come
                the harder they fall.
                Also a handy motto
                when the tribe goes to war.

                1. to be the Anne Sexton of the hour
                  to take the stage
                  at the Shaky Hands Pool Hall
                  one only has to recite poetry
                  involving family love
                  they turn down the lights
                  and applaud your opening line
                  “bedroom rivalry”

                  without question
                  knows her misdirection

                  limited dialogue expired
                  any Starbucks conversation
                  no longer has a voice

                  hardly a front-page story
                  careers of youth interrupted
                  Hark, Hark, Hark
                  incest with vitality
                  and zest

                  ( Anne had tiny metal taps on her shoes )
                  “if I’m going to dance I want to make some noise”

                2. On the behalf of Hell’s Angels,
                  and old farts in Pink Floyd t-shirts,
                  the age of chivalry and gender
                  rivalry has been and gone.
                  Unless you’re stuck in the cellar
                  of a National Anthem gone wrong.
                  I wouldn’t want a millennial
                  Anne Sexton, or a Sylvia Plath
                  sneaking up behind me and
                  screaming “me too!”, demandingly
                  after handing out that
                  cocaine laced Halloween candy.
                  With the Fat Man of Snow, chanting,
                  “Let it blow, let it blow, let it blow!”.

                3. to be tutored by a professional:

                  to stand free of
                  unavailable people

                  appeals for intimacy
                  written on $50 bills

                  the morning ritual
                  where our fingers
                  were passed
                  under a nose
                  “nothing forbidden”
                  53 years young

                  the relatives astride
                  a walk to Jerusalem

                4. Back when Lou Reed
                  roamed the Earth,
                  It was just twenty six dollars,
                  and you got your money’s worth.
                  But he was just like
                  a Leo Sayer boy,
                  giving it all away.
                  Standing on the corner,
                  suitcase in his hand.
                  Just waiting for a saviour,
                  on a detour,
                  to the promised land.


                5. Anne Sexton was on Frommer’s
                  “Poetry on Five Dollars a Day”
                  she was throwing darts
                  at a dartboard
                  with Sylvia Plath’s portrait
                  front and center
                  Sylvia’s well-publicized suicide
                  was a stab in the heart
                  poor Anne was no longer the frontrunner
                  the market value of her words dropped
                  Mental Health America cancelled an interview

                6. I wonder what a Poet Laureate
                  would have to say about all that?

                  “Now, don’t you try an’ move me
                  Mama you’re just gonna lose
                  There’s a crash on the levee
                  And, mama, you’ve been refused
                  Well, it’s king for king
                  And it’s Queen for queen
                  It’s gonna be the meanest flood
                  That anybody’s seen
                  Oh mama, ain’t you gonna miss your best friend now
                  You’re gonna have to find yourself
                  Another best friend, somehow
                  Well, that high tide’s risin’
                  Mama, don’t you let me down
                  Pack up your suitcase
                  Mama, don’t you make a sound
                  Well, it’s sugar for sugar
                  And it’s salt for salt
                  If you go down in the flood
                  It’s gonna be your own fault
                  Oh mama, ain’t you gonna miss your best friend now
                  You’re gonna have to find yourself
                  Another best friend, somehow”
                  ~ Bob Dylan

                7. a stagnant pond full of poets
                  ritualized mingling
                  self-pity to prose
                  yes, self-pity to prose

                  poetry as frightening
                  as children playing
                  with sanitary napkins
                  in the church basement

                  stumbling efforts at murder
                  trying to imitate
                  the graceful movements
                  seen on television

                  Polaroid snapshots
                  from suicide watch
                  cuddling with the boys
                  woodpeckers in their shorts

                  detectives asking about stolen clothes
                  exorbitant attention to ball socks of wool
                  husbands busy keeping up pretenses
                  unpublished and constantly scratching

                8. Originality
                  has been done
                  and then done again
                  Nothing new under the sun
                  that hasn’t been done to death
                  When will the desperate recidivist
                  chill on a pill and catch their breath?
                  Shock ‘n’ awe.
                  The thrill has gone
                  Poetry to make me snore
                  The darker, the taste of suger
                  Ranting tantrums, a bitter little pill
                  Regurgitation Gothic in the refrigerator
                  As the plagiarist found a noble savage kill

                9. originality given knockout pills

                  the tallest poet in the room
                  labels poetic advice as unmitigated meddling

                  exhausted washed-out poets
                  wearing ancient underwear
                  refused medication

                  if one wants to step beyond alcohol
                  asphyxiation comes to mind
                  phone numbers and phony morphine
                  tourists wanting a taste
                  front row seats at the sideshow

                  who knew the pain of withdrawal ?

                10. Stone washed venomous denim
                  running blue out of an open vein.
                  Wake me up before you go-go, as
                  this jitterbug itch drives me loco.
                  A sign saying ‘Do Not Resuscitate’
                  hangs over the the rat race drain.
                  The bleeding, and bleating
                  of a communal poetry reading,
                  between morning callisthenics
                  lunchtime politics
                  and evening religion
                  is all that keeps the sheep
                  from going insane.
                  As the wolf pack
                  howls on the fast track,
                  watching Armageddon
                  on the big screen ⬛ 👥 🔲
                  The planet condemns
                  the working dead
                  to the dread of repetition
                  in a cesspool of pollution.

                11. Thanks David———wishing you a happy holiday !

                  I had a vision of you going upstairs to the attic
                  not the simple attic but the one way above the others
                  and you bringing down a memory
                  and carrying it around with you all day
                  cherishing every molecule

                12. Most interesting, Michael.
                  I’m in the midst of an eulogy for
                  a stranger I seem to remember.
                  Synchcronicity and harmony go
                  together in the deep collective well
                  of creative conciousness.
                  Keep riding high upon that swell.

    1. up late at night listening to Deep Purple
      having vertical thoughts for a vertical audience
      family heroes standing outside Best Buy
      people drinking hard liquor from small bottles
      the black market stuff stolen from planes
      the girl asked me if I wanted something stronger
      like a fix and a Winston cigarette
      the girl with the large pupils
      she can be your guardian
      stick you if you turn blue

        1. words from the memory of a protagonist (at best)
          poetry with characters who appear on stage
          but have no part, no voice, no action
          dressed in various shades of gray
          gloomy about the holiday season
          angry about the weakening
          legitimacy of family

          the poem is resolved and the discourse is closed
          the poem is unresolved and the discourse remains open

          one can only guess that the protagonist
          resists submitting to authority of any nature

          I advised the protagonist
          to enroll in a phallocentric psychology course

          1. I met a girl who
            sang the blues,
            like an Amy Winehouse.
            Only with a buzz cut.
            All dressed up
            in a business suit and shoes.
            She told me that
            being gynocentric
            is where it’s at,
            as she took my last cigarette.
            I couldn’t fault her argument
            after she broke me in
            leaving nothing to regret.
            But after being front and centre
            of her androgynous affection
            like the main attraction
            in a Federico Fellini production
            I was left reeling
            on her shagpile carpet
            and feeling little more
            than a trained house pet.

            1. a trained pet in a Fellini production ?

              damaged people on television
              those who conjure happiness
              in strange ways

              (nostalgia sniffers)

              emotional embers can be reignited
              rage and regret openly kiss

              punished for botched crimes in childhood
              valentines for bookmarks in therapy

                1. the thought of Bob Dylan
                  stuffed in petrified Spandex

                  growing up next to a psychiatric hotel
                  where it was perfectly average
                  for newly wed people to violate
                  the Old Testament

                  love was the perfect laxative
                  constipation extinguished
                  a stain in the shape of Texas
                  the bedspread a manuscript

                  Beat poets in the lobby
                  stomach worms
                  cursive script wet
                  stomach worms
                  from their pitchers

                  lad and lassie genitals
                  surprising dialogue

                2. Book now for your luxury
                  cryogenic chamber
                  at the Spandex Hotel.
                  The view from Tomorrow Land
                  has never looked better.
                  With complimentary euthanasia
                  providing you a brighter future.
                  Where the mating rituals
                  of the privileged classes,
                  facilitated by the copious
                  consumption of strong liquor,
                  are restricted to the beaches.
                  Where the great American dream
                  washes up with the detritus
                  of a globalised smoke screen.
                  Millennial Man in the wreckage
                  of collapsed pyramid scheme.

                3. ……………………… Michael,
                  I must now recite a prayer
                  for Bob Dylan, and the lost
                  beat poet, stranded in the
                  lobby of the Spandex Hotel 🙏

                  There once was a man
                  from the old stone age
                  And he used to follow the weather
                  But now he’s got hung up
                  on filling a page
                  Upon whether to go or together
                  And he’s been around
                  for so damn long
                  With his whooping and wailing
                  Crushing questions
                  between right and wrong
                  And impaling
                  The best he can hope
                  and the worst he can fear
                  On the solstices of an illusion
                  A massive erection
                  of pushy defence
                  Up the whole of the prosecution
                  Great solace the wound,
                  great relish the pain
                  To be loosing the reins of a poem
                  To bleed from the tip of my tongue
                  yet again
                  That part of my heart
                  that is showing
                  These children conceived
                  in the womb of this crash
                  To be the sponsors
                  of nothing much more
                  Than rearguard directions
                  of crossfingered sections
                  Of purpose pot
                  – looking for nothing
                  But what is this last desperate
                  vestige of heart over head
                  But another conjecture
                  No more the tomb
                  of the martyred dead
                  Than the ghost
                  of our parting gesture
                  And a hundred billion crystal balls
                  Represent a remarkable failure
                  To swell the song
                  each moment long
                  At the counterpoint of nature
                  As four thumbs flick the tarot deck
                  And two tongues fork eight aces
                  Maybe sixteen fingers feel
                  The fool lives in two places
                  Where rosy lee can read this tea
                  And leave me living the story
                  A white dove with a hawks’ head
                  And an open mind before me
                  To sail for a land
                  where life is a high
                  Not a word to be heard
                  or be spoken
                  But the soul – woven web
                  of the endless touch
                  Of a child who could never
                  be broken
                  Who plays a new world
                  on the brink of the ebb
                  As the fish cats prowl in the harbour
                  And now soars high
                  on the beckoning tides’ long arm
                  To weigh his last anchor
                  And the sou’westers sing
                  as the lifeboat bells ring
                  In the heads
                  on the faces of changes
                  The heavens collage
                  on excalibres edge
                  The star in his movie converges
                  With fate, in his task,
                  and doom on his brow
                  And a ship in his eye in a bottle
                  Who speeds, to force,
                  to want, to have
                  To find, to further fortune
                  Who comes from the north,
                  west, south and east
                  Of the passions of a spirit
                  Witl all the flight
                  of the wildest beast
                  To ever spurr a stirrup
                  Whose pulse
                  is the master of action
                  Whose heart
                  is an everlasting secret
                  Whose arms are desire
                  Whose lips are welcome
                  Whose eyes tell stories
                  Whose head is a journey
                  Whose hands unfold
                  Whose feet fly
                  Whose face is the stained glass window of a continuous orgasm
                  Whose being is mine
                  Whose wounds are precious
                  Whose poem is a flower
                  Whose gentleness is the devil
                  Whose indentity is naked
                  Whose magic is a gift
                  Whose power is the transparent tapestry of history
                  Whose stamp is a freak
                  Whose wits are battles
                  Whose cousin is dog
                  Whose times are well fought for
                  Whose stoneage is clever
                  Whose poets know
                  Whose music is barbarian
                  Whose artists are helpless spherical mirrors spinning
                  on the horns of a tidal wave
                  Whose information is belief
                  Whose complexes become religion
                  Whose foundation is spread
                  Whose word is god
                  Whose books are projectiles
                  Whose message is must
                  Whose excuse is holy
                  Who passed it down to me;
                  Whose enemies are landmarks
                  Whose fear is himself
                  Whose hope is lust
                  Whose wish is fresh
                  Whose position is wary
                  Whose mottoes are covers
                  Whose name is hidden
                  Whose nose is suspicious
                  Whose technology is a tangent
                  Whose strategy is dissent
                  Whose thoughts are games
                  Who shares his lot
                  Whose ace is death
                  Whose fingers invent
                  Whose tales weave
                  Whose knots are tied
                  Whose mouth is open
                  Whose ears pierce
                  Whose direction is out
                  Who is aware of disease
                  Who feels the need
                  to cleanse his soul
                  Whose style is disguise
                  Whose dream is innate
                  Whose woman is soothing
                  Whose little children are the delicate blossom of an orchard
                  of electricity
                  Whose spell is for conflict
                  Whose quest is strength
                  Whose war declared
                  Whose suicide is noticed
                  Whose shadow is cast
                  Whose vibes you feel
                  Whose pedigrees are haunted
                  Whose age is unknown
                  Who takes under his wing
                  Whose freaks are real
                  Whose reality is hunger
                  Whose words are jagged
                  Whose tears are shed
                  Whose sick hang
                  Whose weak are kicked
                  Whose cities are bad shelters
                  Whose sanctuary is an idea
                  Who sat round a fire
                  Whose teeth chew
                  Whose faith is change
                  Whose old age comes quickly
                  Whose youth burns
                  Whose systems
                  are white sticks tapping walls
                  Whose prize posession is the planet;
                  Whose wildest lust is escalation
                  Whose cul-de-sacs are feelers
                  Whose main route is massive
                  Whose run is a dance
                  Whose vehicle is fantasy
                  Whose home is high
                  Whose role continues
                  Whose bearing is savage
                  Whose saints are dead
                  Whose sons bark
                  Whose daughters play
                  Whose strength is against
                  Who grows in the sun
                  and sleeps in the moon
                  Who roams deserets, plateaux, mountains, forests and plains
                  with vast armies
                  Who am I
                  The spirit of those who
                  were not here
                  And never knew it
                  Who left this prayer to elope
                  A lover’s journey through it
                  So children
                  leave your windows open
                  Across the sea
                  Join our hands across
                  the many land
                  You and me
                  Never grown old
                  Seeing without ever being told
                  Something to say
                  Shut away
                  Blackboard so grey
                  I’m dreaming
                  Out along the back row
                  Out the window
                  Cast away
                  Be free with me
                  Great heart mean streak
                  Spare part speed freak
                  I set myself a problem
                  when I built myself a wheel
                  I got myself another
                  when I rode a horse to feel
                  The plains underneath my reins
                  As fast as running water
                  And the big lady I’m playing with
                  Has played a game of poker
                  With me and cat and this and that
                  Until she scored my joker
                  Now we ride in chariots
                  By the side of one another
                  Her soft side
                  My rough ride
                  Nothing to fear
                  The unknown soldier’s grave
                  is already here
                  Is it too late
                  To create
                  A world made with care
                  Is it there
                  Or fleeting
                  Here today and gone
                  Tomorrow’s child
                  Looking so wild and free
                  Are we a choice
                  With no voice
                  Can it be
                  Great heart, mean streak
                  Spare part speed freak

                  ~ The Lord’s Prayer by Roy Harper

                4. standing beside other pioneers
                  at the new wing of the Spandex Hotel
                  proud to be an American with a wireless phone

                  (when the policeman asked me where my cellphone
                  was—-I replied. “at home in a shoebox”)

                  the policeman did not find humor in my truth
                  the damn thing was at home in a shoebox
                  Pentecostal voices told him that I was trouble
                  people who look for trouble often find it

                  Walt Whitman suggesting
                  that the aroma of armpits
                  more heavenly than prayer
                  Walt Whitman in the front row
                  inhaling the public pubis
                  Oh Walt Whitman,
                  they say that you’re untrodden

                5. If there’s a bustle
                  in your shoebox
                  don’t be alarmed now
                  It’s just a tweeting
                  for the May queen
                  The Piper who keeps calling
                  has recently been seen
                  In the Pheromone Suite
                  at the Spandex Hotel
                  for an encore performance
                  of Adolphe Adam’s Giselle
                  Starring a ballerina’s armpit
                  With Rudolf Nureyev’s leotards
                  clenched firmly between her teeth
                  as she pirouettes upon his codpiece
                  The cast and crew
                  were soon arrested
                  by the Dream Police

                6. standing beside other American astronauts
                  at the new wing of the Spandex Hotel
                  the deeper underground one travels
                  the more one elevates

                  blossoms and blooms
                  the cycle of the little man

                  shame and concealment
                  dead beside the stagnant water
                  of a stifled and choked education

                  “I was calling life
                  but life was only a shadow”

                  with a dishonest vocabulary
                  I wore a mask to the marketplace
                  mesmerized by the variety of truth available

                  imprisonment through procreation

                7. The croupier
                  deals the cards
                  from the shadow gallows
                  where the Joker is wild
                  One man’s truth
                  another man’s fake news
                  strangled in a noose
                  where the mandrake root grows
                  and the beast is loose
                  The masked man
                  at the marketplace of creation
                  is granted sanctuary
                  at the cathedral of Notre Dame
                  Still smoking
                  from the implosion
                  of the Master’s plan
                  As the Autumn rains falls gently
                  upon the River Seine

                8. Jesus running around the Spandex hotel
                  with his hands up in the air
                  “I alone would expect to be your God”

                  there are those who have written books
                  who claim to deny his existence
                  those who deny the hermaphroditic self
                  those who say, “turn out the lights
                  and there are no shadows”
                  the darkness has no tongue
                  no ear, no nourishment

                9. My twin sister
                  from Planet Pandora
                  is a prototype hermaphrodite.
                  She was a big hit
                  and very popular
                  at her all girl boarding school.
                  They would play
                  and stay up all night
                  with the odd pillow fight.
                  Till the Head Mistress caught
                  her having a piss in the pool.
                  Her crime at the time
                  was peeing standing upright.
                  It came as bit of a shock,
                  and drove some to distraction.
                  So she was duly expelled.
                  We, her loving family, don’t think
                  that was cool of her school!
                  Now she works in construction,
                  as a part time jungle mercenary.
                  In her tool box, a secret accessory.
                  In her arsenal a hidden weapon.

                10. 30 drops of the strong stuff
                  and I needed no plane
                  I just soared across the sky
                  and exploded on a military officer
                  who I knew nothing about
                  he and I went up in flames
                  on the evening news
                  on global feeds

                  30 drops and all conformity
                  to reality was abandoned
                  self-seeking no more
                  I became a sacrifice

                  intellectual curiosity
                  30 drops and death
                  to die without bearing fruit

                11. Since the days of Cain
                  it has been ever thus
                  Mankind’s inhumanity
                  to his fellow man
                  in a world gone insane
                  Poetry is a journey
                  for the Seeker
                  and the Freedom Rider
                  Not a drone of vengeance
                  A tool of propaganda
                  It is poetry’s business
                  to be dangerous
                  A flame burning ever brighter
                  The bold novice
                  The master wordsmith
                  who’s paid the price
                  ever making a creative choice
                  to be Liberty’s voice
                  Not bound up like a mouse
                  A lover on the beat
                  A fighter on the mean street
                  With words of peace
                  to overcome
                  the mindless violence

                12. Adam and Eve had three boys
                  I can never recall if Cain
                  was conscious, preconscious, or unconscious

                  Adam was famous for giving things a name
                  the boys were obsessed with measuring curves
                  no matter how hard they surveyed
                  the earth wasn’t round

                  the genitalia of Abel
                  made Cain nervous
                  the fear of being shipwrecked

                13. the clean clouds up above
                  gray with the gossip
                  with a pickaxe and a spade
                  Cain wasted no time

                  the thoughts I had when I was a young boy
                  Jesus enjoying my innocence
                  I was a Living Museum
                  autobiography in motion

                14. I was the lost sheep
                  Innocent as the night is black
                  Gone wrong on a crooked track
                  But I made one good choice
                  I listened for the shepherd’s voice
                  Despite partying hard with goats
                  and drowning in a sea of smack
                  Violence is the consequence
                  of rebellion
                  Company Cain
                  and Sister Morphine
                  a vice of choice to ease the pain
                  the separation anxiety
                  will drive a lad insane
                  Or was it providence
                  that drives a man
                  to jump the fence?
                  Was Cain simply jealous 🤢
                  of Abel’s upstanding phallus?
                  I’ll just make a quick reference
                  to the book of Genesis 📖 👀

                15. YES, separation from the mother (separation anxiety)
                  lost vowels in a world overpopulated with skidrow consonants
                  the dark forces ridicule me because I share my name
                  a million Michaels running around
                  endless fragments of memories and dreams
                  enough guilt to fill the Grand Canyon

                  I saw agents trying to locate a safe distance
                  from forbidden curiosity
                  poor fellows

                  secret passengers on the poetry train
                  prose requires a ticket
                  unwanted guests are tossed
                  prehistoric sodomy perhaps
                  physical combinations possible
                  geography without birth control

                16. My multiples from the
                  collective unconsciousness
                  lack all scruples.
                  They killed my cat
                  for the crime of being curious
                  “Death to fluffy cuddly hostiles!”
                  Jack Kerouac just sat there,
                  drinking beer, and laughed,
                  as Charlie Manson impersonators
                  climbed over
                  the poetry train turnstiles.

                17. “There are more things in heaven.
                  Mama always told me not to look
                  into the eyes of the sun.
                  But mama, that’s where the fun is!
                  Some brimstone baritone anticyclone
                  rolling stone preacher from the east
                  Says, “Dethrone the dictaphone
                  Hit it in it’s funny bone, that’s where they expect it least”
                  And some new-mown chaperone
                  Was standin’ in the corner,
                  watching the young girls dance
                  And some fresh-sown moonstone
                  Was messin’ with his frozen zone, reminding him of romance.”
                  ~ Manfred Springsteen

                18. it was on the front page of truth
                  I suffered my sins, I didn’t commit them

                  the line I was standing in
                  was I to be castrated ?

                  the question of identity
                  no matter how disturbing
                  prints out repetition
                  drama written a dozen ways
                  physical hyphens, dashes, and dots
                  two pounds of dong waddle

                  artificial stimulants
                  with a final deadline
                  a loving sensitive portrait
                  hanging in the truck stop lobby

                19. To thine own self be true,
                  or to sing soprano
                  as a castrati
                  in the rat race choir?
                  That is the question.
                  As Rey Skywalker
                  defies her grandfather,
                  the Sith Emperor,
                  to side with the Resistance.
                  Whilst Kylo Ren
                  keeps popping
                  those dark side stimulants.
                  Nothing like a fist full
                  of illicit spice
                  to make you feel nice
                  and uber heroic.
                  But the force
                  will never be in balance
                  till Kylo lays low
                  at the Betty Ford Clinic.

                20. very strange
                  no one works in the back
                  of the Betty Ford Clinic (?)
                  it is just a large waiting room
                  filled with a gigantic collection
                  of famous people magazines
                  I noticed that Adele was on all the covers
                  the poor girl looks like a flat tire
                  in need of being replaced
                  she didn’t lose weight
                  she’s just deflated
                  “God help her”
                  that’s what I told the receptionist
                  who seemed awe-stricken by my presence
                  she recalled seeing my portrait in the truck stop lobby

                21. The FBI most wanted
                  facilitated by CIA psych opps
                  plastered on the bathroom walls
                  of Route 66 Truck Stops
                  Where undercover secret agents
                  get their clandestine kicks
                  Next to the phone booth of truth
                  where Suoerman takes all calls

                22. no one wants to read
                  about experiences
                  shared by everyone
                  readers want voyages to the unknown
                  regions without maps or footnotes

                  beautiful creations
                  in the waiting room
                  at the Betty Ford Clinic
                  a dwelling of instinctual drives
                  a playground for all ages

                  employees of self-observation
                  the dangers of opposite sex
                  rubbing against fiction
                  the back-and-forth of friction
                  between the two modes
                  fiction and friction

                  wanted: exceptional readers

                23. Forever a fracture
                  A fissure of friction
                  Spawning a drive to thrive
                  in the fiery flame
                  An all consuming consummation
                  Love and lust
                  Loss and gain
                  Breaking through all tribal taboo
                  born of suspicion and superstition
                  Survival a must
                  where life is a game
                  Is it all a waste
                  for the lost and the lame?

                24. renunciation of the pleasure principle

                  had to air up the tires
                  add some oil
                  drove off

                  who designed the lock protecting love ?
                  years and years of torment
                  a key that would function

                  no matter how deep
                  or how shallow
                  the number of times a night

                  intellectual curiosity
                  like an outside hound
                  at the base
                  of some distant tree
                  barking up at the demon

                25. The thrill of it all
                  the thing that rings
                  behind the door d’amour
                  put into overdrive
                  Beyond the strive
                  to just survive
                  To reach the peak
                  that angels seek
                  and demons of despair
                  dare to deprive
                  with visions bleak
                  and a poison chalice to sip
                  full of jealous malice
                  This life is too precious
                  to waste on a guilt trip
                  Love is where it’s at
                  Love from above is hip

                  “Beloved, let us love one another,
                  for love is from God, and whoever
                  loves has been born of God and
                  knows God. Anyone who does not
                  love does not know God, because
                  God is love. In this the love of God
                  was made manifest among us, that
                  God sent his only Son into the world,
                  so that we might live through him.
                  In this is love, not that we have loved
                  God but that he loved us and sent his
                  Son to be the propitiation for our sins.
                  Beloved, if God so loved us, we also
                  ought to love one another. No one has
                  ever seen God; if we love one another,
                  God abides in us and his love is
                  perfected in us.”
                  ~ John, the Disciple

                26. Sunday School with its pictorial elements
                  look without succumbing

                  tiny tots hardly three feet tall
                  human kaleidoscopes of
                  figurative expressions
                  they who whisper
                  in the labyrinth

                  the inventiveness of metaphors
                  adults with no last name
                  human museums
                  life witnessed through the cinema
                  light thrown from different directions
                  sometimes over-estimating the value
                  poets, philosophers, mystics, Lexicon Charlie

                27. At Sunday School
                  I was nobody’s fool
                  I remembered
                  that Good Shepherd
                  who was super cool
                  But by Monday
                  back on the highway
                  with little Miss Hijinx
                  who makes
                  even those demons drool
                  whilst chasing the Sphinx
                  channelling Jimi Hendrix
                  in speedway spandex
                  Wrong place
                  Right tool
                  Like Brian Jones
                  face down
                  in his swimming pool

                28. the very language of our perceptions

                  one second face down in the swimming pool
                  the next, in heaven eating pancakes with Jesus

                  clerks at the gas station
                  discussing their fascination
                  with taboos of representation
                  daily imperfections haunt the Moses clan
                  Biblical mothers with scaffolding
                  to hold up their enormous breasts
                  so the entire village can suckle

                  clerks at the gas station giving free rein
                  to their speculations
                  first they observe reality
                  then they reproduce it
                  or attempt to reproduce it
                  what does one do with untranslatable reality ?
                  (dreamer boy Charlie invents grammar)

                  manuscripts of memory litter the sides of roadways

                29. I was the first in my clerical class
                  to fail the Rorschach test when
                  I discovered that 6 was actually 9.
                  A blast from the future past
                  then gave me a free pass to pursue
                  Buzz Lightyear to the end of time.
                  Expressions of all manifestations
                  hang in the celestial gallery, right
                  next to the gas station of slavery.
                  The price of admission is freedom, but
                  masks must be removed upon entry,
                  For empty you were written into the
                  manuscript, and naked you exit this
                  crooked roadway. Persistent is the
                  memory of eternity. Though many
                  are busy doing their damn best
                  … to forget it.

                30. ……………………. Michael,
                  Good News! If we can get this post
                  over 200 “comments”, Charlie will get
                  a free upgrade to Cyborg Platinum
                  for his site. Plus a set of WordPress
                  steak knifes, and a Martian Lexicon!

                31. just too lazy to nourish a friendship
                  gestures of closeness
                  secret names
                  witty language
                  ———–how there is a strangeness
                  to wearing new underwear
                  people mumble about elasticity
                  stretched out loneliness

                  a goat with a hunger for physical friction
                  mutual admiration, lights on or off
                  one must accept the limits
                  the hint of a crust of indifference

                  quiver little plum

                32. Thirty pieces of silver
                  will get you new underwear
                  from a sweatshop in China.
                  But as the pathologists say
                  you must wash straight away,
                  because they’ll be
                  covered in foreign DNA.
                  But are those stains
                  of indifference here to stay?
                  At a stretch
                  I would guess
                  elastic loneliness
                  snaps when let out to play.

                33. in high school
                  fingers under the elastic
                  was a favorite sport (hobby)
                  Bob Dylan would be singing about elastic loneliness
                  condemned to outlive the new bought
                  that love that leads to forbidden union
                  fades away with eyesight and length
                  absence reduces the binding force
                  the cement fades away in the wash

                  the guys at the gas station
                  boasting of their preference
                  for fantasy over reality
                  disembodied pleasure
                  not skin-to-skin
                  but deep in jelly

                34. Kids will be kids
                  All curious as kittens
                  and spurting their lids
                  whilst losing their mittens
                  Just one jelly doughnut
                  is never enough
                  An hour later
                  your craving another one
                  and they never truly satisfy
                  In a town called Malice
                  just like Jimi Hendrix
                  you may as well kiss the sky
                  A wise pastor once told me
                  that sex is the glue
                  that holds a marriage together
                  But at the time I was married
                  to a princess of fair weather
                  A Temptress
                  from the Tarot deck
                  who then became
                  a female eunuch
                  And little did he know
                  that my tube of super glue
                  had already got me stuck
                  in all sorts of tantric trouble
                  So when
                  back then
                  standing next
                  to a mountain of sin
                  it was suddenly
                  all washed away
                  by the “blood of the lamb.”
                  I picked up all of the pieces
                  and wrote a poem
                  as I like to raise
                  a little Armageddon
                  ‘Cause I’m a Jesus child
                  A Jesus child
                  Lord knows I’m a Jesus child

                35. I’ve heard of drunken phone calls to fellow poets
                  more than one gorilla recalled from childhood
                  various episodes of daydreaming
                  Tarzan on top

                  so few tourist attractions on WordPress
                  gynecologists with snakes exposed
                  fake hallucinogenic substances
                  erotic gratification humor
                  explicit codes for psychiatric sodomy

                  potential perpetrators
                  outnumber potential victims

                36. Here on
                  Planet Vice
                  where comedy
                  comes at a tragic price
                  the beat poet never rings twice
                  And I think to myself …
                  what a wonderful WordPress 🏵️
                  The gorilla on my back
                  wearing a leopard skin g-string
                  for a dose of self inflicted terrorism
                  and chasing some Tarzan substance
                  Whilst reciting primal poetry
                  to the victims of a bad choice
                  since Robert Frost got lost
                  in the translation
                  of self medication
                  Where rebellion
                  is an orphan
                  without a

                37. the Lady Poet
                  mania and instability ever present
                  capable of give-and-take
                  capable of digging in the sensitive areas
                  Lady Poet with dirt-under-the-nails
                  feared at the pool hall
                  for her skill at methodical civilizing
                  many a brute lost to her charms
                  lost to a respectable life
                  lights out at eight

                38. The lady poet had me in a trance
                  as she plunged her gauntlet
                  down my pants
                  I had said
                  that there was
                  a hole in her flowery prose
                  that even my cudgel couldn’t fill

                39. minor transgression often represents a deeper subversive impulse

                  next door nagging, suspicious complaining
                  a marriage corroding from the inside out
                  the word wedded to a wordless reality
                  sliding back and forth, shoes with casters
                  the poet in a delirium
                  by vulgar kitsch

                  love delivered with an eye-dropper
                  creepy upper eyelids before sex

                40. Love is a battlefield
                  I came armed
                  with only a paintball gun
                  dressed in sackcloth and ashes
                  The rules were all bent
                  Days and nights spent
                  in an opium den
                  face down
                  through a rabbit hole
                  to the House of the Rising Sun
                  The success
                  of the Temptress
                  is to leave you undone
                  But in a game
                  of survival
                  of the greediest
                  Where the lover
                  the poet
                  and the dreamer
                  are left far behind
                  I found that the hole
                  in the heart of mankind
                  was greater than the total sum
                  True love
                  is a doorway
                  to Kingdom come

                41. love is one of those situations
                  where you go and you go
                  and finally you have to get out
                  and put chains on the tires

                  guys at the pool hall
                  constantly speak of the dense fog
                  swirling around the Honeymoon Hotel
                  groom and bride circling the nest
                  any reward
                  would require physical
                  and psychological stamina

                  bulging eyes from a perfect orgasm
                  that felt bruised for days
                  five bandages on the dong
                  a solid performance

                42. Your going to need to get some
                  bigger bandages, because …

                  “Here comes, Dolly Dagger
                  Her love so heavy gonna
                  make you stagger
                  Dolly Dagger
                  She drinks the blood from
                  a jagged edge
                  Ah, drink up baby

                  Been ridin’ broomsticks
                  since she was fifteen
                  Blow out all the other witches
                  on the scene
                  She got a bull whip
                  just as long as your life
                  Her tongue can even scratch
                  the soul out of the devil’s wife

                  Well, I seen her in action
                  at the players choice
                  Turn all the love men into
                  donut boys
                  Hey red hot momma,
                  you’d better step aside
                  This chick’s gonna turn you
                  to a block of ice
                  Look out
                  Here comes, Dolly Dagger
                  Her love so strong
                  gonna make you stagger baby
                  Dolly Dagger
                  She drinks the blood
                  from a jagged edge
                  Right on
                  Drink up baby, hey
                  Yeah, look at old burnt out
                  Tryin’ to shoot his dust on the sun
                  Captain comic is the man
                  on the run
                  On the words of love
                  Do they ever touch dolly brown
                  Better get in some highway
                  and clear outta town
                  Here comes Dolly Dagger
                  Her love’s so heavy,
                  gonna make you stagger
                  Dolly Dagger
                  She ain’t satisfied ’til she get
                  what she’s after
                  She drinks the blood
                  from the jagged edge
                  You better watch out baby
                  here comes your master, alright
                  Watch out there baby
                  Gonna give a little bit of that
                  Dolly heavy mama
                  Get it on get it on get it on
                  Dolly heavy mama
                  Get it on get it on get it on … ”

                  ~ Jimi Hendrix

                43. a cranky curmudgeon
                  who complained of the carny life
                  in his neighborhood
                  his little crooked street
                  both sides of his crooked house
                  they say that he was a voyeur
                  an eye at every window
                  BUT THAT WAS ALL A LIE

                  a poet with a pet trombone
                  a poet with body language
                  once forced to admit
                  that the smell of family Bibles
                  could arouse him
                  flirtatious behavior at used bookstores
                  painful awkwardness at the checkout
                  postcards of Victorian London
                  nature books with apes
                  bright blue behinds
                  teasing trollops

                44. TRIGGER WARNING:
                  Curmudgeons Mentioned. And not
                  all of the following tale is a lie 😎

                  He was
                  not just an
                  excitable boy
                  But a guitar genius
                  and a psychedelic circus freak
                  I met the ringleader in East Berlin
                  on an Explore the Cold War Trip
                  peddling some Afghan crime
                  Calling it his Golden Dragon Treat
                  It was hard not to vomit
                  as I tried a near lethal sample
                  He was working undercover
                  as a Russian Cosmonaut
                  Only 5 foot, 4 inches tall
                  Another cranky curmudgeon
                  They had to be short to be able
                  to squeeze into a Soyuz capsule
                  Grigori told me that from space
                  with a taste of martian spice
                  everything looks like a comedy
                  The only tragedy in space
                  is coming back down to Earth
                  I could see the truth of it
                  engraved upon his haggard face
                  He then shared some secret
                  Kremlin information
                  as he was proudly named
                  after that mad monk Rasputin
                  Saying in broken Russian,
                  “You’ll find out Mr. Nixon,
                  in Vietnam you can never win!”
                  I thanked him for the free tickets
                  to the Moscow Circus
                  promising to pass on
                  right away
                  some of his Afgan special
                  to Mr. Jimi Hendrix
                  Then to a debriefing
                  with the CIA
                  But they never

                  But they were very interested in
                  that Golden Dragon, and how to
                  fund their next Black Operation.

                45. when I went to change the battery in the clock
                  I saw a photo of you and not that WordPress image
                  it was the one from the cover of your paperback
                  you looked super happy—like the yeast infection had cleared up
                  I remember purchasing your paperback at the local CVS
                  the clerk had tired eyes and an odd tubercular cough
                  he asked if I liked poetry and I pondered if he was hitting on me
                  the master stoke that would ignite romance, “do you like poetry ?”
                  a safecracker to a locked heart ?
                  a man who would reshuffle my deck ?

                46. “For poetry to really ignite
                  ask a stranger for a light
                  … in the dark.
                  A bit of strange to spark
                  the infection of a broken heart.
                  A fraction of friction
                  to start the ball rolling
                  of a private Armageddon.”
                  ~ The Paperback Writer of Pulp Fiction

                47. in a world of submachine guns
                  and gray suited men with attack dogs
                  citizens walk around with color-coded skin
                  knee deep in shame, humiliation, and a sense of futility

                  soon we will receive the new guidelines
                  from the Republican Minister of Propaganda

                48. The Minister of Propaganda,
                  The Chief Beast, and the high
                  flying Wing Commander, will all
                  be broadcasting new guidelines
                  from the New Improved Vatican.
                  As the Chinese say, young padawan,
                  … May you live in interesting times 😎

                49. life speeds by
                  in all sorts of cinematic chrome

                  smoke swirls studiously
                  around every pool hall attendee
                  although tobacco has been outlawed for years
                  how does the common man locate tobacco to purchase ?

                  of the devil weed
                  carries a stiff sentence
                  selling any form of nicotine
                  guarantees life in a hellhole prison

                50. Sister Nicotine
                  has never been
                  far from my tongue
                  We were first introduced
                  when I was quite young
                  A much older woman
                  who seduced poor pitiful me
                  just for a laugh
                  and a bit of fun
                  She would sprinkle
                  a bit of herbal green
                  in between my brain and spleen
                  as she sucked the breath
                  out of my lung
                  Whispering …
                  “I am your kingdom come.”
                  But it was all a smoke screen
                  The memory of her sweet dream
                  was to vanish in a puff
                  Sight unseen

                51. Iron Butterfly performing IN-A-GADDA-DA-VIDA
                  on the school bus stereo
                  all the children are smoking
                  homegrown tobacco
                  the driver drinking
                  from a cough syrup bottle
                  deviant lifestyles are the norm
                  strictly platonic relationships
                  but zero homosexual subtext

                  Elton John rides around town
                  in a limousine
                  the only man in town
                  who wears a pearl necklace
                  many a guillotine’s blade
                  has his likeness
                  poor little Elton John
                  couldn’t escape the curse
                  —married with child—

                52. I turned
                  a whiter shade of pale
                  as my school bus
                  ran off that yellow brick road
                  The driver just staggered about
                  drooling, eyes bleeding,
                  as he went off hunting
                  the horny back toad
                  In the fast lane hospital
                  the attending nurse
                  cursed as she noticed
                  that my complexion
                  was much too white
                  I tried to tell her
                  that was completely normal
                  Fearing I was heading
                  off into the light
                  she held my hand
                  and called me her Rocket Man
                  as she squeezed me real tight
                  The consequent swelling
                  of my Saturday Night Special
                  gave even me a big fright
                  But she was most kind
                  and blew me out
                  like a candle in the wind 🕯️

                53. Because the night
                  belongs to lovers
                  celebrity rapists
                  thugs and muggers
                  dressed in spandex
                  and black leather balaclavas
                  The sound track of white noise
                  and canned laughter
                  plays ever louder
                  as Play Bunnies pose
                  in fishnet pantihose
                  The Wall Street Pimp
                  in his pinstriped suit
                  always gets what he’s after

                54. comedy and horror are Siamese twins
                  re: the evening news

                  centipede-like puberty
                  topless women in Parisian magazines
                  females envisioned rather than realized
                  Bruce Springsteen on the radio singing
                  “you get a boner and no where to put it”

                  LIFE: yearning for things one can never have

                  caged animals in school
                  caged animals in the workplace
                  caged animals in automobiles

                  self-bruising religion
                  twitchy mannerisms at best

                  poetry about mindless conformity
                  dark cinema prose
                  voice-over literature
                  night gives birth to night

                55. separated from the correct alignment of words
                  not by an innate inability on the part of the poet
                  but by arbitrary restrictions of dictionary followers
                  somewhere, somehow tell-tale information is reported
                  it doesn’t take nitroglycerin to ghost the poet

                  nerve-wracking at 90mph
                  other-worldly mental dilemma
                  headlights from famous writers
                  that glare through metal
                  white-knuckle baby

                  another poet holding the bag
                  seems out of options

                56. Poetry is what gets lost
                  in regurgitation
                  The linguistics of this existence
                  struck dumb on the tongue
                  of Braggadocio the All knowing
                  As meaningless
                  but ever so stylish prose
                  endlessly flows
                  from the holes
                  between deaf ears
                  and frozen tears
                  Why? Nobody knows

                57. I was on my way
                  to the harbour of Havana
                  minding my own business
                  to get a bag of travel sickness
                  There was a long que
                  at the Castro Beauty Parlour
                  giving away a free face tattoo
                  just for using
                  an American Express credit card
                  I only ever use Visa
                  Even a Mastercard wouldn’t do
                  I’m one unlucky guerilla
                  as I missed out
                  Strange but true
                  ~ Ernesto Che Guevara

                58. driving on country roads at night
                  shadows suggesting that one should self-navigate
                  “poetry found lacking by a child’s standards”
                  and most people think of themselves
                  as an eleven
                  (a ravenous eleven)

                  living in a world
                  where dinosaurs are six inches long
                  dongs scratch the ground and squawk

                  the first time you see Bob Dylan
                  in an adult diaper commercial

                  the shyster falls over dead
                  insurance reward floats into town
                  youthful-looking harlots
                  constantly rubbing crème
                  down below
                  the bumps of employment
                  do they ever go away ?

                  the shyster leaves behind prose
                  his agonizing descent into despair
                  his accidental-discharge
                  (multiple words for the muzzle flash)

                  in court they returned the gun to his hand
                  they asked him to pull the trigger
                  and say, “bang-bang”

                59. Unemployment is a ploy
                  for the fast food poor
                  sinking in an upsized soda
                  after a golden promise of MORE.
                  As Bob Dylan, sponsored by
                  Dependable adult diapers,
                  sings golden oldies
                  to expired baby boomers.
                  “My Kingdom for a boner!”
                  comes a cry from the audience.
                  “My seed is all spent,
                  and I forgot where it went.”
                  Dylan’s rather sly reply,
                  “Don’t ask me. I’m just the crooner.
                  And nurse, what time is dinner?”
                  “Time wounds all heels.
                  Now take off your pants Mr. Dylan,
                  it’s time for your cream.”
                  whispered the geriatric nurse
                  from behind a shower screen.
                  A score out of ten
                  was soon given
                  by Meals on Wheels.

                60. the conversation of the Beat Poets
                  focused on bitch-slapping
                  someone suggested purchasing some poison
                  everyone agreed on a generic product
                  a little blow, a little meth, a speck of cyanide
                  suddenly Heaven opens up its gates
                  to be a Have, rather than a Have Not

                  an Orgasm so powerful
                  that the body
                  would have to go through
                  a painstaking restoration

                  just a simple glance at the crotch area
                  would cause one to shed tears

                  if only Janet Leigh was available
                  to make an audio commentary

                61. what cuts the poet off
                  from the fulfillment of his/her true destiny ?

                  the flashlight of God
                  illuminates “FRAGMENTATION”
                  the cruel question,
                  “was it written by a poet in particular ?”
                  in the background of the hellish dream
                  10,000 poets repeat
                  the same limited selection of words
                  love was the most common collection of letters
                  love, love, love, love, love, love, love
                  enough love to arouse the Beatles
                  and countless songwriters

                  Love is the Law
                  yet, average people are uncertain
                  of their love capacity
                  the more the sophistication
                  the greater the uncertainty

                  trying to place abstracted ideas
                  in a hostile space without notice
                  trying to walk around with a blue butt
                  and hoping not to excite the boys

                62. If love makes the world go ’round
                  it must be hiding under the ground
                  as it is so hard to find.
                  For love is not rude & self-seeking.
                  It is self-sacrificing, and kind.
                  Neither is it angry, envious, or jealous,
                  and full of malice.
                  Leaning ever towards forgiveness.

                  “It not just a little
                  bit of this
                  A little bit of that
                  It started with a kiss
                  Now we’re up to bat
                  A little bit of laughs
                  A little bit of pain …”

                  As Tina limps up
                  from the floor
                  after a back-door delivery
                  she wasn’t expecting

                  It’s all in the game of eros,
                  that some call love.

                63. marriage, bound to one another
                  each the other a crucifix

                  hummingbird feathers in a pillow
                  who would honor my birthday wish ?

                  nursery rhymes on television
                  about a bad man
                  neither black or white
                  rather orange
                  a linguistic demon
                  stuck in the seventh grade
                  Big Daddy Crime
                  (photos of the President without a bra)

                64. (Sex tape from the Kremlin:
                  Putin & Castro with a strap on dildo)

                  Happily married couples
                  (it does happen) live longer.
                  Unhappily married ones also.
                  They like to stretch out the torture.
                  But one should never be
                  where one does not belong.
                  The tribal imperative of fertility
                  and the state religion of conformity
                  … The artist forever
                  striving to break free.

                65. I had to laugh
                  the gents at poetry workshop
                  were trying to measure silence
                  how easy was it to absorb such a concept ?
                  the past catching up with the present and interacting
                  thoughts beyond the bounds of human communication

                  passion seems to be everywhere
                  males walking around with their key in hand
                  locks come and go and sometimes they linger

                66. “Everything in life is foreign territory.”
                  ~ Jack Kerouac

                  We breathe in noise
                  and store it between our ears
                  as the lonesome poet
                  tells us again … and again
                  of his pain and fears.
                  Enough to being even
                  the most heartless troglodyte
                  to tears.
                  The silent oasis
                  under the cover of darkness
                  is where my Jean Genie appears.
                  The plot to a never ending story
                  from a far off land
                  is what she comes to hear.
                  Wiith the keys
                  to an infinite tomorrow
                  held firmly
                  in her outstretched hand
                  … drawing ever near.
                  I offered her my soul,
                  and body.
                  But she only ever asks
                  for a happy ending
                  to my endless story.

                67. a happy ending to an endless story
                  the reviews are in
                  and the disappointments are out

                  Anne Sexton reminded me that applause
                  is the beginning of abuse

                  the guys at the pool hall
                  desperate to escape
                  the ordinary routines
                  of life
                  cross their fingers
                  and pray to Mary and Jesus
                  they know not of their need for reunion

                  the restoration of the divided self

                68. the gents in poetry workshop
                  were laboring with the Holy Ghost
                  knowing nothing about the subject
                  I opened my ears and went for the ride
                  the Father forgives
                  the Son forgives
                  the Holy Ghost doesn’t forgive
                  I must admit that I didn’t know the identity
                  of the Holy Ghost (clue: look in a mirror)
                  sin against the Father
                  sin against the Son
                  but never sin against yourself
                  integrity first

                69. “True live tends to forgive.”
                  ~Bob Dylan

                  God is Love
                  God is True
                  God is Spirit
                  God is the Spirit of Love
                  This I believe to be true
                  Jesus spoke truth
                  He, the Father, and the Spirit,
                  are One
                  Jesus is
                  the visible manifestation
                  of the invisible God
                  No man has seen God
                  but through Jesus
                  we can truly get to know him
                  I said before
                  I don’t listen to anyone
                  who hasn’t died at least once
                  Jesus is the only dude I know of
                  who’s defeated death
                  This world is full of schemers,
                  deceiver, and half baked dreamers,
                  spewing forth outright lies
                  and half truths
                  Many claim to speak
                  on God’s behalf
                  But without that ring of truth
                  and the aroma of true love,
                  that flows only
                  from the Holy Spirit,
                  I know straight away
                  that they be
                  a sack full of shit
                  (I think perhaps that is what’s
                  so offensive, and unforgivable,
                  to the Holy Spirit?
                  For it is deception, and truly evil.)
                  God is love
                  Forgiveness is
                  part and parcel
                  of his supernature

                70. the witch’s boiling cauldron

                  you won’t find punctuation marks
                  at the truck stop showers

                  there are traces of the unconscious

                  I think the observers in the observation
                  look like those people in the Blue Lagoon

                  they say that Sleeping Beauty celebrates
                  fluctuations in her hobby-horse
                  theoretical conclusions on the floor
                  dung-nervous feet beware

                  I was recently invited to weep
                  in the waters of Babylon

                71. Punctuation …
                  is highly overrated
                  At the shopping mall food court
                  my jugular was lacerated
                  by an exclamation mark
                  high on crack
                  And with no respect
                  for the concept of personal space
                  Leaving my Subway salad
                  covered in full stops and footprints
                  Not to mention the blood
                  As a dying request
                  the Armies of Salvation
                  had been playing Amazing Grace
                  started to play Rivers of Babylon
                  My favourite Boney M song
                  Bleeding out
                  on the floor of that food court
                  I went sailing off into the mystic
                  To rest in peace
                  I can now say with certainty
                  I’m never going back
                  to that shopping mall food court!

                72. everyone questions the people who bury
                  loved ones and relatives in the backyard
                  people who are so wealthy
                  they leave everything behind
                  when they relocate

                  in the winter they stack the deceased
                  like lumber, careful to not injure their limbs

                  down at the pool hall
                  they chuckle
                  at your mimeographed instructions
                  on how to tighten the screws
                  on the bottom of the chairs
                  at the food court

                  your therapeutic alliance with the mall food court
                  rubbing your fingers on well-known trademarks
                  blending pathos with humor
                  odd forays that don’t develop
                  into thoughts
                  but terminate into Dali-like images

                  somewhere, someone is listening
                  to “The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator”
                  infant intimacy with a pure mother
                  fresh chapters:
                  the mother cave
                  the center of gravity

                73. …………………….. Michael,
                  people in high places
                  are beginning to as questions.
                  Like, what have you done with Charlie,
                  and why don’t you post more poetry
                  on your very own blog site?
                  WordPress are even enquiring where
                  to send that complimentary set of
                  steak knives? I hadn’t noticed,
                  but apparently we’re over the 200 comments on this particular post.
                  Charlie will now get his Platinum
                  upgrade, and Martian Lexicon,
                  whether he wants them or not.

                74. My eclectic poetic bestie, Charlie,
                  that is of great relief to me 😁🕶️
                  Looking forward to the shredding of
                  an ethereal dictionary ⚔️📖 🌀🛠️
                  Hope you had a relaxing holiday,
                  without grief, and hassle free 🌅

                75. ……………………David,

                  I haven’t seen Charlie in person but I have made contact with him
                  He is okay and busy wrestling with his own private demons
                  no matter what people say, he’s a big baby wanting to be put to bed

                  I like to exchange writing with other people
                  just posting poetry on my blog seems lonely
                  like I’m just adding another page to a phonebook

                  today I saw a woman who was more white than white
                  she had white hair but her flesh was whiter
                  I would bet that she glowed under the covers at night
                  (E.A. Poe would have followed her home)

                  endless sins against humankind
                  cash money and how it is distributed
                  sympathize and buy a new paper thin television

                  God busy bestowing animation upon lifeless matter
                  rearrangement every second of every minute

                  the girls at the club
                  they dilate a thousand times a night
                  and go home as fallen angels

                  the unhallowed damps of the pool hall
                  gents who suffer the pangs of nature
                  their penis
                  gnawed by the never-dying worm

                  Satan is handing out his private number
                  he can get you zero interest on your credit cards

                76. “Albino love comes from above.
                  That’s what Andy Warhol said as
                  he handed me a pair of rubber gloves.
                  I told him that I may, or may not,
                  be a junkie, but I had no desire to
                  be in his home movie. Lou Reed just
                  laughed as he fell off the balcony.
                  My private demons were then sent
                  to me by FedEx, direct from Silver
                  Screen Andy. As they arrived in a
                  Campbell’s tomato soup can, the
                  day Charles Manson was thrown in
                  the slammer. I think they must suffer
                  from agoraphobia (or they just couldn’t
                  stand Charlie any longer)? Anyway,
                  everytime I hop in an elevator, they
                  scream and shout, pushing all the buttons, and howling to get out.
                  But, I’ve got them house trained now.
                  The only time they growl is when I’m
                  late with their dinner. But it’s so hard
                  to find a virgin around here. Or even a
                  Christian. Strange when you consider
                  I live right next to the Vatican?”
                  ~ Pope Pious the Next

                77. one cannot argue with the machinery of life
                  Mick Jagger pays $700 for a pair of socks
                  mental release costs so much more

                  superficial babies fall off without notice
                  casual sex without explanations
                  fake love produces fake babies

                  readers soon tire of confessional openness
                  they want tight dry Republican turds
                  something that sucks color from flowers

                78. Lord have mercy, son
                  turning from a lesser
                  to a greater mode
                  of imitation

                  Momma running and jumping
                  like a young girl
                  babies falling off her thin frame
                  babies falling off into mathematical darkness

                  poets trying to rescue their poetry
                  secretly hiking the serpent’s path
                  purifying reductions
                  imprisoned influences

                79. Imitation is the sincerest
                  form of rip-off
                  I’ve often been told
                  by the retro
                  unrighteous unoriginal
                  … and the old

                  As my poetry group
                  seems to write endlessly
                  of the cerulean sea
                  my nearest and dearest
                  were duly sold into slavery
                  Apparently by me
                  As they had broken the mould
                  after I was made
                  And then they shot the man
                  who made the mould

                  They say, “Fake it till you make it.”

                  “Make what?”…
                  I politely asked
                  “Creation is destruction.
                  So where do we start?”
                  As the chisel
                  in the hand of the sculptor
                  is forged of pure inspiration

                  If you happen
                  to find a spanish cubist
                  on the beach at Torremolinos
                  painting by the cerulean sea
                  say hola for me 😎

                80. anecdotes hidden in the condom drawer

                  the taint of the author missing
                  wiped clean

                  a historian trying to record the number
                  mother leaping like a frog on hot coals
                  babies left behind on all sides
                  pop-eyed little ones
                  circus children
                  covered in

                  when asked about their father
                  each replied:
                  “he’s the kind of man who speaks
                  with other men’s thoughts”

                  he’s like Mick Jagger in $700 socks

                81. The cult of pop idolatry
                  Sock puppet celebrities
                  and faux revolutionaries
                  You tend to become
                  what you focus upon
                  to forget all the regret
                  The mass opiate of a
                  working class Armageddon
                  To move like Jagger
                  put on his silken underwear
                  You too can be the Slinky King
                  strutting an illusion
                  beyond all worldly despair
                  We are all becoming
                  Or on the vine
                  There is a true King
                  Dali loved to paint him
                  for recreation
                  The big picture
                  is believing
                  Becoming a reflection
                  of the Salvador
                  who knocks at the door
                  Once that door is opened
                  the proof comes flooding in
                  No fallen idol
                  A real revolution
                  The infinite solution
                  A radical awakening
                  Love is the key
                  The baby in this world’s
                  dirty bathwater
                  away in a manger
                  Wise men today
                  still follow him
                  Divine love is the thing
                  that truly rocks
                  Not some used pair
                  of Micks $700 socks 👣 😎

                82. repetition-compulsion
                  the desire to put on expensive socks
                  obsessional anxiety dealing with loved ones
                  they’ve hidden the photographs of mother leaping about
                  they deny that babies were tossed from her fragile frame

                  relatives who enjoy teasing
                  stand outside at night whispering
                  the smell of their fat thighs attracting bugs

                  I knew that they were stuck in reverse
                  all that man can be, they were far less

                83. the sexual nausea of his automobile polished with butt-crack paste
                  he said that it was his tombstone and he often parked it at the head of the bed
                  sometimes in the dark it appeared to be a metal buffalo
                  it had a wondrous power which attracted
                  aircraft flying above

                  a maternal apparatus
                  burdened with endless
                  psychoanalytic interpretations

                84. the sexual nausea of having to park the automobile in squalor
                  the master bedroom set secondhand from a thrift store

                  maternal feces stored in the back of the freezer

                  readers claiming to realize map-making in prose
                  doll-figure words swirling as if in a ballet
                  different colors and shapes each day
                  John the Baptist a bright red

                85. The big picture refrigerator
                  has its freezer section
                  a hundred light years in the future
                  The curse of corruption
                  sown and reaped on automatic
                  remotely engaged
                  by a reaction to rebellion
                  The flesh is at war
                  with the spirit
                  As the soul chases a dragon
                  down the rabbit hole
                  into Sheol’s Labyrinth
                  Here in Waiting Room Earth
                  Where trolls feed coins
                  into parking metres
                  just to take another breath
                  As the lone thespian shouts,
                  “A plague on both your houses!”

                  A plaque on the wall says it best …

                  ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky

                  An echo from the suface brakes
                  through to the captives deep down
                  bellow in Sheol’s Labyrinth. As John,
                  the headless Israelite prophet, quotes
                  from Isaiah’s ancient text;

                  “Clear the way for the Lord in the
                  wilderness. Make smooth and straight
                  in the desert a highway for our God.”

                  The lead singer of the Strolling Bones,
                  feeling old and sore, reflects, “Perhaps
                  I should’ve given those $700 socks to
                  the poor?

                86. I honestly don’t know what it means
                  the refrigerator salesman
                  claimed that the new model
                  operates with the aid
                  of a cosmic whirlpool

                  whirls once made by golden bees
                  are now generated by sun rays

                  I bought the white
                  English speaking unit
                  sexual escapades can be viewed
                  on the door as it provides one
                  with a quick finger or warm glove

                  on high it feels like a weasel ripping your flesh

                87. I have to ask Frank Zappa
                  to move over whenever
                  I’ve gotta put whatever
                  into the refrigerator
                  But he’s cool when it comes to
                  dispensing ice cubes
                  He was given special dispensation
                  by the Mothers of Invention
                  to chill out
                  in cryogenic suspension
                  But what really drives me crazy
                  is the head of Walt Disney
                  staring up at me
                  from the depths of oblivion
                  So I put him in the Insinkerator
                  Ever since a black hole
                  was been swirling in the kitchen
                  And Mickey Mouse
                  has been trolling me
                  on social media

                88. play the Russian Card
                  contact cousin, Leonid
                  negotiations late at night
                  possibly a new refrigerator
                  one straight from the box
                  not a scratch or dent
                  or fell-off-the-truck
                  a new ice box at discount

                  citizenship documents are always in demand
                  Mick Jagger handing them over
                  for socks
                  made of cotton
                  grown in outer space

                89. What a coincidence!
                  My DNA was finely diced
                  and spliced in space.
                  As the fabric of Planet Earth
                  has been torn in half
                  by an angry alien dwarf.
                  He bad bought
                  all the kitchen equipment
                  for his space ship
                  from a Scratch ‘n’ Dent sale
                  at Walmart.
                  A big intergalactic mistake!

                90. 18 years of schooling
                  and in the labyrinth of employment
                  one task was available
                  grow cotton free of gravity

                  it shouldn’t take someone from China
                  to educate you on the value
                  of cotton grown free of gravity

                  young cotton grown in outer space
                  is at the center of things
                  it is, therefore it is

                91. Mañana
                  I am the soft centre
                  of outer space thinking
                  Where the running of the bulls
                  is soon to take place
                  with much gambling and drinking
                  Down in the Labyrinth tattoo parlour
                  I was lucky enough to be put on the
                  night shift of perpetual darkness
                  For night time is the best time
                  to pick the cotton
                  on Uncle Sam’s plantation
                  Ask any sailor
                  Since the red lights at night
                  are now made in China
                  God save America
                  Hasta la vista
                  to the Paradiso
                  Disco Gangsta

                92. the Spider Book Club: January
                  each one of the girls
                  received an astrological vibrator
                  no one was brave enough
                  to perform detours

                  the vibrator:
                  was a physical gymnasium experience
                  was a mental cinema experience

                  a life in perpetual displacement
                  original language with continuous translation

                  C+ students making translations
                  of what was already a translation

                  C+ students urinating outdoors
                  blue buttocks visible to the passerby

                93. Way to contract
                  a neururinary tract infection
                  Last time that happened to me
                  I went to use the neurinal
                  at the Labyrinth gymnasium
                  conveniently located
                  right next to the cemetery
                  and there was an explosion
                  of blue brain matter all over me
                  It caused quite a scene
                  The attending doctor
                  gave me a subscription
                  to Arachnids of Mars Magazine
                  but it got lost in translation

                94. the children down by the creek
                  drowning rats
                  living ignorant of the limitations
                  never knowing fulfilment

                  seed shared among family members

                  unity to deity
                  unity to self

                  the children naked by the side of the road
                  swigging Mountain Dew in fruit jars
                  log trucks blew their horns
                  but never slowed down

                95. The Holy Spirit

                  and Maxfield Parrish

                  with the lost boys of Neverland

                  on a seaside frolic

                  The girl with curls

                  in her translucent blouse

                  and windswept tunic

                  like a cat on a hot tin roof

                  stalking a mouse

                  ready to pounce

                  The game is afoot

                  Survival of the fittest

                  is no beauty contest

                  But it does help

                  to look your best

                  if you long to be ravished

                  Or immortalised in paint

                  by Maxfield Parrish

                96. at Sunday school
                  they taught
                  that the best cure for a lie
                  was a bigger lie

                  deathbed manners
                  there be no absolute standard
                  humility and charity free of Alfred Hitchcock
                  humility and charity with a sound heart
                  deformed conscience clean

                  there was a civil war
                  in Maxfield Parrish’s underpants
                  homosexual speculation
                  one funny man after another
                  Gatling gun sex
                  would fade into family feuds
                  every birthday wish
                  an honest genii
                  outside the truck stop showers
                  outside the lice, the fleas, the nasty drip

                97. “Don’t want to discuss it
                  I think it’s time for a change
                  You may get disgusted
                  Start thinkin’ that I’m strange
                  In that case I’ll go underground
                  Get some heavy rest
                  Never have to worry
                  About what is worst
                  and what is best (get it)
                  Oh oh Domino (all right)
                  Roll me over Romeo
                  There you go
                  Lord have mercy”
                  ~Van Morrison

                  “Let your gentleness be evident
                  to all. The Lord is near. Do not be
                  anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and
                  petition, with thanksgiving,
                  present your requests to God.
                  And the peace of God, which
                  transcends all understanding,
                  will guard your hearts and your
                  minds in Christ Jesus.
                  Finally, brothers and sisters,
                  whatever is true, whatever is noble,
                  whatever is right, whatever is pure,
                  whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent
                  or praiseworthy—think about such
                  things.” ~ Paul of Tarsus

                  “All the girls walk by,
                  dressed up for each other.
                  And the boys,
                  do the boogie woogie
                  on the corner of the street.
                  And the people passing by,
                  stare in wild wonder.
                  And inside the jukebox roars
                  just like thunder.
                  And every thing
                  looks so complete
                  when you’re walking
                  out on the streets.
                  And the wind,
                  it catches your feet,
                  sets you flying, crying.
                  Ooh ooh ooh wee,
                  wild night, is calling, alright.”
                  ~ Van Morrison

                  ” Whenever God
                  shines his light on me
                  Opens up my eyes
                  so I can see
                  When I look up
                  in the darkest night
                  And I know everything’s
                  going to be alright
                  In deep confusion,
                  in great despair
                  When I reach out for him
                  he is there
                  When I am lonely as I can be
                  And I know that God shines
                  his light on me
                  Reach out for him,
                  he’ll be there
                  With him your troubles
                  you can share
                  If you live,
                  the life you love
                  You get the blessing
                  from above”
                  ~ Van Morrison
                  As surely as I live, declares the Sovereign Lord, your sister Sodom and her daughters never did what you and your daughters have done.

                  “Now this was the sin of your sister
                  Sodom: She and her daughters were
                  arrogant, overfed and unconcerned;
                  they did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty and did
                  detestable things before me.
                  ~ Ezekiel

                  I think perhaps She did that human
                  sacrifice to Baal thing … as well as
                  buying $700 space cotton socks?

                98. “In the time of my confession,
                  in the hour of my deepest need
                  When the pool of tears beneath my feet
                  floods every newborn seed
                  There’s a dying voice within me
                  reaching out somewhere
                  Toiling in the danger and the morals
                  of despair
                  Don’t have the inclination
                  to look back on any mistake
                  Like Cain, I now behold
                  this chain of events that I must break
                  In the fury of the moment
                  I can see the master’s hand
                  In every leaf that trembles,
                  in every grain of sand
                  Oh, the flowers of indulgence
                  and the weeds of yesteryear
                  Like criminals, they have choked
                  the breath of conscience and good cheer
                  The sun beams down upon the steps
                  of time to light the way
                  To ease the pain of idleness
                  and the memory of decay
                  I gaze into the doorway
                  of temptation’s angry flame
                  And every time I pass that way
                  I’ll always hear my name
                  Then onward in my journey
                  I come to understand
                  That every hair is numbered
                  like every grain of sand
                  I have gone from rags to riches
                  in the sorrow of the night
                  In the violence of a summer’s dream,
                  in the chill of a wintry light
                  In the bitter dance of loneliness
                  fading into space
                  In the broken mirror of innocence
                  on each forgotten face
                  I hear the ancient footsteps
                  like the motion of the sea
                  Sometimes I turn,
                  there’s someone there,
                  other times it’s only me
                  I am hanging in the balance
                  of the reality of man
                  Like every sparrow falling,
                  like every grain of sand”
                  ~ Bob Dylan

                99. Coppertone’s bare-bottomed Mick Jagger
                  a puppy tugging at his expensive socks

                  people often ask what it tastes like
                  a hint of bleach with a wisp of Morton’s Salt

                  daily martyrdom at the Honeymoon Hotel
                  transference neurosis with the door locked

                  the melancholy oblivion of frustrated promise
                  a thousand searchlights pointed at his crotch
                  was he three-dimensional ?
                  or a foreskin with no head

                100. The New Testament
                  has an ancient plot
                  and a shiny head

                  no one mentions the outtakes of mistakes
                  Paul becomes Pauline with a sac
                  ugly-mugged relatives
                  look and then turn away

                  later in his teens
                  he would rub his thighs
                  and leak jewel-like seed
                  that same highway
                  a thousand times

                101. Saul had a great fall
                  on the way to Damascus
                  to see a Tarantino movie
                  when he heard the call
                  Luckily he landed
                  on a trampoline
                  But he couldn’t see a thing
                  So he changed his name
                  to Paul (Not Pauline)
                  Jesus is the real thing
                  Then he turned
                  the world’s frown
                  upside down
                  No longer a Pharisee
                  he stopped shaving his legs
                  Now they’re quite hairy

                102. you obtain the catalog of lost villages
                  in backcountry America
                  and you purchase a small town
                  and paint all the buildings
                  a radiant healthy flesh color
                  an innocent vulva pink

                  the citizens will be required
                  to obtain fictional identification
                  and no one will go by their given name
                  everyone will be required to write a novel
                  the uneducated will labor with poetic prose

                  irrationalities welcomed
                  cruelties flushed right away
                  slaughterous conduct no more
                  nourishment from Swedish Manna
                  inexhaustible delight both day and night

                  scouting expeditions for the young at heart
                  Indulgent Condescension National Park
                  poetic utterances in the breeze
                  treasure hunts galore
                  sex standing up

                103. Go to work in the morning
                  As dark Goya stands watching
                  Lunchtime sandwiches bleeding
                  A plane flies into your building

                  All the Presidents men
                  Caught with their pants down
                  The Cheshire Cat sits back
                  Alice through the looking glass
                  A finger down the rabbit hole
                  Lewis Carroll is hiding behind
                  His writing desk

                  All the world is a stage
                  But the pantomime of space time crime
                  Is lacking character
                  Private Stimulator the alias author
                  Of an autobiographical penny dreadful
                  Overcome with the cum
                  From Alien Stranger
                  Injecting an illegal loving spoonful
                  South of the border

                  The hunger
                  Hit by an angry bullet
                  From a religious lunatic
                  On the way to your favourite restaurant
                  The YouTube video is a hit
                  As nobody watched it
                  The Corona Virus
                  Got there first
                  So be it

                104. I say NO-NO to a damn bleeding sandwich of any nature
                  in my world no one would eat anything that bleeds
                  above the navel, below the navel
                  no one eats a face

                  today in poetry workshop
                  everyone wrote prose
                  about a cigarette
                  barely holding
                  its ash

                  many were afraid that their words would be

                  one lady wanted to discuss her leopard skin pill box hat
                  Noah was upset
                  her hat was an insult
                  to the lost Edenic state

                105. The heroic ash
                  like a lonely pinata
                  of humanity’s lost virginity
                  hung perilously
                  above the cerulean blue ashtray
                  Full of yesterday’s dogends
                  and drenched in organic hairspray
                  Despondent enchiladas
                  bled dry by the forlorn lust
                  of a sandwich spawned
                  at the gates Subway 😎

                106. Ther sexual tension in the air
                  between her leopard skin pillbox hat
                  and his elephant foreskin wallet
                  was self evident
                  Everyone in the poetry workshop
                  could feel it
                  The inevitable tryst betwixt the pair
                  came to pass
                  in one of Mick Jagger’s $700 socks
                  Much to the relief of everyone there

                107. a sense of bigness outside oneself

                  standing in line at Subway
                  waiting for a blessing
                  the six inch Pope sub
                  being prepared fresh

                  your lover paid $10
                  to smell a wood stove burning
                  she once paid $5
                  to hear a school bell ring
                  if you luck out
                  and cross her path
                  she might just blow you
                  like a summer breeze

                  poets caught up in doing things instinctively
                  endless romance with no letup on Sunday

                108. you promised to fill the vacuum
                  created by birth and completed by death
                  a possible answer to existential woes
                  sugar pills for a life with limited hope

                  you lied about your age
                  you swore that you were younger
                  than I ever was
                  I want to make noise
                  and you’re asleep
                  I want to play tricks
                  and you’re probably dead

                  Mick Jagger hired a night watchman
                  to guard his $700 socks
                  just a hint of a missing sock
                  and out comes the bitter water
                  the bread of sorrow
                  the final trumpet note

                109. No one in here but the living dead
                  Acolytes of the Big Placebo
                  Addicts snorting the chaotic poetic
                  Little maidens all in a row
                  On a summers breeze
                  Heavy laden with prehistoric blow
                  But they well remember
                  That jagged little thrill
                  In the sock drawer of Mick Jagger

                110. try as I might
                  I could never escape
                  that which pursued me
                  things said and done in the past
                  bad habits and lovers both short and tall

                  Mick Jagger had a long list of servants
                  security usually focused on the hosiery
                  expensive, rare and one of a kind, $700 socks
                  “my feet may not have much to say, but my socks sure do”

                  the pros and cons of dining at Subway
                  the bread baking in the morning
                  reminiscent of the garbage pit
                  in Hinnon Valley proper
                  less exploration
                  than escape

                111. Good news for beautiful people
                  Watching the world go by
                  Make love in the middle of a warzone
                  Hey, ya never gonna die
                  Don’t rock the boat, keep your head down
                  Just another fool in the crowd
                  Everybody knows, you can be a winner
                  Cmon, shout it out loud
                  On the fat of the land I been living
                  Now it’s only a matter of time
                  Sooner or later, you open your eyes
                  And return to the scene of the crime
                  Dig deep at the top of the heap
                  Now you’ve bitten off the hand that feeds you
                  You got nothin’ but your soul to sell
                  You got nothin’
                  When the river runs dry
                  You will return to the scene of the crime
                  When the river runs dry
                  Salvation will rain on you one last time
                  When the river runs dry
                  You got the power I got the money
                  Another million miles to run
                  I’d cry, cry for the future
                  But I wouldn’t get anything done
                  Relax, abandon ship
                  Turn your back on Mother Nature
                  Blind luck, destiny, do me a favour
                  When the river runs dry
                  You will return to the scene of the crime
                  When the river runs dry
                  Salvation will rain on you one more time
                  When the river runs … dry
                  All of God’s children
                  Never gonna die
                  You will return to the scene of the crime
                  I’m going home to where the river runs dry
                  ~ Hunters & Collectors

                112. Past
                  Trans fusion
                  As a child of sacrifice
                  On the alter of Alien Vice
                  Of he who charges a high price
                  I say without fear of contradiction

                  The truth will set you free
                  from the depths of Hinnon Valley
                  A place of haunting regrets,
                  and hidden secrets gone, astray
                  where no soul should tarry

                  The US today is an obesity Subway
                  Refugee hunger on the highway
                  A rolling stone gathering
                  Moss to feed family
                  Mick has the pox
                  of the greedy

                113. Woke up this morning,
                  from the strangest dream
                  I was in the biggest army,
                  The world has ever seen
                  We were marching as one,
                  on the road to the holy grail
                  Started out,
                  Seeking fortune and glory
                  It’s a short song, but it’s a
                  Hell of a story, when you
                  Spend your lifetime trying to get
                  Your hands on the Holy Grail
                  Bud have you heard
                  of the Great Crusade?
                  We ran into millions,
                  and nobody got paid
                  we razed four corners of the globe,
                  For the Holy Grail.
                  All the locals scattered,
                  They were hiding in the snow
                  We were so far from home,
                  So how were we to know,
                  There’d be nothing left to plunder
                  When we stumbled on the Holy Grail?
                  We were foolish beings
                  But we were dying like flies
                  And those big black birds,
                  they were circling in the sky,
                  And you know what they say, yeah,
                  Nobody deserves to die.
                  I’ve been searching for an easy way
                  to escape the cold light of day
                  I’ve been high, and I’ve been low
                  But I’ve got nowhere else to go
                  There’s nowhere else to go
                  I followed orders
                  God knows where I’d be
                  But I woke up alone,
                  all my wounds were clean
                  I’m still here
                  I’m still a fool for the Holy Grail
                  ~ Hunters & Collectors

                114. the praying woman standing in the shallow river
                  some say that it has gone dry
                  the praying woman making contrast
                  between illusion and reality
                  psychological debris floats by on both sides
                  old road corruption, new road reform
                  pick up the cross
                  and the struggle starts
                  (to be worthy of grace)
                  they say that you have a big inside

                  embarrassingly sentimental journeys
                  you came back but not all the way
                  every woman is good-looking
                  in Greenwich Village
                  poetry for sale
                  words about poets
                  expiring in their footsteps

                115. If I was foot loose
                  and fast on my feet
                  I wouldn’t mind the occasional
                  sweet treat of idols offered to meat
                  Or vice versa
                  But Linda likes me to come home
                  for dinner
                  And I love being on a winner

                  “Now about food sacrificed to idols:
                   We know that “We all possess
                  knowledge.” But knowledge puffs
                  up while love builds up. Those who
                  think they know something do not
                  yet know as they ought to know. But
                  whoever loves God is known by God.
                   So then, about eating food sacrificed
                  to idols: We know that “An idol is
                  nothing at all in the world” and that
                  “There is no God but one.”  For even
                  if there are so-called gods, whether in
                  heaven or on earth (as indeed there
                  are many “gods” and many “lords”), 
                   yet for us there is but one God, the Father, from whom all things came 
                  and for whom we live; and there is
                  but one Lord, Jesus Christ, through
                  whom all things came and through
                  whom we live.
                   But not everyone possesses this knowledge. Some people are still so accustomed to idols that when they
                  eat sacrificial food they think of it
                  as having been sacrificed to a god,
                  and since their conscience is weak,
                   it is defiled. 8 But food does not
                  bring us near to God; we are no
                  worse if we do not eat, and no
                  better if we do.
                   Be careful, however, that the exercise
                  of your rights does not become a
                  stumbling block to the weak. For if
                  someone with a weak conscience
                  sees you, with all your knowledge,
                  eating in an idol’s temple, won’t that
                  person be emboldened to eat what is sacrificed to idols?  So this weak
                  brother or sister, for whom Christ
                  died, is destroyed by your knowledge. 
                  When you sin against them in this way
                  and wound their weak conscience,
                  you sin against Christ. Therefore, if what
                  I eat causes my brother or sister to fall
                  into sin, I will never eat meat again, so
                  that I will not cause them to fall.
                  ~ Paul of Tarsus

                  Socks offered to idols still smell as sweet.

                116. It takes
                  a Greenwich Village folk club
                  to raise a modern day prophet
                  And then beat him down again
                  for going Rock ‘n’ Roll electric
                  Life can be so hard
                  for a folk music Judas

                  At the after party
                  Esmeralda danced the tango
                  on the lap of Quasimodo
                  ringing the bells
                  of pent up desire
                  The heat was so hot
                  Notre Dame cathedral
                  blew it’s wrought-iron spire
                  out a stain glass window
                  and then caught on fire

                  The River Seine
                  flowed red with the blood
                  of the Greenwich Village idiots
                  who crucified Bob Dylan
                  as always
                  is willing and able
                  And available for hire

                117. the river looked like it was moving
                  but it was standing still
                  don’t think twice
                  the river is flowing
                  but I’m standing still
                  struggle and scrape
                  and swear that I don’t care
                  difficult to differentiate
                  the chubby girls
                  they got hair
                  and sugar
                  lurking somewhere
                  the spot
                  where you can smell
                  a nursery rhyme

                  Jack Kerouac has gone the cold toast route
                  the butter won’t melt
                  and the dog
                  has to think twice

                  in synch with the current generation
                  go to the doctor and they ask
                  if you’re a boy or a girl
                  can there be a choice ?

                  corny gospel is the best
                  baked in a pie
                  no direction home
                  from inside the crust

                  I sent Mick Jagger a note
                  “my socks have one pocket if not more”

                118. “My rocket don’t have a sock!”,
                  came the sock puppet’s reply.
                  “I’m only a prawn in their game.
                  It may come as a shock,
                  especially to my mother,
                  that Keith Richards is my father.
                  But he just won’t admit it.
                  It should’ve been Mick Jagger,
                  only he had a $700 sock on it.
                  So I’ll just keep making movies, and
                  singing songs, that are total crap. ”

                  ~ Just Outa Luck Timberlake

                119. It’s alright
                  I didn’t think once
                  The Beauty Parlour sailors
                  have all made their choice
                  Short back and sides
                  with a Lou bleach and rinse
                  High heels, or flats?
                  It’s nobody else’s business
                  if Lou puts on a sailor suit
                  and hat
                  A man truly without sin
                  wouldn’t care less
                  if Holly shaved her legs
                  right up to where God split her
                  With live divine
                  there’s no room on the plate
                  for petty hate
                  But when it comes to abuse
                  and trauma
                  that’s another matter
                  God is ever close
                  to those who suffer
                  Best to think twice
                  when things ain’t right

                120. David,

                  I am out of the hospital
                  although I spent hours there today
                  among forms and shapes
                  tubes and beeping machines
                  endless readings
                  inconclusive readings
                  a place with its own language

                  people walk around with naked skulls

                  does the medicine man read tattoos ?
                  a museum of accumulation
                  self-destructive images
                  sado-religious tattoos
                  a physical human
                  an exposed skull

                  poets in a circle
                  originality unmatched
                  out of the daily debris
                  found words

                  several poets complained about the failure of realism
                  brave souls displayed their backsides in protest
                  pure fiction in the game but not from the eyes
                  reality is encyclopedic


                  reality is not only unfinished
                  it seems unfinishable
                  I hired a fellow to reduce reality
                  only temporary relief can be purchased
                  my neighbors will study the clock
                  how many hours and minutes can I afford ?

                121. The ink
                  is still drying
                  under the skin
                  of those left breathing
                  Reality is relative
                  to the depth and breadth
                  of your picture gallery
                  The dimensions in between
                  the front door and eternity
                  are measured
                  in the geometry
                  of tomorrows memory
                  The spirit within
                  has strength for the taking
                  Healing for the asking
                  from that sacred place
                  of holy mindfulness
                  The poet is no stranger
                  to sadness
                  nor bliss
                  Reality is a town
                  on the far side of paradise

                122. So glad you’re back, Michael.
                  I was concerned the landlord was
                  going to shut down this gin joint
                  down. With all the subversive poetry
                  and graffiti scrawled upon the walls.

                123. they housed me in a plexiglass box
                  that possibly I wasn’t singular
                  but rather,
                  a series of constituent elements
                  that my thoughts were beyond alphabetical

                  it is true that I was passing brown logs
                  of sentimentality and nostalgia

                  there was an image of an elephant
                  on the bottle of stool softeners

                  the circle forbidden
                  citizens at night wander about
                  writing without pens or paper
                  narrative without words
                  fossilized thoughts

                  dissociation from nature
                  man alone in the jungle

                124. Living in a simulation
                  Survival in a petri dish
                  of processed salad dressing
                  Making a wish
                  for fortune and fame
                  A poet lost in the game
                  Electronic junk food stimulation
                  A slow trip down the fast lane
                  through a maze
                  of toxic mayonnaise
                  and plastic defecation
                  The sliding door jungle
                  of lip balm fornication
                  The poet now lost to the game
                  … I’m living in a simulation

                125. the sign outside my room:

                  ::::NON-REPRESENTATIONAL POET::::

                  he who explores the elements of language itself
                  rather than
                  one who uses language to express reality
                  I was confused
                  I thought of myself as visual
                  and expressive
                  not a brick and mortar man

                  a simple product in a time of fast communication

                  it is true that I pay a fellow
                  to reduce my content
                  my agent suggests that I
                  reward the readers
                  and not the garbage man

                  open eyes to an encyclopedic reality
                  generalizing friends and family
                  humans who fear
                  the stripping away of appearances

                126. The Intergalactic Word Virus
                  is sentient, and highly contagious
                  Dissect at your own risk
                  Linguistic vivisection is a crime
                  on all Federation planets
                  For which William S. Burroughs
                  was taken away
                  and is now serving time
                  as a short order chef
                  at the Nighthawk’s Cafe

                127. cash money
                  paper money
                  big bucks

                  it means everything to those without
                  it means nothing to rich dreamers
                  the risk
                  take it and run
                  pull out violence
                  and use it in a negative way
                  guns and knives and baseball bats

                  the risk
                  romantic innocence
                  coed pajama parties
                  nervous about attention spans

                  smoke and smoke
                  going days without a drink
                  crazy to pee
                  with nothing to unload

                  rednecks lounging
                  on a mattress
                  in the back
                  of a truck

                  personalities always emerge at the I-95 rest stop

                  flamboyant wallets on heavy chains
                  sandpaper forced to speak
                  the afterglow
                  of having a stranger
                  jerk your dong

                  small talk
                  with the emphasis on
                  upscale socks
                  once exclusively
                  the choice of the bohemian
                  the intellectual, the rock star

                  “from sweetheart to plaything”

                128. Ancient footprints
                  and cleaning agents
                  Then the Roxy Music
                  it takes me
                  out of nowhere
                  And the background’s fading
                  out of focus
                  Yes the picture is ever changing
                  every moment
                  And my destination
                  I don’t know where
                  From Avalon to Kingdom Come

                  I spent seven years as a pincushion
                  for the research of voodoo medicine
                  till they found a cure
                  for Syndrome Obscure
                  Now happily
                  No one can see me
                  They lied when they said
                  they found a vaccine for stupidity
                  But it was just so much fun
                  I donated my father’s still warm body
                  An alien autopsy has begun

                  Now the treatment is over
                  I’m so tired
                  Then I see the future coming
                  Out of nowhere
                  Much communication in a motion
                  Without conversation or a notion
                  The Father, Spirit, and Son, beyond
                  mere human comprehension
                  Roxy Apocalypso all the way
                  clear through to Kingdom Come

                129. Annette Funicello was different
                  she wasn’t one of those large human pillows

                  (hallucinated pornography)
                  escaping it all with Gospel permits

                  for therapeutic sex
                  running ahead of sensibility
                  fumble not
                  the hands on the clock are male

                  those who complain have no voice

                130. Annette Funicello
                  had her Moondoggie
                  The face of the clock
                  is forever female
                  Like the strings on a cello
                  Rosin on the bow
                  Life’s smooth flow
                  The clock kindly tells me
                  where to go
                  No complaints
                  … as far as I know?

                131. I was told that they tried to stuff
                  various young ladies
                  into the elastic outer skin
                  of the former Marilyn Monroe
                  they dressed and undressed her
                  in a thousand different ways
                  sometimes she was given medication
                  to make her dirty and bedroom inventive
                  a tub of Crisco and she was ready to go

                  somewhere, a Norwegian stud focused on his reflection
                  he had given himself so often that he was ghostly gray

                132. At Sunnydale High school
                  I was voted the Most Dishevelled
                  Only to be expelled by the Principal
                  for being a Non-representational
                  Rebel without a school schedule
                  When I explained that I was simply
                  a Retro Anti-Neo-Goth, he could only
                  shed a tear and scoff.
                  But I now see he did me a favour,
                  as Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and I
                  took off. The flavour of the undead
                  is now all I dream of.

                133. it was easy to identify the antipsychotic pills
                  colorful straitjackets difficult to swallow
                  a handful of Cocoa Puffs
                  and a bottle of Red Eye
                  not a single panic
                  about mental

                134. Antipsychotics are not
                  all they’re cracked up to be.
                  Nurse Ratched once
                  slipped one in my cafe latte.
                  For the next few hours
                  no one could hear or see me.
                  But the lightsaber
                  Obi-Wan Kenobi gave me
                  came in handy.
                  And Darth Maul now likes
                  to keep me company.

                135. thoughts suddenly as bad as deeds
                  true acts of neurotic compensation
                  over-intellectualizing masturbation
                  dozing during the act
                  taking note of size

                  proofreading others
                  paragraphs on the backs
                  of Christmas cards
                  fancy phallic truisms
                  on juvenile valentines

                136. Bob Dylan made a career
                  trying to decipher
                  his personal aberration
                  grounded in reality
                  the question being:
                  “how many times the train crashed in adolescence ?”

                  who could capture the exhilaration of being Bob Dylan ?
                  to gaze out those eyes
                  watching reality mold
                  to Dylan resolutions

                  forceful suppressions
                  turned into a signature
                  on a bank note

                  a sense of distance
                  a mile long
                  the betrayal
                  of heart
                  the betrayal
                  of drugs
                  subsequent pathologies
                  recorded and put on the market

                137. Soft shoe shufflers ever ready
                  to take you on a merry dance.
                  I wouldn’t trust any musician
                  who hasn’t overdosed on death,
                  and life, at least once.
                  And then hung out to dry,
                  for a time, on the railway line.
                  But Bob, being a Poet Laureate,
                  he can speak for himself …

                  There’s a long-distance train
                  pulling through the rain,
                  tears on the letter I write.
                  There’s a woman I long to touch
                  and I miss her so much
                  but she’s drifting
                  like a Satellite.
                  There’s a neon light ablaze
                  in this green smoky haze,
                  laughter down on Elizabeth Street
                  And a lonesome bell tone
                  in that valley of stone
                  where she bathed in a stream
                  of pure heat.
                  Her father would emphasize
                  you got to be more than street-wise.
                  But he practiced what he preached
                  from the heart.
                  A full-blooded Cherokee,
                  he predicted to me the time
                  and the place that we’d part trouble.
                  There’s a babe in the arms
                  of a woman in a rage
                  And a longtime golden-haired
                  stripper onstage
                  And she winds back the clock
                  and she turns back the page
                  Of a book that no one can write.
                  Oh, where are you tonight?

                  The truth was obscure,
                  too profound and too pure,
                  to live it you have to explode.
                  In that last hour of need,
                  we entirely agreed,
                  sacrifice was the code of the road.
                  I left town at dawn,
                  with Marcel and St. John,
                  strong men belittled by doubt.
                  I couldn’t tell her
                  what my private thoughts were
                  but she had some way
                  of finding them out.
                  He took dead-center aim
                  but he missed just the same,
                  she was waiting,
                  utting flowers on the shelf.
                  She could feel my despair
                  as I climbed up her hair
                  and discovered her invisible self.
                  There’s a lion in the road,
                  there’s a demon escaped,
                  There’s a million dreams gone,
                  there’s a landscape being raped,
                  As her beauty fades
                  and I watch her undrape,
                  I won’t, but then again, maybe I might.
                  Oh, if I could just find you tonight.

                  I fought with my twin,
                  that enemy within,
                  ’til both of us fell by the way.
                  Horseplay and disease
                  is killing me by degrees
                  while the law looks the other way.
                  our partners in crime
                  hit me up for nickels and dimes,
                  the man you were lovin’
                  just couldn’t stay clean.
                  It felt outta place,
                  my foot in his face,
                  but he should-a stayed
                  where his money was green.
                  I bit into the root of forbidden fruit
                  with the juice running down my leg.
                  Then I dealt with your boss,
                  who’d never known about loss
                  and who always was too proud to beg.
                  There’s a white diamond gloom
                  on the dark side of this room
                  and a pathway that leads up to the stars.
                  If you don’t believe there’s a price
                  for this sweet paradise,
                  remind me to show you the scars.
                  There’s a new day at dawn
                  and I’ve finally arrived.
                  If I’m there in the morning, baby,
                  you’ll know I’ve survived.
                  I can’t believe it,
                  I can’t believe I’m alive,
                  But without you it just doesn’t seem right.
                  Oh, where are you tonight?

                  ~ Bob Dylan

                138. individuals connected with Bob Dylan
                  act according to their nature
                  distinct identities
                  so say the clouds
                  or exclusively attracted
                  to the up above
                  humans tortured by resistance

                  TV police stories highlight
                  the dangers of natural pleasure
                  each episode they melt down
                  a huge crucifix
                  and make ammunition
                  devils ride the bullets
                  like cowboys at a rodeo

                139. Original sin
                  is a plagiarised slogan
                  stolen by Jungle Jim.
                  He was running for President
                  on a ticket of banning everything
                  than didn’t look like him.
                  His advisors from the Clan
                  said best start with Bob Dylan,
                  and his song, Oxford Town.
                  The auto-correction
                  dressed as a Klingon
                  then screamed in fluent American,
                  “Original Sin was man’s rebellion
                  in the Garden of Eden … So,
                  keep your pants on!”
                  But it was far too late.
                  Jungle Jim had left with Tarzan
                  for a bit of monkey business
                  with Lou Reed, and Sweet Jane.

                140. I was born into protest
                  I protested being born
                  Till the words of a poet
                  full of cosmic empathy
                  and spiritual energy
                  gave me shelter
                  from a nuclear storm
                  The questions
                  blowing in the wind
                  echo through the valley
                  of infinite time
                  The scenery ever changing
                  The wise man
                  and the fool
                  are two of a kind
                  To find that certain sanity
                  I took that long distance sojourn
                  outside the confines
                  of an earthbound mind
                  Words spawned of desperation
                  bleeding honesty
                  Words conjoined
                  breathing true passion
                  Life is a privilege
                  Creation’s big bang celebration
                  Yet the road most travelled
                  leads to self-inflicted oppression
                  We all need the occasional dose
                  of the prophetic poet
                  Bob Dylan

                141. in my lifetime, the one concept
                  that will have you imprisoned or cast-out
                  from family, friends, employment:
                  “the elimination of the unfit
                  the enhancement of the fit by all means”

                  the famous quote, “to Hell with bastardization”

                  Bob Dylan lyrics trying to reassure the guilty
                  that such activity is just a normal part
                  of being an animal

                  relatively uncommon activity
                  cannot be considered

                  Reader’s Digest suggests that
                  artistic expression
                  is little more
                  than mechanical responses

                  Gabriel may blow his horn
                  but reality is limited to tambourines
                  tambourines and peroxide blonds
                  oxygen deprivation boy scout style

                142. No sence
                  in telling a junkie
                  that he’s guilty
                  Nothing but us sinners
                  in here
                  No self-righteous
                  elitist wisdom to share
                  A quick fix
                  from doing tricks
                  with nothing to spare
                  A starving man
                  doing all that be can
                  breathing thin air
                  A rich man
                  grasping all that he can
                  without much of a care
                  Survival of the fittest
                  was never a part
                  of the grand plan
                  It’s just what happens
                  when man cursed the land
                  If you don’t believe in curses
                  just visit Bangladesh
                  or Afghanistan
                  Female or gay
                  Fire … or the frying pan

                143. I eat
                  Reader’s Digest
                  for breakfast
                  Existential Indigestion
                  is ever the consequence
                  But I have the reassurance
                  that laughter
                  is the best medicine
                  So I offer no resistance
                  to a pulp fiction scene
                  The sum total
                  of this existence
                  with a dash of pain
                  and if you’re game
                  15 minutes of fame
                  Who’s running this game?
                  All the answers
                  in Reader’s Digest
                  added up the same
                  Genuine or Fake
                  A deafening silence
                  I once made the mistake
                  Creation is not existence

                144. I once made the mistake
                  ran through my life
                  wanting so bad to win
                  came to the final edge
                  and found I lacked
                  the most important thing of all

                  had I only been an accordionist

                  Sam Cooke writing lyrics
                  on the cover of an old Reader’s Digest
                  words of love and heartbreak
                  hellfire romance

                  all those images I collected
                  slick color cards
                  professional photographs
                  of Mick Jagger’s socks
                  the $700 ones
                  the priceless ones
                  made from cotton grown in outer space
                  handmade ones by Picasso and Mother Teresa
                  somehow I was hoping they would get me into heaven
                  I could trade them for a ticket to enter the Golden Gates

                145. I searched all of Paris for
                  the Man in the Black Beret.
                  I found him sitting outside
                  the Café du Rendez-Vous
                  playing a piano accordion.
                  As the waiter brought a tray
                  of espresso coffee, I asked
                  the Man in the Black Beret
                  to play Au Clair de la Lune.
                  But instead, he smiled and
                  played Stairway to Heaven.
                  When I offered him a coin or two
                  he declined , saying
                  the music was a free gift just for
                  earnestly seeking him.

                146. Oblivious Spandex
                  said to Teflon Don,
                  “Obviously Bob needed the money!
                  When you’re a poor starving artist,
                  releasing a Christmas Album is a
                  must. So come all ye faithful, and
                  throw Bob a crust.”

                  For years they had me locked
                  in a cage
                  Then they threw me
                  onto the stage
                  Somethings just last longer
                  than you thought they would
                  And they never ever explain
                  I’m dreamin’ of you
                  That’s all I do
                  And it’s driving me insane

                  It’s never been my duty
                  to remake the world at large,
                  Nor is it my intention
                  to sound a battle charge,
                  ‘Cause I love you more
                  than all of that with a love
                  that doesn’t bend,
                  And if there is eternity
                  I’d love you there again.

                  One of these days
                  and it won’t be long
                  Going down the valley
                  and sing my song
                  Gonna sing it loud
                  and sing it strong
                  Let the echo decide
                  if I was right or wrong
                  Silvio silver and gold
                  Won’t buy back the beat
                  of a heart grown cold
                  Silvio I gotta go
                  Find out something
                  only dead men know

                  So, what’ll you do now,
                  my blue-eyed son?

                  I’m going back out
                  before the rain starts falling
                  I’ll walk to the depths
                  of the deepest black forest
                  Where the people are many
                  and their hands are all empty
                  Where the pellets of poison
                  are flooding their waters
                  Where the home in the valley
                  meets the damp dirty prison
                  Where the executioner’s face
                  is always well-hidden
                  Where hunger is ugly,
                  where souls are forgotten
                  Where black is the color,
                  where none is the number
                  And I’ll tell it and think it
                  and speak it and breathe it
                  And reflect it from the mountain
                  so all souls can see it
                  Then I’ll stand on the ocean
                  until I start sinkin’
                  But I’ll know my song well
                  before I start singin’
                  And it’s a hard a-gonna fall

                  Darkness at the break of noon
                  Shadows even the silver spoon
                  The handmade blade,
                  the child’s balloon
                  Eclipses both the sun and moon
                  To understand you know too soon
                  There is no sense in trying
                  Pointed threats,
                  they bluff with scorn
                  Suicide remarks are torn
                  From the fool’s gold mouthpiece
                  The hollow horn
                  plays wasted words
                  Proves to warn
                  That he not busy being born
                  Is busy dying.
                  Temptation’s page flies out the door
                  You follow, find yourself at war
                  Watch waterfalls of pity roar
                  You feel to moan but unlike before
                  You discover
                  That you’d just be
                  One more person crying.
                  So don’t fear if you hear
                  A foreign sound to your ear
                  It’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing
                  As some warn victory, some downfall
                  Private reasons great or small
                  Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
                  To make all that should be killed to crawl
                  While others say don’t hate nothing at all
                  Except hatred
                  Disillusioned words like bullets bark
                  As human gods aim for their mark
                  Made everything from toy guns that spark
                  To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
                  It’s easy to see without looking too far
                  That not much
                  Is really sacred.
                  While preachers preach of evil fates
                  Teachers teach that knowledge waits
                  Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
                  Goodness hides behind its gates
                  But even the president of the United States
                  Sometimes must have
                  To stand naked
                  An’ though the rules of the road
                  have been lodged
                  It’s only people’s games
                  that you got to dodge
                  And it’s alright, Ma, I can make it

                  Advertising signs that con you
                  Into thinking you’re the one
                  That can do what’s never been done
                  That can win what’s never been won
                  Meantime life outside goes on
                  All around you.
                  You lose yourself, you reappear
                  You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
                  Alone you stand with nobody near
                  When a trembling distant voice, unclear
                  Startles your sleeping ears to hear
                  That somebody thinks
                  They really found you.
                  A question in your nerves is lit
                  Yet you know there is no answer fit
                  to satisfy
                  Insure you not to quit
                  To keep it in your mind and not forget
                  That it is not he or she or them or it
                  That you belong to
                  Although the masters make the rules
                  For the wise men and the fools
                  I got nothing, Ma, to live up to

                  For them that must obey authority
                  That they do not respect in any degree
                  Who despise their jobs, their destinies
                  Speak jealously of them that are free
                  Cultivate their flowers to be
                  Nothing more than something
                  They invest in.
                  While some on principles baptized
                  To strict party platform ties
                  Social clubs in drag disguise
                  Outsiders they can freely criticize
                  Tell nothing except who to idolize
                  And then say God bless him.
                  While one who sings
                  with his tongue on fire
                  Gargles in the rat race choir
                  Bent out of shape from society’s pliers
                  Cares not to come up any higher
                  But rather get you down in the hole
                  That he’s in
                  But I mean no harm nor put fault
                  On anyone that lives in a vault
                  But it’s alright, Ma, if I can’t please him

                  Old lady judges watch people in pairs
                  Limited in sex, they dare
                  To push fake morals, insult and stare
                  While money doesn’t talk, it swears
                  Obscenity, who really cares
                  Propaganda, all is phony
                  While them that defend
                  what they cannot see
                  With a killer’s pride, security
                  It blows the minds most bitterly
                  For them that think death’s honesty
                  Won’t fall upon them naturally
                  Life sometimes
                  Must get lonely
                  My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards
                  False gods, I scuff
                  At pettiness which plays so rough
                  Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
                  Kick my legs to crash it off
                  Say okay, I have had enough
                  What else can you show me?
                  And if my thought-dreams could be seen
                  They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
                  But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only

                  ~ Bob the Revised

                147. with her legs spread
                  she summoned the weak
                  come one come all
                  the tourist trap is open
                  espresso on tap

                  Donovan showed up
                  to sing
                  “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue”

                  Joan Baez
                  was everywhere
                  she was the most outrageous girl
                  poor little Dylan
                  wore security grade underwear
                  and tried to avoid her hands
                  she was like Ginsberg on meth

                  a hamburger stuffed with pink flesh
                  a walking hamburger for friends
                  nervous hands
                  fingers wrapped
                  like a portrait
                  that chokes

                148. A hamburger encountered
                  of the plant-based kind
                  is all I could find
                  But … I might as well
                  and then
                  try to catch the wind
                  with Jimmy Dean’s dying breath
                  As Joan Baez
                  writes Dylan letters
                  and sends him cheques
                  Folk music wallpapering the holes
                  in Mick Jagger’s shoes
                  A British Invasion
                  of white man’s borrowed blues
                  Never to be forgiven
                  when that Judas rocks
                  But thirty pieces of silver
                  buys lots of space cotton socks

                149. Bob Dylan with his sense of distance
                  and betrayal
                  self-concealment as an art

                  the pickle too big for the jar
                  pickles harvested in celibacy
                  pickles spiced with the sufferings from the cross
                  (in Maine, one can purchase Vidal Sassoon pickles)

                  the promise of a sex tree
                  and 20 years later
                  vulgar fruit

                150. Why wait?
                  Your local shopping maul
                  is open till late.
                  Gore Vidal took me
                  for a haircut from Vidal Sassoon.
                  He just shaved my eyebrows
                  and then hit me with a silver spoon.
                  McDonalds serves the Holy Pickle
                  Whether you like it or not
                  you are now a disciple.
                  Plant-based people
                  eating plant-based vomit.
                  Smoking the plant-based opiate.
                  As prescribed by Floyd Pink
                  with the hammer and sickle.

                151. they pump Pink Floyd into elevators
                  no one notices
                  people in general are brain dead
                  too many stops at the gas station food mart
                  too many snacks—pig skin deep-fried
                  they say it tastes so good
                  I wouldn’t know
                  they pump Pink Floyd into elevators
                  doesn’t seem fair
                  I count backwards
                  I think of Mother Teresa
                  that she knitted socks for Mick Jagger
                  knitted socks with loving care
                  she thought Mick Jagger was a little boy
                  perhaps he is

                152. ………………….. Michael

                  Good News!
                  This comment space has surpassed
                  the 300 mark. In celebration, WordPress
                  have announced they are having a
                  statue of Charlie erected in Times Square.
                  Sculptured from shredded dictionaries
                  and recycled aluminium cladding,
                  it’s to be unveiled on March 2nd, and
                  named ‘Charlie 2.O’, to coincide with
                  Charlie’s long awaited next posting 😎

                153. people on the elevator
                  laughing inside their minds
                  troubling low esteem
                  living in a cartoon

                  daydreaming about therapeutic sex

                  poetry workshop
                  transactional prose
                  truckloads of inverted commas
                  students educated in replacing worn words

                  you find yourself dating technicians
                  you want to trade sex for repairs

                154. Jumpin’ Jack Splash
                  dripping sex transmission
                  Drowning in gin
                  and all washed up
                  After missing the transition
                  he was left for dead
                  bleeding all over the elevator
                  from falling off his ladder
                  But it’s alright now
                  In fact
                  I called in
                  the elevator technician

                155. riding the elevator daily
                  asking myself
                  how I can recover some outline of sanity

                  living in chaos
                  employed at weakening it
                  sore knees and elbows

                  poets shopping for new limbs
                  black market
                  age and color

                  the ability to love
                  and be loved
                  other ravenous rats

                156. Everybody’s got a hungry heart
                  … according to the Boss
                  A vacant glance
                  A game of tumbling dice
                  where nothing is won or lost
                  Love is the ending from the start
                  Along with my American Express card
                  I don’t leave home without it

                  The literary elitist
                  and a romantic defeatist
                  asked for my vote
                  at the Alternative Beauty Contest
                  But all the contestants
                  were rats the size of cats
                  And they were eating
                  a Reader’s Digest
                  for breakfast

                  I was asked
                  to read a poem
                  on the podium
                  to get the show going
                  All I could say
                  since I know nothing
                  was that Love covers
                  a multitude of sin
                  The ravenous rats
                  in the front rows
                  began howling
                  So I headed for the exit
                  I won’t be be back there again

                157. 2 adult men were selling candy bars on the elevator
                  I asked them their names
                  they were Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Berge
                  they were wearing satin pants
                  and Mick Jagger socks

                  perhaps they were caught up
                  in the twisted briars of reality
                  I was asked to take close-ups
                  of their dongs
                  duffel bag foreskin
                  what can I say ?

                158. Time and tide
                  tends to wrinkle the gland
                  No matter how much money
                  or how well dressed the man

                  Mick Jagger
                  was begging for brown sugar
                  last time I looked
                  All screwed up
                  like a candy bar wrapper
                  Tumbling the dice
                  with Angie Bowie
                  and snorting the space cotton
                  When skydiving
                  making love
                  or simply dying
                  in an elevator
                  be sure to push the up button

                159. before he pressed the UP button
                  he asked himself
                  “do I write about life or do I live it ?”

                  poets with shovels heading towards the cemetery
                  the lazy chap with his eye to the keyhole
                  the egg hatched so long ago

                  poets with shovels
                  tangled fingers and toes
                  amputated ding-dongs

                  they tried to sing a song
                  complementary union
                  with the backside

                160. Go, go Johnny go
                  Go go, Johnny B. Goode
                  Black action
                  White reaction
                  A moth eaten and stained
                  Pink Floyd t-shirt
                  conceals the surgical scars
                  from the amputation
                  Old baby bloomers
                  of a forgotten revolution
                  Mick Jagger’s $700
                  space cotton socks
                  can’t get no satisfaction
                  from his honky tonk women
                  Chuck Berry
                  thrown into a Missouri prison
                  for asking a teenage girl
                  to play with his ding-a-ling
                  As poets of entitlement
                  write endlessly
                  of their suffering
                  Go, go Johnny go
                  Go go, Johnny got wood
                  Mississippi burning

                161. press the UP button
                  spiritual nerves on the surface
                  begging for gratification
                  the college educated
                  fear resistance
                  ———————–meth and the apparent
                  ———————–heightening of life
                  she had ghastly stem limbs
                  unseen quivering

                  external flaps curling
                  in the

                  once pierced
                  all hope is lost

                162. Symbiotic duality
                  Beauty in the unfolding
                  Bumping nasty
                  Far too hasty
                  Little death
                  The big fatality
                  Organism spasms
                  spurting cosmic frailty
                  A divine comedy
                  The Spirit
                  My lover
                  With the Son
                  as my brother
                  God’s laughter uplifts me
                  From here to eternity

                163. on the elevator with a haunted Fellini
                  a tortured and amputated poet
                  stood in the back
                  failing to push
                  his floor #

                  it was harmless fun
                  to ride in both directions
                  abracadabrical colon spasms

                  tempted to omit
                  the monotonous in and out
                  everything too short or too long
                  sewer smells and cottage cheese

                164. Scars
                  of the Gladiator
                  An amputation
                  below the navel
                  Love in an elevator
                  Heartbreak on the escalator
                  Luggage on the carousel
                  at the Airport terminal
                  Business class
                  Business dwarf
                  Sad departures
                  Broken romance
                  Happy Arrivals
                  Without underpants
                  Flying high
                  Flight lost
                  Romantic ruins
                  A bitter frost

                  Life is a crash landing
                  The air traffic controller
                  has left the building
                  without any warning

                  Flying lessons
                  are now in fashion
                  Poets and dwarfs
                  veering off course
                  Auto pilot
                  A safe landing
                  But lacking passion
                  Buttons are for pushing
                  But only with discretion

                165. it was June 25
                  and the screen in the elevator
                  displayed the Beatles
                  on a program, “Our World Live”
                  they sang, “All You Need is Love”
                  it was a magical moment in elevator history

                  outside the elevator
                  the world was riddled with greed,
                  corruption, six-strings short a string or two

                166. Jackson Pollock
                  got off his ladder
                  as I stepped into
                  the express elevator
                  Bourbon and house paint
                  dripping from the ceiling
                  He just smiled, saying …
                  “Painting is a state of being.”
                  The Eggman was playing
                  with Lucy in disguise
                  as I changed the radio station
                  to hear Bob Dylan singing …

                  “Oh, the tree of life is growing
                  where the spirit never dies.
                  And the bright light of salvation
                  shines In dark and empty skies.
                  When the cities are on fire
                  with the burning flesh of men
                  just remember
                  that death is not the end
                  And you search in vain to find
                  just one law-abiding citizen
                  just remember
                  that death is not the end.”

                  Then, as the elevator
                  got to the penthouse,
                  the cable snapped
                  like a clap of thunder
                  And out from the speaker
                  came, “Hey Jude
                  … twist and shout!”
                  I can still hear
                  Jackson Pollock
                  roaring with laughter

                167. management often frowns on having a ladder
                  in the elevator
                  the trap-door can pose a risk
                  whether for good reason
                  or for none
                  ladders use the stairs

                  for $20 Edith Sitwell would recite poetry
                  in your stairwell
                  baggy words, bulky words
                  words easily forgotten

                  regurgitated paintings
                  are often upsetting
                  literally and figuratively

                  regurgitated people are common
                  you can easily find them purchasing lottery tickets

                168. I have a theory
                  Jackson Pollock
                  that crazy joker
                  had sabotaged the elevator
                  with his paint splashed ladder
                  It certainly discouraged me
                  from using
                  high brow elevated words
                  All highfalutin
                  Now I’m happy to be
                  as common as socks
                  made from space cotton
                  A low brow
                  working class punk
                  Thank you
                  Jackson Pollock

                169. no one mentions the dead body
                  on the top of the elevator
                  or the fingerprints on the ladder
                  who could question the status of the corpse ?
                  the sins in the heart and the sorrows in the mind
                  were they really gone ?

                  the poet feels gigantic
                  the dwarf strapped to his leg
                  brute nature with no release

                170. Captain Spandex
                  the Stock Market Dwarf
                  takes full advantage
                  of his elevated position
                  Snorting powdered appendage
                  upon the casting couch
                  Shedding his reptilian skin
                  Survival of the shortest
                  A new religion
                  of naked greed
                  in black velvet wrapping
                  Neo-Goths of anti-christ
                  in the shopping malls
                  The common denominator
                  is now King Crimson
                  Joining the Resistance
                  is the best opinion
                  The Eternal Radical
                  the Poet
                  the Artist
                  Children of a revolution
                  where the first will be last
                  Forget the white flag
                  of medicated sorrow
                  Those never healing scars
                  of an unforgiving past
                  Freedom is the promise
                  of a victorious
                  and rebellious tomorrow
                  This I know to be true
                  To find the way
                  One must first follow
                  The climb is well worth the view

                  “Behold, I make all things brand new.”

                171. living in a world where the hero
                  is forced to reproduce
                  the hero being a virgin angel
                  and every female a prostitute
                  the hero cried before and after
                  each crucial experience
                  authenticity and originality
                  so near the sewer

                  the acting out of the encounter
                  was a hit on television
                  the instrument of the hero
                  was a masterpiece of the heavens
                  HE had always guarded against
                  putting too much of HIMSELF
                  on the creatures

                172. Pablo Picasso
                  had the penis of a Minotaur.
                  His paint brush
                  a weapon
                  in the hands of a Matador.
                  His art fed
                  upon the flesh of women
                  reduced to abstraction.
                  Seduced by his hypnotic stare,
                  their Picasso encounter
                  producing masterpieces
                  yet psychologically damaging.
                  “Creation is destruction.”
                  … Pablo is forever saying.

                173. poetry workshop started today
                  with the language of promise
                  and then moved toward the fulfillment
                  of that promise
                  perhaps ordinary people
                  would have walked away
                  having read that issue
                  of Reader’s Digest

                  undercutting fantasy with mundane reality

                  the drama of the Honeymoon Hotel
                  is the drama of the bride and the groom
                  possibly other spectators

                  TRUCKSTOP PAY-PER-VIEW

                  Satan says, “I can trace the sexual phenomenon
                  back to its origin”

                174. Satan’s love-hate relationship
                  with sex
                  is based on an all consuming
                  hatred of sexual beings
                  A burning sensation
                  resulting in much scratching
                  of the engorged never regions
                  the writing
                  of epic literature
                  And the spawning
                  of guilt ridden religions

                  Getting back to the beginning
                  It was all good

                  Guilt has no place
                  in a celestial happy ending

                  The truck driver
                  High on meth
                  Grinding the gears
                  That white line fever
                  Living the death
                  Polluted breath
                  Mechanism jism
                  The cold hard shiver
                  of a broken axle
                  Hitting a pothole
                  To greet and meat
                  That bitter sweet
                  Thrill of the Kill
                  Taste of defeat
                  The devil is sitting
                  In the driver’s seat
                  When hatred and fear
                  Are put to the heat
                  And given full throttle

                175. Tell the workers shopping poetry
                  that the ghost of Shirley Temple
                  says a friendly Howdy. And she’s
                  looking forward to visiting them
                  … personally.

                  Looking for inspiration?
                  Just smell the perspiration, and
                  yesterday’s sperm, emenating from
                  the couch of Harvey Weinstein.
                  Shirley T. tells a story most odd.
                  She was to be the Dorothy in the
                  Wizard of Oz, but because she
                  refused to cast her goods on the
                  couch, they gave the gig to a
                  giggling willing Judy Garland.
                  Judy’s mum made the arrangement.

                176. ——————————–SATAN————————-
                  does he have a penis ?
                  a hideous object ?
                  a nasty scar where it was removed ?
                  does it leak a poisonous substance ?
                  did he rape the Virgin Mary ?

                  modern man removes his penis
                  to drive his automobile

                  the poet writes about penis odor
                  psychically induced penis odor

                  memories of actualized words
                  dicks from the dictionary

                  at some point
                  you will receive a farewell letter
                  from the penis in your life

                177. The Virgin Mary
                  gave her testimony
                  to a hung jury.
                  An adjournment was called,
                  so they all snuck out
                  to Starbucks for coffee.

                  Meanwhile …
                  my penis told me,
                  In a farewell letter
                  sent from Paris,
                  that he’s allergic to satan juice,
                  and anything furry.
                  He was last seen
                  in the Louvre,
                  where all the big nobs hang out.
                  I miss him desperately.

                178. If you see me comin’
                  And you’re standing there
                  Wave your handkerchief
                  In the air
                  I ain’t dead yet
                  My bell still rings
                  I keep my fingers crossed
                  Like them early Roman kings

                  ~Bob Dylan

                179. Satan suffering
                  from a heavy metal dose
                  of penis envy
                  Such a sad blight
                  for an angel of light
                  with no penis in sight
                  But with groupies aplenty
                  all willing and ready

                180. natural urges in a particular person
                  may run counter
                  help us if the disordered come to town
                  those in short pants, long pants
                  those disordered in no pants
                  constantly talking about Mick Jagger
                  about the size of his fingers
                  his ventilated underpants
                  constantly thinking about Mick Jagger
                  the number of phone calls it took
                  to locate socks made from cotton
                  grown in outer space
                  a barn full of children
                  each one squeezed from his stick
                  Jagger DNA 100% verified multiple times
                  yes, natural urges in a particular person
                  may run counter

                181. Honky Tonk women
                  run from Darth Vader
                  with his Jabberwocky
                  squirting brown sugar
                  Mick Jagger’s tumbling vice
                  stoned and rolling the dice
                  all over the vagina
                  of Mother Nature
                  The pleasure principle
                  it can be naughty
                  it can be nice
                  Mick can afford $700
                  space cotton sock
                  But can a bleeding heart
                  ever pay the price

                182. prior to the reconstruction of The Stones
                  Mick and the boys lived in the same neighborhood

                  fame turned Mick into a giant maw
                  that threatened to crush the band
                  with his platinum jaws

                  at various times he would go solo
                  and crash and burn

                  Mick: he who paralyzes and suffocates
                  the center of a progressive deterioration

                  all children within a 50 mile radius
                  came from his seed
                  no fertile woman was safe

                183. I didn’t get up to dance
                  like a zombie
                  having an epileptic fit
                  When Mick
                  and David Bowie
                  were dancing in the street
                  For that Major Tom
                  I simply lost all respect
                  Ashes for a funky junky
                  addicted to fame and miney
                  But never Ziggy Stardust
                  Post-modern civilisation
                  will rise and fall
                  with Aladdin Sane
                  So please tell
                  the Thin White Duke
                  that all is forgiven

                184. In the beginning
                  Brian Jones was the leader
                  of the Rolling Stoners
                  Brian Jones
                  was the bipolar innovator
                  He was more popular
                  with the woman
                  than the Glitter Twins
                  Keith Richards and Mick Jagger
                  They wrote Let it Bleed
                  then told Brian it was all over
                  He was soon replaced
                  by Mick Taylor the Blues Breaker
                  Dylan even had a twist
                  of the dagger
                  But Bob had an alibi
                  for Brian’s misadventure
                  Those wet footprints led
                  from the Brian’s swimming pool
                  to the house of Mick Jagger

                  Although he was originally the leader of the group, Jones’s fellow band members Mick Jagger and Keith Richards soon overshadowed him, especially after they became a successful songwriting team. He also was the one that the ladies fancied in those early years, making him an unwelcomed rival of Mick’s in that area.

                  It was the news that sent shock waves through the rock world. On July 3, 1969, former Rolling Stone guitar player Brian Jones was found dead at his home at Cotchford Farm.

                  At the time of his passing, Jones’ life was in the midst of a severe upheaval. The year before, he’d been arrested for the second time for possession of cannabis, which further exacerbated tensions he’d been having with his band mates. On top of that, it seemed to many that his heart just wasn’t in to being a Rolling Stone anymore.

                  While recording went on for the band’s next album, Let it Bleed, Jones’ contributions remained minimal, adding only percussion to “Midnight Rambler” and an autoharp section to “You Got the Silver.” Combined with his spiraling substance abuse problems as well as his overall erratic behavior, the group collectively decided it was time to show him the door.

                  “It had come to a head and Mick and I had been down to Winnie-the-Pooh’s house,” Keith Richards wrote in his autobiography, referring to Jones’ estate, which at one time belonged to Pooh author A.A. Milne. “Mick and I didn’t fancy the gig, but we drove down together and said, ‘Hey, Brian…It’s all over pal.’” Jones was  replaced in the band by a former member of John Mayall‘s illustrious Bluesbreakers outfit, Mick Taylor

                  Btian Jones was clearly bipolar and , althought he was brutal to woman, was very sensitive. One night at Max’s Kansas City, Dylan and his road manager, Bob Neuwirth, insulted The Rolling Stones’ Brian Jones until Jones broke down in tears.

                185. discard some old acquaintances
                  adopt some youthful companions

                  learning to not hate modern music

                  shining a flashlight
                  on the dark edge of sex
                  hour after hour
                  with no apology
                  confrontational obscenity

                  when Mick would take charge on Sunday
                  he would preach the Gospel of Commercialism
                  “take the path that leads to the bank vault”

                  poets often spoke of Jackson Pollock
                  rumors about those who survived the crash
                  when the papers claimed there was only one

                  older folks may not offer as many choices
                  or a wide range of flexibility
                  but they easily provide
                  a greater depth of field

                186. The wisdom of age
                  Raging youth
                  A wild beast
                  locked up in a cage
                  The art of existence
                  Climax conciousness
                  That celestial release
                  Dying slow
                  Living fast
                  The past is a light show
                  The future a blast

                187. Bob Dylan was singing about women
                  who produced babies every two hours
                  seems like he was collecting them
                  females were clipping photographs
                  of Bob Dylan and making collages
                  every time they dropped a baby
                  they added another photograph

                  somewhere another mile of highway
                  begs to be named

                188. Sperm donors screened
                  for the RocknRolla virus
                  Guy Ritchie failed the test
                  according to Madonna
                  But it was so hard to please her
                  after a bad case of Tequila
                  Bob Dylan’s children
                  all sword to silence
                  One too many lovers
                  left a thousand miles behind
                  Miley Cyrus
                  is a know carrier
                  of the RocknRolla virus
                  Day and night
                  she twerks it
                  outs of her arse
                  A standing ovulation
                  at every concert

                189. perhaps, Mick Jagger left fingerprints
                  on the primordial cell
                  in passive states
                  he watched himself rob bird nests
                  he took eggs, baby chicks
                  he raped innocence
                  the curved expanse of his existence
                  knew no karma
                  no companionship
                  people were just cheap tambourines

                190. N E C E S S I T A T E

                  an endless cycle of tasks
                  no time for Mick Jagger
                  or Miley Cyrus
                  received ideas
                  are left in the poop pile
                  dissolving in the long night
                  hunger as talkative
                  as a drunk on meth

                191. at what point did Mick Jagger
                  realize that he was no longer a work in progress ?
                  that he had served his work’s declared purpose

                  wives and children with outstretched hands
                  in need of coins and paper money

                192. The harem
                  of the Willing
                  for the Golden God
                  of Rock ‘n’ Roll
                  A primal orchestration
                  with lights flashing
                  by the pouting lips
                  of lyrical fornication
                  The spiralling amplification
                  a thundering orgasm
                  The smell of teen spirit
                  A tribal initiation
                  The guest of honour
                  at the grand feast
                  The High Priest
                  of teenage rage
                  with his rolling rocks
                  The beast
                  beyond burden
                  in his space cotton socks

                  less than attractive people become snacks

                  one generation mates with another
                  the texture of skin becomes an issue

                  after three weeks the library discards books
                  one week longer than necessary

                  new words for a new day

                194. Jackson Pollock
                  caused a scene
                  drinking house paint
                  and Kentucky Bourbon
                  when in a whisper
                  he said that
                  Michael Jackson’s mother
                  was not his lover
                  and that King of Pop
                  was not his son
                  So forget your daughter
                  Janet … and La Toya
                  Better lock up your son
                  Love in an elevator
                  with a monster predator
                  is no thriller
                  And certainly not much fun
                  So just beat it
                  Billy Jean
                  Propofol has got
                  The King of Pop on the run

                195. even now
                  time melts into imaginative time
                  intelligent people base time on:
                  (+) the Fall
                  (+) the Flood

                  how many women were made before Eve ?
                  how long did it take for Adam to frown ?
                  was there a goodbye ?

                  the poet asks Eve her earliest memory
                  she had no parents
                  no prior womenfolk
                  no reminiscence

                196. The Messianic as anything Rabbi
                  And Crusader Rabbit both tell me
                  That Genesis is Hebrew poetry
                  Not a science manual
                  For that path leads to insanity
                  Misconceptions and deceptions
                  Children demanding explanations
                  With or without proof
                  Too tender and too young
                  To handle the heavy metal truth
                  Angels and demons
                  Powers and principalities
                  Heaven and hell
                  All under one jam packed roof
                  Thank God for Jesus 😇
                  He maketh me bullet proof 😎

                197. Time standing still
                  (×) The Fall
                  (÷) The Flood
                  (~) Crucifixion
                  (%) Resurrection

                  Running down the clock
                  Watching from the mainframe
                  Where beginnings
                  And endings are all the same
                  In the Garden of Creation
                  Love is the name of the game

                198. a common language
                  geographically and historically
                  people full of mud

                  mud in the commode
                  mud in the urinal

                  one race continuously undermines

                  skeptical church goers
                  pessimistic about Christ
                  unhealthy respect
                  for a bootleg Ark

                199. Scratching in the dark
                  for evidence of Noah’s Ark

                  Faith is a spiritual substance
                  The evidence of things unseen

                  In the darkness
                  there is ever a spark

                  The blind leading the blind
                  down a penny arcade
                  through a shooting gallery
                  of substance abuse
                  to a horror movie scene

                200. Noah and his Ark
                  the Rabbi reminded everyone
                  that no one knows how many men named Noah
                  constructed an ark
                  every zip code had an Ark
                  due to lack of interest
                  Kentucky only had two Arks

                  stolen booze
                  left a bitter taste
                  five aspirins and a prayer
                  women walked around covered
                  with large stretches of fabric
                  their boobs bordered
                  with flowers

                  one nice thing
                  there was a trace
                  of expensive cologne
                  Noah was no thumb-twiddler
                  he was an active pinto bean man

                  murder was everywhere 24/7
                  every waistband had a gun
                  saliva wet chins
                  an OB-GYN

                  living buttoned-down
                  a non-resident

                202. Go west young man
                  if you want to fight the law
                  and you’re quick on the draw
                  Out in the frontier of existence
                  I’ll make my stand

                  back in the year one
                  When you belonged to no one
                  You didn’t stand a chance, son
                  If your pants were undone

                  ‘Cause you were bred,
                  for humanity
                  And sold to society
                  One day you’ll wake up,
                  in the present day
                  A million generations
                  removed from expectations
                  Of being who you
                  really want to be

                  Skating away,
                  on the thin ice of the new day

                  So as you push off from the shore
                  Won’t you turn your head once more
                  And make your peace with everyone
                  For those who choose to stay
                  Will live just one more day
                  To do the things
                  they should’ve done
                  And as you cross the wilderness
                  Spinning in your emptiness
                  If you have to, pray
                  Looking for a sign,
                  that the universal minds
                  Has written you
                  into the passion play

                  Skating away,
                  On the thin ice of the new day

                  And as you cross the circle line
                  Well, the ice wall creaks behind
                  You’re a rabbit on the run
                  And the silver splinters fly
                  In the corner of your eye
                  Shining in the setting sun
                  Well, do you ever get the feeling
                  That the story’s too damn real
                  And in the present tense?
                  Or that everybody’s on the stage
                  And it seems like you’re the only
                  Person sitting in the audience?

                  Skating away,
                  on the thin ice of the new day 🎶

                  ~ Jethro Tull

                203. active pinto bean action—fresh squeezed—backseat blasters

                  the local school pumped out countless killers
                  students wore clothing stained with blood
                  constant coffee with exotic liqueurs
                  30 year old discolored diet pills

  12. There is smoke
    on the water
    down here in Australia.
    With fire in the sky
    wildlife running for shelter.
    The storm is too fast
    and most will die.
    Tourists are fleeing.
    in a summer swelter.
    Happy holidays
    all up in flames.
    People are dying
    trying to save their farms.
    A black cloud now stretches
    from here to New Zealand.
    A funeral shroud
    now covers
    this sunburnt land.

  13. Married with Children was my favourite American sitcom
    back when The Bill Cosby Show
    was drugging women
    Al Bundy became the Anti-hero
    for all the shoe sales men
    chained to their dead-end jobs
    under the debris of ground zero

    “A working class hero
    is something to be.
    Keep you doped with religion
    and sex and TV.
    And you think you’re so clever
    and classless and free.
    But you’re still fucking peasants
    as far as I can see.”
    ~ John Lennon

  14. Embedded deep in the soul
    That Rebel Yell
    That need to let go
    As I like to go-go the psycho
    But as hard as I try
    To kiss the deep blue sky
    I end up with heavy metal vertigo
    The word I’ve heard
    Is you’ve been bold
    But flying high is for the birds
    ~ Fred Switchcock

      1. A sign of the times
        Mad priest
        Lingerie nun
        stalking the catwalk
        at the House of the Rising Sun
        Tribes of desolation
        A virus of madness rising
        has been said and done
        Is there a choice?
        An unpaid invoice is coming

        1. nervous about the unpaid invoice
          born in sin
          carried over from Father
          sperm donating impurity
          not innocence
          seed like a swarm of hornets

          the stings of passion

          1. The sins of the father
            from stairway to ladder
            got left in the basement
            of Mick Jagger’s apartment

            As the reluctant passenger
            is now pushing buttons
            in the express elevator
            at the Trump Golden Tower

            Desire is a virus
            where passion
            is the master
            Hornets in motion
            Love without truth
            just a passionate emotion
            Truth without love
            a brutal father
            of a broken son
            The truth is
            the time is right
            for a love resurrection

  15. daily relations are reduced to the most elemental
    poets wait in line for a glimpse of transient beauty
    painters intoxicated by healthy young firm breasts
    forget those pillowcases of mashed potatoes
    those prickly cactus nipples

    orientation is the main goal of poetry

    white people do not understand negro spirituals
    white people fake everything negro related

    1. tourists drown in the current of perversity
      bruised heads, heads with horns
      victory over Satan
      victory over Leviathan
      the tree of life returned
      the river of life returned
      lost direction
      and loneliness gone

      Adam standing tall
      Christ standing tall
      the reign of law
      a waterfall from Mount Sinai

      1. like bad science fiction
        tourists drown thirsty

        like a Thanksgiving turkey
        all exposed before Death

        God is unknowable
        and inaccessible

        at best, all that is known
        possibly ventriloquized

  16. Cannibals of imperialism
    and their guilt ridden children

    The black armband of history
    this never story
    a course of poetic inspiration.
    The lust for forbidden honey
    and the love of money
    has made slaves
    of of every generation
    since the Garden of Eden

    A request from the jury bench,
    let’s get on with this hanging
    … and stop making sense!

    “Well, that big dump blond
    With her wheel in the gorge
    Turtle, that friend of theirs
    With his checks all forged
    And his cheeks in a chunk
    With his cheese in the cash
    They’re all gonna be there
    At that million dollar bash
    Ooh, baby, ooh-ee
    It’s that million dollar bash
    Everybody from right now
    Go ever there and back
    The louder they come
    The bigger they crack
    Come now, sweet cream
    Don’t forget to flash
    We’re all gonna meet
    At that million dollar bash
    Ooh, baby, ooh-ee
    It’s that million dollar bash
    Well, I took my counselor
    Out to the barn
    Silly Nelly was there
    She told me a yarn
    Then along came Jones
    Emptied the trash
    Everybody went down
    To that million dollar bash
    Ooh, baby, ooh-ee
    It’s that million dollar bash
    Well, I’m hittin’ it too hard
    My stones won’t take
    I’m get up in the mornin’
    But it’s too early to wake
    First it’s hello, goodbye
    Then push and then crash
    But we’re all gonna make it
    At that million dollar bash
    Ooh, baby, ooh-ee
    It’s that million dollar bash
    Well, I looked at my watch
    I looked at my wrist
    Punched myself in the face
    With my fist
    I took my potatoes
    Down to be mashed
    Then I made it over to
    That million dollar bash
    Ooh, baby, ooh-ee
    It’s that million dollar bash.”
    ~ Bob Dylan

    1. way down on the chain of being
      so far down
      God hides in a cloud
      ————–it is my own weakness
      the weakness that the Fall has produced
      God is not only invisible
      God is inaudible

      1. That still small voice
        is ever calling
        beyond all the static
        of man-made religion
        And worldly distraction
        What no man living
        what no eye has seen
        and no ear heard
        that which art in heaven
        Christ is
        the visible manifestation
        of the invisible God
        He is the key of freedom

        “See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition
        and the elemental spiritual forces
        of this world rather than on Christ.”
        ~ Paul of Tarsus

  17. marriage demands an aura of intimacy
    every minute is a confessional minute
    correct responses guarantee access
    possibly guarantee

    articulate XXX
    the difference between the present
    and the past can be measured in inches
    who knew it would shrink ?

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