In The Garden of All Things Fair

In The Garden of All Things Fair
Collected Verse

In The Garden of All Things Fair

Hail Lord! who is the sun pulling his load
Of gold and straps of gilded leather arched
Across the sky – Mio Deo from the road –
Where hounds and summer’s grey squirrels lurch;

The moon has since departed, leaves its runes
Across my dreaming mind in equal parts,
And still I think of shadows on far dunes,
As temples ope their doors and praying starts,

And still the emptiness envelopes me,
Although I’m walking in the garden now,
Beholding bill-some cups of coffee, tea,
Wherefore a separate pallor decks my brow.

Here in The Garden of All Things Fair reside
Bold beasts and myriad plants; then grooms and brides
Enliven yonder silken shore with pride,
As clap the cryptic sounds of carriage rides,

Whereas this tired rhymer gives complaint,
Yea, even in the fairest garden pass,
Because she hath not met her patron saint
And wanders wondering to every class;

But that the world is vast, times do not last,
And ghosts beleaguer all souls sentient,
Reminding them with salt to tease their taste,
Of how their diverse living hours are spent.

There are clothes to wear; The Garden of All Things Fair
Provides the thread to carry men along;
And singing birds adorn the vibrant air,
In being natural, cannot be wrong.

Have ye seen this garden? Bless ye worthy souls!
And bless your feet, hands, heads, earlobes and toes,
Who’ve looked at these stone bells and chilly bowls,
Who’ve marked these tender plots where wisdom grows!

Early Lessons

I need to chop zucchini, peppers, and onions,
Spoon out the viscous sauce of tomato
In a gingerbread house of pure, solid gold,
Tapping my fingers on the countertop in a timely way;

Lessons are onions or delicious red apples,
I lick my chops or sorely cry,
Though the world is such that nothing else
Can give a comparable salary.

’Tis six. I should think of salt and celery,
Then tossing sable arrogantly on white,
Achieving recipes at school of modest worth
But never lacking wit or inky reason.

On this floor I tread. Books make me sagacious!
Unless I throw them down, join the circus wistfully.
Time is omnivorous and all-consuming,
But still we eat oranges and compose family dinner.

Grace

We value sweet simplicity,
And made-to-flourish honesty,
That go long miles with mastery,
Can thresh out heaps of ecstasy,

So bless us at this table round,
And every child who cannot eat,
In sickness or in indigence,
For we do pray and think of them!

More Grace

Grace, love, faith, truth,
Integrity and passion proud,
These stick to thee like beetles – sooth!
And make the Holy loud.

A Grim Complaint

Is the net a BOG?
Do they catch fish in nets?
Compadre, ça revient!
Is the net a hooker bar?
I’d like to have a home in Zanzibar
Followed blithely by a star.
It is the best info center
For girls named Joan and (delete) Heather.
I’d read an article everyday
About May beetles, and
Technology in Taipei,
But I am sad, sad anyway.

Pet

O tortoise moans and tortoise groans,
He moves about on prickly toes,
Nor does he like it when it snows,
Prefers, instead, to keep alone.

Such splendor in this tortoise vast,
And in his creased and patterned shell!
He looks like both a cap and bell,
Zigzagging – shall he finish last?

Men make thee soup. I want no soup,
But find it most remarkable,
A beast can be abused and able,
When sands are home. Toward thee I stoop.

Strawberries? He’ll take fresh strawberries,
And watermelon cut in luscious parts,
To chomp them down in bits and starts,
A pleasure prim before he marries!

The Old Man and the Apple

On his reptilian soul, he felt his heart,
Though little warmth there was,
All that he had from elsewhere gleaned,
In seedy joints, in holes,

And what the lettuce, this the sort,
The dew of maiden’s skin,
Nor would he ever learn to stop,
Nor ever say a prayer,

But on he walked and walked, a beast,
Devoid of feelings kind,
Not liking wife or home or truth,
A deceitful man – reptilian.

He’ll ejaculate a curse or bullet,
Abduct a kid and drool,
Hide in his coat a swathe of scales,
Far yet to go – alas!

Monsieur’s Revenge

He blames her for the gizzard gruel,
And the rice that was too wet;
She takes it from him strappingly,
His deepest thoughts to guess.

Doth the husband go and go away,
To take it out on her;
In a pet, he leaves his blushing bride
For finer company.

Oh, he doth do so much vagrant wrong,
With wine and whores and song!
More wrong does this bloke generate,
Than many hurricanes,

Finds tabby cats and screws them well,
Ah, better than she cooks,
Or lays their children down herself
To sleep through stormy nights!

This is Monsieur’s precise revenge,
And he does not suspect
That I am writing pleasant poems
About his verve for vice.

Cup of Worry, Cup of Woe

I sipped from a violet cup
And kept a pansy by,
A drop of dew upon my cheek,
A blush, a pinch of sand,

Brew slipped across my tongue
The warmth of which did please,
But more, a childish patter
Of soft and sandled feet,

While petals fell from boughs
As lightly as pure snow,
From pear trees, side to side,
Quite free from tawdry taint.

I liked the season, place,
The company and time,
But elsewhere, gone this harmony,
Somewhere – breathe I this sigh.

The Pear Tree’s Fruit

Good, firm and fleshy fruit
Smells fragrantly at night,
Moves gently in the wind,
And lets the tomcat though,

The nut brown tomcat whining
For sweet hours sweetly played
Upon the branch with kiddies,
And shaken all the pears.

From blushing meadows coming
In prowess and in glee,
The hot cat foots it carefully
Lest the farmer couple wakes,

To pick and gnaw quite daintily,
To nibble and to nudge
The ripened pears and blossoms too
Till chastity, thwarted, drops.

The Dog

Good hound, you howl for a friendly pat
Upon your shaggy back,
And sit up in your little bed,
And eat my every word,

Prepared to walk across the glade,
On sidewalks bare and cracked,
With tinkling collar, and padded foot,
And a nose as black as flies,

For little; but ’tis very much,
Togetherness, comfort, joy,
Like brotherhood, but attentiveness
Is lacking on your side.

’Tis much to see you, feed you, work,
’Neath the elm tree canopy,
As twilight spreads its artwork out,
All woven for our sake,

O wolf, O fiend, O foe and friend,
Companion, fire-hearted beast!
We’ll stroll until that crested hill,
Six-footed, there repose.

Elephant

How long thy trunk is, gorgeous thing!
This grey becomes thee, this the look,
Yes verily, yes honestly,
How mighty is thy form!

I do not mind thy crevices,
Or are they pensive wrinkles? Nay!
I fancy thou wouldst eat sweet peas,
Or peanuts with violets, ho!

Already my brow is clammy, darling,
And my neckline waxes spinach green,
For have I been stepped on, naturally,
And my trust disheveled, quite.

The tea thou drinkest is from dirt,
On which thou lately came and went,
So if you deign to kiss me wet,
My eyes bleed sere and dry.

Ah, mighty elephant, elephant, elephant,
Circumference around me at my side,
With wants and will and wreaths of holly,
Precision in thy phallic thrust.

My Father Hath a Lion’s Face

At the silver mirror I look,
In morning, softly gaze,
As the birdies sing them sweetly,
And click their thirsty tongues,

To see what business there
Hath fickle-footed age,
The teardrop and the speck of dirt,
The red eye and the pillow crease.

I did not see myself that once,
As I recall, for really,
A lion stood and stared at me
Through mirror glow and lurid sheen,

Showed me his paw, his hefty paw,
And face ringed round by hair
More lush and lengthy than my own,
An eye that blazed with fire.

So, startled, I did palpitate,
In heart and fleeting blink,
Whilst on my couch of satin cloth
I simply had to sink,

And thinking on this fatherly
And frightening image bold,
I put my hand up to my eyes,
In grim and deep denial.

My father hath a lion’s face,
I mused; so, mouthing words,
Fell to contemplation quietly,
And called it all a dream;

Whereat the birdies sat to sing
Upon the old oak tree
And bobbed and bowed their tufty heads,
Full reverent in their choir.

Ode to Solidarity

O let us stop to talk of sisterhood,
As fair Aurora spreads her fingers high,
That every bird, from lark to redbreast, fly,
Whilst here we congregate in cloak and hood,
Having found our frequent groove,
By which we talk till all our throats are dry.

Most beautiful Alicia, who hath wit,
To make a gossip monger flinch and more!
White Catherine, starry-eyed, and Elinore,
And Kay who doth protest that time is fleet!
Sweet ladies, now we meet,
Remembering most our vows with handshakes four.

Around the garden, sparrows choir up,
For thus I hear them sing their hearts aloud,
And it makes me mighty comfortable and proud,
That we’ll have aught to say till we can sup,
And drink wine from a cup,
With clang and clatter, all around.

What keeps us thoroughly is politics,
Economy and works of intellect,
Vague social lore and manners derelict,
Of ruffians and brutes who flaunt their wick,
And fain would break our neck,
For so few men are there of quality!

Then let us hide within our clothes, not swords,
Of mortal make, but sound connivings, mehr,
Still musing as our fancy climbs the stair
Of truth and victory as lush as Lourdes:
The future, lay it bare,
And wrangle it for God’s angelic hordes!

O Artemis beneath thy diadem,
Who Acteon slew – O nymphs and goddesses
Who once were worshipped for their prowesses,
Might we confer thy grace to Christendom,
So goodness last the longest,
And friends climb higher as we follow them!

Fair company, the apple bloom has petals five,
So swirl our thoughts with several different goals,
And dutifully proceed, and seldom fold,
Collecting richness for our honeyed hive,
Quite pure and redolent of gold,
On longer into years that stir and thrive.

Doe-eyed companions on the grassy lawn,
Where dew diffracts soft colors light and pale,
Dance tenderly, dance, wait for luncheon ale,
Unshamed by lifted voice or easy brawn;
For lovely is the vale,
And forward wend our prospects, on and on.

Ode to the Violet

Now, bat thy eyes, Viola, show thy tongue,
Let blush o’erwhelm thy cheeks from ear to ear,
Cast up thy gaze and dwell the clouds among,
Hold tighter thy sweet bodice, never fear;
But hot the sun has risen,
And his hottest words come near,
Whereat the slightest move is judged as treason,
And a lustful lad doth lose his better reason.

Where are the candies, thou might soon protest,
The bulls and balls and apples? Where’s the teat?
Where’s the hand which in the morning tied thy vest?
The bottles, snacks, and banter? Where the treat?
Cold, cold, art this villain’s eyes,
And he writhes upon his seat:
A son of Satan bred among the flies
Of a dismal nation void of lullabies!

If thou dost see a lizard, bite thy lip,
His scales are sultry and he pampers them,
Where warmth’s the very corner of thy hip,
Or lips, that must not e’er admonish them.
O tender babe, pink rose,
A beast hath caught thy hem!
And he would see thee in thy youthful throes,
Before the night is up or longing goes!

Small jewel, plush toy, ah, pale-complexioned pauper,
Gardenia which the night discloses, bug,
Clutch quick thy bosom – wouldst thou travel rather,
Than be in quandary, with this, thy thug,
As crickets rub their legs,
Tell thee ’tis time to hug,
And – lost the starlet, who had lately sung.

A Battery of Pigs

A rough year, of work and play, childbirth,
Death, mah jong, toil and sweat, a fire
To cook good meals of rice, meat, garlic, chives,
In the kitchen warm and close that knows no dearth,
Annexed to herb and vegetable gardens rigged with wire,
O blessed be our quiet country lives!
Rain that drenches earth and sun,
Wind swaying gently trees with sumptuous fruit,
A turn of weather here and there, gains won,
Allows a man to live and sew his boots,
Mate whom he loves and treasure her besides,
If conscience gives but one, not several brides.

We’d like to think that what we eat is clean,
As harmless as boiled rice or thrice washed kale,
Roast duck, sweet sauce, and slivered onions green,
For the better health of us, or be too lean;
Here for our pleasures: plum wine, juice, and ale,
Cool beverages for thirst, and shade for skin,
A hovel or a home, but not ill luck!
Deep sickness kills and thieves are not our kin;
So let wise governance prevent more muck!
Pollutants in the air from smoke and coal
Degrade the modern world while taking toll.

What plague mysterious did slay these pigs,
One thousand strong, and send them floating south,
Putrid and vile, mid-swollen, intact but bane,
A problem meant to rot with many things,
Contaminating water, then the mouth,
Creating worms that drive a merry man insane?
So what lies next is blurry, wicked, sick,
Portends our downfall by unholy breach,
That here I sit and write by candle wick,
Till draining hours drear, my mind will leech
And make me want to crawl toward sweet repose,
Hold fast my dreaming wife and heat my toes.

But evil brew in water, ground, and air,
Stirs large unrest and madness makes around!
Where tables once were fair and rivers too,
Now dirty, so, and people do not care.
I do not want that pork, not pound for pound,
Or be myself referenced to a zoo,
Unfit to toil – a poisoned cripple, lo!
I would it were not so, that the land stay grim,
Dispel lives quick when we would have them slow,
But with this cart, it oft is sink or swim.
So I will hoe and plant and sow what I must sow,
Relying on the sun and water flow.

To hold my children, feed them, toss and turn,
For all the tricks of fate that I must fear,
Find love and have it twice or multiply,
Exchange my wisdom for a molded urn,
These can I keep forsooth: for well a year
Plan all my plans and never tell a lie.
How much I envy, though, blue skies, not gray,
Clean foods so we shan’t have to die,
Simplicity that’s smart, ideas that pay,
That all of us, like doves, be left to fly.
Kind goods, secure our lives beneath this thatch!
Breathe thoughts that we these thoughts might hatch.

If I Had Seven Sons or a Son at Seven: Ode to a Baby Lying In a Pipe

I say he might be Cupid born for love,
Or Samson destined for the saving sword,
A hero or a saint, a man of tact,
Great worth and ownership, quite like a lord.
But this unhappy pile, full better ways behoove,
For this poor child is blue – chill for a fact!
Man rids himself of hungry mouths like flies,
That breathe then die,
More interested perhaps in making cash,
Or drugs or solid silver for his stash.

Like young Narcissus drowned, this boy’s a fish,
Embedded in a pipe, of washroom lore,
Whose eyes are slits as black as outer space,
Who looks stone dead – but he doth snore!
So small is he, one could lay him on a dish,
Or match a clover to his tiny face.
White rabbit, thou must learn to drink,
Then haply think,
Deserving some bright future much like mine,
A room to read and leap up like a vine.

Anchovy, eel, a whiting from the womb,
Limp biscuit, jelly roll, thou duck boudin,
Sweet son of several souls, God bless thy limbs!
One day you’ll bounce a ball straight down some line,
Or like Confucius, pen a mighty tome,
Or own a shingled house set round with chimes.
Now, like the number seven, thou art built
All head and silk;
So be thy days as holy and as wise
As older folk, without their need for alibis!

Ah, Where, My Foot?

I have to tell thee late-night wickedness
Hath taken off my foot and let it bleed.
I’m raped and dead now – dost thou whist?
Have I been battered lately with man’s seed,
Tripped, beaten, quite deprived of future life,
Stripped down and then disposed of, faith,
Condemned by perfidy to never be a wife,
To starve above the world, a hungry wraith.
My brother does not see me, Mother cries,
Father guards my picture in his trembling hand,
My murderer goes free and is not wise,
My lover hath not bought a wedding band.
I had a house where I read happily,
But man hath done me in distastefully.

Carina Saunders

Why do you bleed? Why do your brown eyes shut?
Who struck your ivory breasts, what incident?
Why were you tied and treated like a slut?
Who were those lustful men: so darn indecent?
Alas, your feet were cut two years ago,
In 2011, by a Mustang teacher who sold coke,
While you yourself were murdered wantonly and slow,
A foot sliced off, and tresses left to soak!
I miss Carina Saunders, knew her not,
Forget myself in thinking on her fate,
Tell God on high, a babe’s not born for pot,
Or servitude toward men who come home late:
So much of this pale world condemned in gore,
Where rape is pie and hatred shuts the door!

Pummelade

I expected sweet lemonade at eight o’clock
For which I languished on the crimson couch,
Inspecting my fingernails and flashing rings,
Pondering o’er books, and Christ, and many things.
The clock struck nine; I flexed my perfumed arms,
Picked up a paper and a coffee jar,
Perused the writing line by line in sync
With the words and mighty problems of the day.

The sun fell tremulously to the parquet floor,
The birds adopted some sweet tremolo,
They tornado up for insects and crass worms,
Dip down to spot a nest or summer friend.
The mirror, silver subject, shines around,
A mystic circle where my face has been,
Reflecting cherished items of porcelain,
An ornate clock, a Chinese fisherman.

What things do not look pretty, giving joy?
What things depress when all the world is gay?
I smiled a cycle, thinking of your tepid mouth;
A quarter of an hour passed; I thought of thee;
I’d have you in a trice or in a wink,
In bed or in my head or by the sink,
As the summer bleeds warm berry juice
Into the waiting carafe sets of men.

But you hate me now, my altered Ganymede!
Your cheeks are flushed, the hue of beets
Or savage apples on a blackened stick,
Simply more savage than most, is what you are.
Put me on a shelf or in a jar,
Put me out, but do not pull my hair,
For my nerves are quite susceptible to pain;
O pummel me Sir, again and then again!

Apollo played a lyre, Pan a reedy pipe,
Dionysus sang a sultry tune but Eros bites;
So take me to Elysium sweet wheels
Of chariots, away from this – my foe!
I’ll cover my wounds in Scripture, faithfully,
But do not tell me love is greedy green,
Or I shall have to cauterize my wounds soon.
Lemonade’s pummelade. Scotch! What salve?

The Pastor Ate My Foot

Steamed ham, he watched a show,
Steamed ham, he never told,
The pastor who gave Sunday mass,
Who said he’d sow his seed.
His lust did daily grow,
Alike to Red Star yeast,
Compelled him to cut off my feet,
Then hid them in a sack!
Lard-eater, pastor, I a ghost!
Who’d never been a whore!
The old crow picked his pail of peas,
And ate my foot instead of bread.
Confess, I tell thee now,
His longings hurt me more,
Than that bottle fallen on my head,
Than that fist upon my jowl.
Make soup for thy sons and lasses,
Assume the pastor’s in his sundry passes:
Exit, mead.

Your Blue, Blue Eyes Belie a Hated Heart

O gem-like eyes resembling Nordic fiords,
O Sapphire planets, blue of hyacinths,
Deep, tender wells that never made me bored!
Thou might as well have been two funeral wreaths!
Wreaths funeral bedecked with bees and darts,
Wasteful, not cherished! Precious proud!
Who could have gaged how many stolen hearts,
Or secret nights, or rows, or mischief loud?
Long have I been apostle of that head,
A pilgrim toward that mouth I called my own,
My heart a-beating anthems, quick and red,
Turning all this bod to thee within my gown:
Bawd, villain, player, liar, fart,
Your blue, blue eyes belie a hated heart!

Cain and Able

Both flowers of green Spring and sons of Eve,
Fair ornaments to Eva’s milky breast,
And followers of God, taught to believe
In laws set down ago with holy zest;
The first did vie with Able, who did set
His lamb upon the alter, sweet and pure,
A farmer rancorous he had lost the bet,
Opining that his grains had more allure.
Cain clept his brother, snarling, on his crown,
With scorn enough that Cain did think to spit
Thrice by his head, with vicious, telling frown,
Dissecting love from hatred bit by bit.
The blossom that was Cain proved red,
By making red that white of Able’s head.

A Rainbow Bottle of Tums

Little things to divulge about the private soul
That likes to keep its secrets swept away
In a neat nook with dusty ostrich feathers,
Delightful gems or dinghy devils. I love
The sculpted Lincoln rose that pricks the skin
Oblivious to what the feeling might be or purpose.
I love red satin purses of Chinese stich,
Hung on golden chains of prudish grace. Starlight
Pleases me because it reminds me
Of Maria’s milky complexion and scintillating eyes;
I could encase it in my ribcage and let my
Purple heart of passion beat with steep owl wings.
Verse words over my head and my ears shall grow long
As a fox’s who wants to sabotage a morsel
Or exchange it bitterly for a better bite. Ay, craft loves cake.
Small flags wave for me when Mother folds my hands
In a friendship sandwich which we then fill
With ripe heirloom tomatoes and lettuce leaves,
Fermented bread, dressing and spread of tapenade,
To savor and savor each moment, dropping none,
Exuding fanfare from the pride of our bosom pulse.
Praises nourish me as I preen, I glow like moonlight,
Pour forth silver laughter, liking it and beaming,
Calling my soul sly and catlike, counting dreams.
I do not like black banana smut though,
As I cannot digest it proper.
Ban smut, and give me a green Pease field
Instead, punctuated by swaying poppies of hilarity.
Smile, man, smile!

Dear Musician

Piano, piano, play softly the piano,
Or strum on your guitar,
The moonlight glistening in your hair,
Behind your gentile neck, a star.

I know that you are delicate,
And circumspect as any veteran of sweet love,
Though you are young, and I am young,
But well we’d look in satin gloves,

Drinking champagne from fluted glasses, happy,
A red carnation on your vest.
I shall learn to rock you slow and gently
On the heaving sand dunes of my breast.

Perrot, you have a dashing smile,
That I may kiss and kiss again,
While casting all our clothes into a pile,
While my heart beats like a flying wren.

Avowal

If you’re my friend, then don’t ally
With vulgar whores who are not dry,
For there is no human alibi,
And this rose of faith must surely die.

Keep sensible in all your ways
That you this heart might then amaze,
Through years of happiness and days,
That shroud souls in a blissful haze.

My Pleasure Is in My Love’s Face

My pleasure is in my love’s face,
And do I wish him naught but well,
For he hath been a living grace,
And savior who hath neared my bell;

So fain would I at my love stare,
Admiring both his light and mien,
Till autumn’s trees be stark and bare,
Then spring comes up with verdant sheen;

For he is neither bawd nor vile,
Who keeps his feet from wandering!
Nor does he walk for booze a mile,
On women his bucks squandering!

Fair’s he who hath a gentle eye,
Nor curves it for a wanton face,
E’en sweeter this man’s lips than pie,
And softer than the softest lace.

The Taste of Ecstasy is On My Lips

The taste of ecstasy is on my lips,
And is a potent sort of honey;
It keeps me amorous and gay
Since I have known thee,

Infusing all my senses in one breath,
So keener do I want thee near,
To whisper secrets to thy soul
Or hush thy ear.

One kiss is not a kiss but several more,
Will I need for this love to race,
That has not found thee culpable,
Or me, a chore.

Thrill me with plentitude, take me as wine,
And will I strive to do the same,
Distilling in double, triple want,
Without disdain.

My Heart

My heart is stern but gentle,
Like the wound cords of a ship;
When the ship tosses, I am silent,
But I do have a wit!

Episode of Slap

I do and yet I do smoke,
I do but then I fuck butt,
I will, however, that Will is mine,
So pop that bottle of your wine.

I love, though hussies love I more,
I adore you then run o’er to this:
A door with satin sashes and beer,
Can have my cake and eat it too.

A bow is in your hair, then bow!
A bow has Eros for soft hearts;
So chocolates give I for my gal’s Valentine,
Come late back home, don’t ask me why.

If it shocks you, Hon, to have to wait,
It shocks me more to be sedate;
Now take this slap as messenger,
That I have better passenger.

Episode of Remembrance

How dare you serve me up betrayal,
Or other hairs more fine than mine?
I am a brunette, not a blonde,
A violin and not a clarinet.

You leave me in a lonely box,
Whereas your socks have partners viel,
Spit on my feet, sneer at my locks,
Look for black when light is light.

Words, webs and woven clothes
On white winter nights at home
Are little blessings: scars,
These bars and bills and brittle stars;
More on coffee, ’tis not mud,
More on tea, ’tis not a tease
To swirl these dry leaves round,
Or say my dismal dog has fleas.

Push E

I am an apple girl,
Who keeps her photos good,
Inspiring Recollection
With Spryness understood;

An you have more than One
Of Apples from the tree,
Then get off from my Limb,
It so disturbeth Glee!

Push E into my soul
And get a sharp return,
For these unholy vitamins
Ate Reasoning and Mind.

Thou Art

Thou are the rain, wind, sound, and fleeting fire
Who dost endow my mind with passions rich,
That might I run away and not wax tired
Of satiating dreams about thee for my itch.
So raven-haired and rampant warm, warm, warm,
The man who rows the bottle-bodied boat,
When neither cloud is there nor vagrant storm;
But if brews cloud or storm: thou art a poet.
Thou art a poet in thy head who weaves,
And in thy pants a perfect popinjay;
So takest me into thy metal greaves,
And sing more fine than thou didst sing in May:
For fiery eyes do make a mark on me,
Who feast on looks and notes that follow, seemingly.

Two Squirrels in the City

Eh, we’re small my friend,
Two speck-sized squirrels,
Upon a blazing leaf of green,
Here on Manhattan Isle,
On the metro from vein to vein,
All over these arteries with artful talk,
Drying in the sun from walk to walk.

The Subway Platform

See these pressing folk
Who press up to the subway
Since there is neither roar nor smoke,
Balancing upon the yellow line,
And thinking of work or Heaven?
Call us blossoms carrying blossom drinks,
Touching objects with fingertip petals,
Forgetting about ancient heraldry and emblems,
But loving sometimes to make a mess of the world?
O gules, gules, on a field of sable!
Make way for the old, the pregnant, the disabled!
The reading rose makes way for the stooping violet!

There is a pane between us, or more pain,
I see you and neglect to greet you now,
For your colors are ghostly to my sight,
And I am a brazen bitch; it’s really quite alright!
Our flowers were pressed with juice
Till they were fairly dry,
Not pure, but dry and stale,
And shifty in the emerald eye.

Call not but listen to the ready chug of trains,
Chugging pleasures howsoever you will,
Though I a pansy have become,
Of mickle sentiment and brawn.
There are props for me and some for you:
A buckler, a sword, a helmet, a visor,
Old visitors, a visitation, a grassy field, a castle place,
A gap betwixt strangers and family,
Pretty horses, in the stable or on the chomping green,
That fly with fancy feet by day, by night.

Acro, a Crown

How do I say this properly?
A lady needs no usurpation for her nation,

An ocean passes through her hair,
Fragrant, no perturbation hurts her lair,

But a thousand times a week she thinks
Of love while turmoil mulls a storm,

Deep in her thoughts and wavy hair,
Deep in her bosom of sweet corn,

Till drop her jewels or salty tears,
Adorning all her youthful years.

Her diadem, her crown, her fancy wreath,
Her bath, her book, her grainy sheath,

Are elements of her tapestry
She would not make with mold more nasty,

Appreciating original sovereignty,
But also gentle breathing ecstasy;

So Peter, black rock toting goon!
Buy diamonds solitaire or swoon,

For love doth not itself adorn
With hooting harlots in the morn.

Framboises

Soft, lush, and sweet, a sin to eat,
So filled with juice that I might blush,
Exploding gently when I touch,
Approaching on soft padded feet,

Sun-drenched delights so sultry frail,
That I do laugh to see them drip,
Reminding me of thigh or hip,
Or guts that burgeon in the rain.

Ruby, ruby in the woods,
For juice of thee do I now write,
Now licking lips, now beaming bright,
Suspect to eight and twenty moods.

Who hath endowed thee with this sweet
And rich, fair aspect for his fold,
A ball of pleasure made to hold,
A secret clef for special keys?

Ram hairs tucked in crevices in spring,
Unfolding under everything,
Some vixen logic, wanton vice,
Fuse innocence then buy a ring.

Sylphs in the waters long of lakes
Partook of such picnics pleasantly,
Amidst broad satyrs on one knee,
Their parching throats to ease and slake.

Berry Almond Crunch

There is a hairy man who resembles Goliath,
Whose palms are bare, but he has hair,

So he goes hunting for his skin,
Supposing white, smooth almond cream,

A nutmeg in his nose, a pill,
But he does snort them on and on.

Rapacious is this chap, who totes a sack,
An ebon sack, a sable room,

A serial hair addiction with a pack
Portending naught but gore and doom.

What forecast? The sky o’erhead is wet,
The roads lie humid in a veil,

The valleys waltz beneath his feet,
Rolling black mud bosoms merciless,

Volcanic vision. He is coming soon,
He is coming soon for his cookies and cream,

For his berry almond crunch repast,
O moving picture, O monolith.

Fain would he pin some virgin maid
To the prairie plain at aube, obeyed,

But his Freudian fish dream flounders dry
Thrashing senseless in a fisher’s net,

Not fish nets, no, not vulpine nuns,
But laws of culpability.

Move, Grass, Play the Piano

Lift up your arms and play a tune,
Recalling summer sun and ways,
And swaying grass and light aubades,
The milk shield of the smiling moon.

Allow me then to dance and sway,
An ash tree dame, a willow broad,
With castanets, rings, an accordion,
An arching back and chipper feet,

See sylphs and garden gnomes peek out
From the bristling hedge row, curious and cryptic,
Writing about us with a stick
And pointing to our wise two-step,

Darting back anon suspiciously.
They are sly, these strangers, shadowy!
But do float back and forth upon these keys,
Silver-fingered, lithe as grass, and spry,

That I may plant a kiss upon your cheek,
My skin of apple smelling, and gardenia,
So blithe am I in every way,
So hot, verbose and dry.

Let’s Have More: Sway Ass, Lay the Ano

Raise both your arms and play a game
Within the confines of a scarlet room,
A loon who does not seek to love,
But drunk now, has to go back soon,

Allowing nothing in his way
But daring damsels in distress,
In varying states of bad undress,
Cat-footed, pussy mongering many.

Vodka, rum, cocktails, jazz, blues,
Amplifies his heartbeat of tightened drum skin,
Where nuts connect in ample stalls
With pears concubine or Chantilly cream sometimes,

Setting fire to the dismal night
Where a negro male grabs slim Persephone
And drags her home by her crimpled hair,
To wash his dishes, clean the stair.

He brags, flexing muscles given by long-lost God,
And rood, and sod, home country too,
Replete with alcohol stench and crimson-tongued.
What love songs now? What poetry?

His formulaic sway ass, sway bitch and crotch
Ornament the sweet fir tree of midnight;
But I remember his tender arms of vagrant grass,
Not these “let’s go, lay the ano” politics!

Play her cream-colored body up and down like a piano,
Watch her kick high and low as love sits within,
Sucking on sights that seem quite the same,
In a squalid church, through periodic primrose pain.

On This Pole of Brethren Shake

What is this space I call my mortal brain?
What are these trappings I spread willingly?

Could it be my choice is scarlet – play!
For all the times that I felt grounded,

Or cool blue as a satin ocean groove,
When I felt my sails needed to fly?

Are you there June, July, and August,
My love who knits pink berry socks?

Is Hell? Is Heaven? Is that guy named Pan?
For sushi, I’ll trip to sleek Japan.

The bikers peddle down the street in sneakers,
I have long socks, I go slower, sip Joe,

But inside it will snow and snow,
As if I do not have a lover,

Nor guiding light, nor pastry mother.
I’m tasting the true blue banana berry cobbler

Like an exultant bear at a picnic for fellows.
Ah, how white the stars, but I love yellows!

Too bad for Julie if I lick jewels,
Both grand and thin enough to make one drool,

For on this stripper pole of brethren shake,
I see delights, my soul! I do not take,

To tell me I am man, en fond,
Lost in pornified mysteries of glee,

These powerful hands made for young grapes,
O, tell me that we’re naughty apes!

Reposing on a tabletop,
Giving gold like Gandhi, throwing stones

As soon as I get home to the crippled one,
Who wears homespun clothes and sucks her thumb.

At City Hall

The city fountain plays at day,
Where mothers walk with strollers,
But I do walk with book and pen,
My footsteps growing older,

Thinking of water in my mouth,
For life and healthful living,
Sweet sounds of words from foreign throats,
Rich gifts that keep on giving,

With purple French and purple pride,
Beset with woes and wandering;
Alert and playful, what you are,
I think, no time then squandering.

The rain pours down, the sun comes up,
I pace for daily leisure,
But put your smile into my cup:
Fain would I this for pleasure.

I Went to the Porn Chop

There was graphic detail, enough to shock a stone.
Now, this is bitter dynamite, ay, this is porn!
Just enough red is there to tease my eyeballs
Into vast peeping gushers of spice and cinnamon,
Between ten at night and one,
When I turned into an undertaker raven, fondling my snake.
My two-pronged fork is quite a pingus,
I nourish with gravy sauce and Angus,
Braised red meat dinners, and apple tarts;
But boy, would I love to tear some broad apart!
Split ope her bra and squeeze her dead,
Or stuff my sausage in her pin-up head!
I fancy buying a stack of these creamy blood puddings
From the grub man’s supermarkets of sexy facts,
Keep them in my room as living artifacts,
Ha, ha and ha! Tuck them in my breast,
For I’m the best of the best, and the worst, indeed,
A wardrobe war drone.
Ahoy, bro, listen! Thin girls go out for our deed.
Be a viper, a king snake, an ape, a werewolf,
A sponsor of the porn chop-chop where bitsy panties drop,
No frills attached, no silks or lace or further ecstasy,
Since all these fineries be for me, me, me!
Where is the girl who does it for me?
Where is the back street broad for my broad red neck?
How do I get her undies over my shoulder?
Twine string? Wind her in? The sin?
The crenellated cap of cool lady hood stands over there,
In a smock and beaten brass necklace – nice fish!
Give her an apple in her socket! This is pornographic retribution!
I look at her, I take with resolution.

Nor Liberty

How fondly doth my husband look
At all my flowers gay:
Tea roses shiv’ring in their nook,
Though no word doth he say!

A cloud hangs o’er his gazing face,
And no word doth he say;
But always must I bow with grace,
For his love, nightly pray.

Oh, woe! He deigns to scowl at me,
My fickle lover fair,
And thunders as I boil the tea,
That I have loosed my hair!

That I have shook my tresses long,
To spite him and his Will;
So doth he stifle my glad song,
My life, doth he then kill!

Mr. Hedonius R. Freud

I swear to you our love will grow,
From March to June, with kisses sweet;
And I’ll stroke your honey hair of wheat,
But after that – you must not know!

O, do not think to gage me, love,
For much to fine and elegant,
I keep my sacred elephant
In highest standing, which I prove,

Again and yet again, aflame.
I’ll rain, spread, fling my perfect joy,
Erect my Will, since I’m a boy:
To deny me, though: that would be lame!

So let me dance around and grow,
And smooth and fashion out my life,
A piper piping for his tithe,
That all my fantasies might grow!

On the Teeth of Shakespeare, born in the Year of Our Lord,1616

I would I were as ample, Sir,
As thou in speech, most days;
But must I oats and porridge stir,
Not caring, anyways.

God bless thy pearly white-hued teeth,
Sixteen and sixteen sprung!
And actor’s mouth, and victor’s wreath,
And good skies, and the sun!

That we all know thy piquant verse –
Heroic couplets fine –
To read, though, swagger, and rehearse,
Should figure sweet as wine.

His Joyous Meal

The bells are ringing from the church,
The cock is crowing shrill,
The river waters swirl and lurch,
And clear light takes the hill.

To fetch some water have I gone,
To yon slope must I go,
As thou dost start to moan and groan,
Thy soft lips working slow;

I shiver at thy changes slight,
And shake! Thou dost much wrong!
In thinking thou hast all the right,
To play, thyself, alone;

Enkindling passions drab and foul,
Above a plate of peas:
Perusing pictures in thy towel,
Of children on the leas;

Why have me cry and wail and moan,
For ten caprices queer?
From thy devices left alone,
Peace flies throughout the year.

I Came for Tea

My wedding dress was sable sewn,
Wert thou too soon to demonstrate,

My snowy years were granted thee,
I happened to reiterate,

But all these melted in my cup,
Set on the table after four,

My many dreams cracked like a cake,
My virtues lent thee, to implore.

Alas! Expecting jasmine tea,
To poisons wert thou mostly prone,

Intending letters of sweet lore
To write: thou struck and hit me more!

Instead of slow-maturing, close,
A party planned perpetual,

Thy stubbornness told me to leave!
Thy will to share me, made me grieve!

I did not keenly wish to row,
I kept a lily on my prow,

Which thou didst pluck, and bang to bits,
Pounds me to granite for thy hits!

My bitter love, I came for tea,
But now thy fury shatters me.

The Bicycle

Snow white the ironed dress
With rigor pleated straight,
Intention in its threads,
Had never seen a date,

Passed blindly by a house,
A flash of brilliant flame,
A girl therein of ten,
Beneficent and tame,

Until a spray of blossoms,
Hid tender youth from view,
From whence her bike was taken,
Most cruelly split in two!

That bike was split in twain,
So early in the morn,
Deprived thereon of wheels,
Beside a white dress torn.

Alas for chastity,
Extinguished as it bled!
Its blithe and dainty feet!
Its grinning, broken head!

Denial

A limber man? Oh, never,
I’ve never seen him walk,
Nor flaunt his chest emblazoned
With patches and a chain.

A grizzled, nut-brown man?
Oh no, my lips lie not,
When I aver he does not live,
This proletariat!

On that round moon, I have not seen
A fellow of his like –
But kindly take the farthest road,
And head on duly south.

The Morning

Gregarious, the birds did chaunt,
Upon the frothy branch,
Above our napkins and our plates,
Demanding ecstasy;

The oceans of thy eyes did please –
Feign did I drink of love –
Our mutual respect to prove,
I flattered thee but twice;

The lapping lake told all my vows,
Again and then again,
The sweetest water in thy mouth,
Cold ripples, over there.

Like a Vagrant Soul

O wandering soul beneath the stars,
O restless in unease,
Made easy by a taste of drink,
Felicity a game,

Foot padding through the vapid night,
Is there a thought of me –
Betwixt the river and the rum –
And doth it give thee joy?

Wait I for thee – beside the door,
The kitchen oven lit –
But willst thou tell a crooked tale?
And willst thou deign to sit?

A Lady Accosted

Rose petal, jasmine, eglantine,
A branch of thyme or sage,
Sharp rinds of orange, citrus peels,
Her tresses rustle proud,

The glimmer of a golden strand,
The gloss upon her crown,
Incites the praise of well a soul,
Set straightly through the town.

Not wanting an impediment,
Desiring not a touch,
Doth she abhor man’s sauciness,
And flirts – not much –

But lost in some predicament,
A tower o’er her hair:
Two feet it has, and gristle too,
Enamored of her scent.

More round, must grow her batting eyes,
More weak, her spindly knees;
She makes to move from former place,
A bird, aware of bees!

Games, Girls, and Wine

Look! There he goes, the drunk,
With steps of herringbone!
He reels from left to right,
His eyes lit most like stars!

A reek is all his breath,
That wheezes through the night,
From rows and rows of gin,
Sloshes softly – still –

His wife saw not the show,
But lately taken place:
Whatever did she do?
Braised meat, said grace.

An execration vile,
Hung on his parted lips;
Had whistled at a girl,
He gave a dollar twice.

Ah, smoke and sun the morn!
How wayward Jack limped home!
He spit for eggs, and coughed for eggs,
Both reticent and loud.

No, Do Not Go

I love as boundless as the dawn –
My heart is pink and red –
A song I haply writ for thee,
Lies furled upon the bed,

A list of words composed of lace,
Good will, fair faith, and time,
Wish aught for recognition’s praise,
Reciprocated rhyme,

And if thou need’st leave me here –
If fondness waxes cold –
Then shall my Will split fast in twain!
Then thou shalt see me cry!

You and I

My feet walk toward thee sure,
My hands, stretched side to side,
Enclose a quantity,
Are wont to hold a sum,

Proximity once reached,
Enjoys continual
The interaction of twin souls,
Bathed preciously in Love.

Sadness, Most Morose

October gave me lines obscure,
I shared with thee to read,
Bold, eager, keen, on sight of thee,
A fountain in my throat,

For which I damned my ignorance,
And bid late genius come,
A little wishing to be held –
Denied, of course, that crime!

Admittedly, I mused and dreamed,
Transported, made my prayers,
Exulting in the thought of thee,
The sweaty palms I pressed!

I turned the pages solemnly
Of books I had to know,
Distracted by thy company,
Not wanting thee to go,

Eve’s sorrows teased! The starlight burned!
At dawn, my reason fled,
Although I loved my bitter self,
I loved thee better still!

Despondent, I surveyed the ground,
The cold and grey-stoned square,
And called my hours desolate:
So well, a man could please!

Temporal, futile, thwarted soon,
My wants quite unachieved,
They strangled what of hope I had,
And withered on the stem.

The Oven Dream

What, now? Man’s made an oven,
Not serving for his breads,
But heated full and violently,
Roasts hearts and hands and heads!

His fashioned apparatus,
My sacred soul to spite,
Exists beyond the city streets,
Viciously to violate,

How pleased therefore am I!
How well he does his job!
But rather would I see him damned
Then dwindle into sod.

The Bee

He grins, I know he’s sharp!
His face is angular,
Possessing some superb allure,
Though resident of vice,

A roaming bee! A laughing bloke!
Of honey, some debauch,
I’ve seen him tap his ticking watch,
And whistle at a dress.

Why bother chiseled glass or rock,
Lest faith be shaken up?
At luncheon do I sit to sup,
Full wary of his sting.

I am Empty

An urn deprived of liquor,
Must I forever be,
Envious blood! How thou dost stir,
And move, and rattle me!

Regard I oft thy flower,
Of bluest petals soft,
Hopeful to fill this empty space,
By thieving cravenly,

And yet, thy nectar warm,
Do I ignore as much
As dying hands cold rosaries,
Too brittle, aught, to touch!

To Thy Peony

Upon the brink of faith,
And posed precariously,
Suspect me not of treason,
As I fall within thy cup,

A pleasure wrought, a gift,
A product of the spring,
I swoon when I draw close,
And weep when I am far.

Bright azure bloom that bursts
Upon the dusty scene –
Thy pride shall never fail,
Nor thy looks ever fade!

The Book Room

I stepped into the room,
And not a voice did hear,
But filled the space with notes,
To please my lonely ear,

Until my flame arrived,
And did I think him fine:
A pretty partridge in our nest,
A poet’s paradigm.

To stagger, praise, or greet,
A blossom-smelling lad,
To taste of that green date –
Was I such a cad?

Happy Meal by the Library

The sun is out, there’s not a cloud,
The breeze is blowing soft,
A butterfly swoops down, provident,
Upon our tablecloth,

You stretch to catch its beating wings,
Broad-grinning, side to side,
And deep, the redness of thy mouth,
That drips with venom pride,

Upturning tea and juice and wine,
Peas rolling on thy plate,
As green as thy abhorrent hair,
Which wags, full reticent.

Thy day’s engorged with pleasure,
And snarls for all my pain,
Thrice stuffed by golden rays of light,
Emitting spurts of rain.

No, Do Not Touch

Alas! I need not friend or foe,
My freedom pleases me,
That hand you raise – I need it less –
Than foreign, rancid seed.

Tread not on me, or I shall shriek,
My walls quite crumbled, bare,
Despising the mere sight of thee,
Hush words – no, do not stare!

I do not want thy yellow teeth,
To snarl at me enraged,
So offer thee a thought instead –
Brute minds are best encaged!

The Bearded Lawyer

You had a file I did not like,
Implicit in its scope,
Of slatternly and garish things,
Caused me to cry and mope!

Your bureau’s stuffs were damnable,
Strewn here and there with string,
On which you counted shady tales,
With knots and caroling!

Your lion voice I did admire
For long and long a year,
But then, upon this sordid mire,
My sad voice turned to tear!

To John Keats

O proud and gentle poet, soon expired
Were all thy days, when health did stretch thee thin,
Fine, spry, and delicate: no, never tired,
So strict and true, false wording being sin!
By thy fair works divine wert scholars fed;
Thy efforts made a modern mind to bloom,
Inspiring reverie, by which are led
Complicit souls, O strongest thread and loom!
Thy verses spread across eternal sky,
To live again, in thought unperishing,
Adorning hearts and hands, to eke a sigh,
From rhymers sat at rest, aspiring:
A rose wert thou, and if thou couldst not grow
Completely; were all thy rhymes an avid row!

To Old Poets

On Keats and Burns, and that Immortal Bard,
Will Shakespeare, did they know to celebrate,
From Spring to Winter, with insightful lore,
Through fleeting seasons, all that garnered weight:
Love, Romance, and Adventure, near and far,
The intrigues that in plots and minds are rife,
Possessed of all the passions of a star,
Their lives to live impressed by rampant strife,
A dram of jealousy, a fight most foul,
Sublimity and enmity alike,
Exalting tender virtues of the soul,
Their candle-flame still steadfast, day and night.
How much we owe! How much these ancients gave!
Rich lessons do we take – great stories, to the grave.

Weekly Sermon

In morn, to school, and then back home,
Nor e’er to stall ye loitering,
For books and letters make minds warm,
Nor for the truant’s sporting!

The key’s in rigor, goodness, faith,
That opens portals skyward,
As Master, all his lessons saith,
An that his young be scholared,

But foul’s the way, and vile, and mean,
That leads a soul to ruin,
A wanton, useless store to glean,
Afore his spirit’s fallen,

So must we live for house and home,
And work that makes us human,
Or else, accursed, stray and roam,
A man abased – a woman.

The Bird Man

Your smile but wished me frail and green
With battery and treason,
Your violent eye to trade me off
To suit your turning season,

Your hands desired to grasp my neck
Until the breath had left me,
Whereas your words did aim to scathe,
Your black delights all cleft me,

Accursed lips! O tongue most foul!
A wagging, simple villain!
Had I a potent spell to cast,
I’d render thee a million!

And Thee, the Light at Night

Why do I want thee? For thy singing voice,
That doth not miss a note, but sounds like mead,
Flows iridescently, and makes all souls rejoice,
Its morning bathed in glory; rich, indeed,
Its happy evening, burns and cools desire,
Released in flying notes of joy, resounding still,
Chimerical creatures bearing passion’s fire,
That catch the listening ear, and cloy the Will.
Entrance my days, my Friend, but more at night,
Illuminate my separate being lest it sleep,
Entice dull shade to color, shed thy light:
From midnight till the break of dawn,
Make love to me, with iterated brawn!

The Empress, as She Breaks Her Fast

She jiggles her wrists to hear her gold
Of coins procured from shady trade,
Thick swathes of black upon her lids,
Absconding with the avarice.
Her teeth, the hue of jasmine rice,
Grind out a morning’s greeting bland,
And famished, rend their bit of cake
In dainty morsels honey-smooth,
Like milk-white flakes of flavored snow,
Two hours from a pricy Matinee,
On a busy road, beside the traffic flow,
Beaming beneficence at the man she stole
For monetary enhancement – sex and fun –
For whom she vastly grinned from ear to ear,
Expecting lilies for her days, and frolics gay,
Oblivious to fault, and spiffy as a sunlit ray.

A Handsome Man’s Hammer

I judged his eyes were similar to window-panes,
Alas! That opened on soft scenes of bliss,
The depths of which were sweet as sapphire sugar,
And kept always, a livid, light blue, festive flame,
O pleasures, boundless as the raving sea!
What promises; what sumptuous gifts and rings!
I could not fathom what the man – a stranger – thought,
But stayed to watch his skin grow wax and wan;
Until, revealed, the works of vile betrayal,
Blood red and putrid, gave a pretty bow
To former etiquette, his perfect plots laid bare.
Such gluttony! Presumption, death, and crime!
His intellect, a jagged blade twice used,
His mind, a bloom for which fair maids expired,
As craven as a crow, but lily white,
As graceful-lipped as Pan, but venomous!
Sick traces of a virgin’s blood made webs
Around his bulbous eyes, by wanton show,
Turned wild, and pale, and fatal, still to look,
Upon the ghosts of quarry caught most foul,
Bad fisherman – should beasts be let to prowl?

To Stare into Thy Soul, nor Further See

O let me look, and look some more; and then
When thou art free, and happy to be led,
Allow me once to lead thee from thy ken
Afore the Vespers prayers be rightly said;
Lend me thy hand and ope thy azure eye,
So I might gage thy warmth in one wise glance,
Thy beauty and thy love, nor e’er be dry,
Not ever – for those wells of deep romance,
Large, boundless, gleaming with a summer’s dew,
Rich, round, and gracious as an orbed light!
We’ll loiter while it’s dim, the evening through,
A laughing wisp – a willow – hied from sight;
And even in the darkness, do I see
Those bluest twins of blatant ecstasy.

A Pornographic Marmalade Tart

I did not say “unwrap me”, Jack,
Or “pick my label till I bleed”,
My sweets are meant for wedded years,
And none of them are rightly yours.

My tarts are not made for your lips,
But then, you’ll eat them anyway,
A crooked crumb, and I a crumb,
Upon your tongue to sit all day.

Alas! Alas! I hate your hands
That treat me like an orange rind,
And find your craven grin most vile,
Both greedy-looking and unkind;

So do not take me in your arms,
To be with angels downward laid,
My curves are not meant for your sex:
I’m not your tart of marmalade!

The Frog

He watches girls all night, his mouth agape,
And swallows one, and has his fun,
A child, an apple, and a grape,
He masturbates from ten to one,

And if you ask him what he thinks,
He’ll scowl awhile and curse for show,
Then idle round the skating rinks,
To dream of ladies nude as snow,

A hopping frog, a croaking frog,
A magazine for his new coat,
He turns to weaponry in smog,
In forests, pricks the youngest stoat!

What Became of the Reel?

Mr. Williams wanted to watch a movie,
Uniquely for himself, to suit his needs,
Since he was tired of old routine, and glad
He had no wife to rack his wastrel ear,
So visited a shop, stepped through its door,
Grabbed a novelty for his delight,
Chocked full of worthwhile scenes as rich as cream
To set his heart on fire, his phallus higher,
Elated as a fox with a bed-bedraggled bird,
But his longings did not leave him, nor his lust.
His face was myriad shades of grey,
And he fiddled with his tie to feel the cloth.
O softest stuff of scarlet, serpentine,
Arterial and needed as the night
He set aside for gluttony!
A table of cream pies all bona-fide,
Hot coffee and a stripling chick
He pressed against his bosom, then below
For the price of whiskey and a show,
For the price of greed grown grander every year.
What was living worth – but some man’s muddy beer?
Abandoned in the chilly gutter like a weed,
The blind wind whipping round, a wise child died, wide-eyed.

What Became of the Plastic Wrapping?

O my little head that wore a hat!
My bonnet and my velvet bow!
I went to school one morning mild,
To let my best thoughts grow and grow,

But a honey-eater, and eater of girls,
Approached me smelling much of gin,
A cane in hand, a crooked cane,
And a magazine that looked like sin,

Alas for me! And pity me!
That all my hairs he twisted round,
And set to smothering his delight,
With plastic wrapping – snuffed this sound.

In The Morning

What, there, a hound upon the grass,
O’er lilacs swiftly bounded,
Leapt here and there for ecstasy
Whose barks resounded?

What, there, a hound to comfort me,
As I set forth to school;
The neighbor bearing tape, and glue,
His kit, and welder’s tool?

Shall this brave hound, with heart-shaped nose,
Brown, dappled, cream, and black,
Bow down his head to sniff my shoe,
Run forth, and patter back?

A benediction on this hound,
Who jingles his bright collar,
Springs in the air, returns again,
Deigns in green ponds to wallow!

Shalt he be as good as beaten gold?
Shalt he save me from a hurt?
Doth he do me justice when I cry,
And nibble at my skirt?

Best friend of man, beside his man,
To frolic and to please him;
The fairest hound of all, methinks,
Nor antics, nay, to tease him!

The Winter

Crow louder, birds, above the moors,
Crow e’en eternally and sad,
Whilst busy people slam their doors,
Boys burst outside: oh mad, mad, mad!
Bells ring merrily,
Slice through the bitter breeze,
Dames bundle thrice, as not to freeze,
Men roll eyes warily,

Sparkle, shimmer, ice and snow,
And frost upon glass window panes,
As wild winds tend to blow and blow,
Lash out, and run beneath their manes,
Hoot and holler,
Chaunt among the brittle boughs,
Transforms dull grass and makes them wands,
Rainbows despite their pallor,

Hail, once, the owl, the horned owl,
The Reverend Minister,
The mastiff dripping from its jowl,
The fairest child, pale alabaster,
Red robin in holly,
Chirruping for a dapper mate,
Quite early, early, never late,
In long strains jolly!

Hail for good luck and better cheer,
The neighbor’s girl, his boy,
That pretty dame who toils all year,
At work and cooking, all for joy,
Hum from thy throat,
Grace well the miles around thee,
And shun the ills that never found thee:
Greed and sin, six vices rote!

Letter of Disappointment

I wrote throughout the year,
My ink did bleed,
Thou didst not hear,
A reed,
A broken reed was I,
But thou wert very dry!

You set a date then cancelled it,
Abhorrent you!
O cruelest wit,
O foe,
Who brushed me off like dust,
Or a dirty flake of rust!

Wert thou happier, alone,
In company,
Thy hard heart turned to stone,
A bee,
Erects and stingeth me,
As wastrel as the sea?

Like chilly waves that smite,
The tearing shore,
Or shrouds of night,
I wore,
Confusing logic aye,
Compelling me to sigh,

Wilt thou, then, hold thy tongue,
Forever more,
My days all sung,
Love, war,
To silence fallen bare,
Since thou wert nary there?

Hypocritical Preacher

We used to stand upon the stage,
Sing hymnals to the hungry crowds,
Some verses said, and more to say,
Pale lily-white and never proud,

O never! then to tell a lie,
Prevaricate for want or whim,
Use wisdom as an alibi,
Delight or let the Devil in,

O never, ever! In the spring,
Pick flagrant flowers for our lust,
Act like a sovereign or a king,
Wax angry, suit our wiles, or fuss,

Spoke thou most sweet and strange and high,
Some time ago, as I did hear,
But now, on seeing thee, I cry:
You smell of women, smack of beer.

One for You

Who brighter in the early morn,
Blows through each rife and sundry pass,
More white than a downy lamb but born,
A day ago, while clouds amass,
To wander free, a bird, a bass?

The steeples chime, the streams resound,
On pebbles none so fair as thee,
Quite worthless taken pound for pound,
Not moving, nor to reach the sea,
Nor know a lover’s ecstasy,

Float lightly, bloom of peach or pear,
Bedecking thy white palm, thy hair!
When no one strays, his footsteps near,
Then I shall sing, and call thee rare,
Praise all thy looks, and quell despair,

Bid you, then, take a lily-stem,
A golden rod or hyacinth,
Your uncles, tell you, visit them,
Of warm milk, drink a happy pint,
And all your golden locks anoint,

Take apples for thyself, and plums,
A quince for thy good mere to cook,
Mind thy equations and thy sums,
Suck on a split twig, read a book,
Ay, allowing me to look!

Not Enough

You tell me I am stout, am green,
Am wispy-haired and garrulous,
That all my sounds are querulous,
I’ve paled and waned and have no sheen,
My breath is foul, my glance is mean!

Had I a tale to tell, you’d sleep,
And sleeping, be much better off,
Than if you woke and teased my sloth,
Cut all my ends, and made me weep,
Dissecting words, and leaving seams,

What, marry? What, lord? Am I a dunce,
Or such a fool as men might cozen,
Deprived of much, whilst you take a thousand,
Wax hungry, where I love but once?
Exult in rowdy, rich surplus?

O’er supper, I am turned to salt,
Neglected, scorned, and scoffed at, teased,
Where fondness fills cups to their leas.
The wine you pour, dear, tends to halt,
For you fault, I fear, am fair – your fault!

The Blackbird in the Holly

Oh where am I? Where have I gone?
The sleekest bird cries shrill,
Who once possessed a purple gown,
A mouth, forsooth, and not a bill,

A woe is me, and well-a-day!
The blackbird sighs and sighs,
As students make their merry way,
With perfect, proud, ambitious eyes,

Nor aught to see with orbed eyes,
That fairest soul up high,
Who with deep sadness vies and vies,
Ah, vying ever – asking why!

The creature soft and ebon black,
Tweaks up her foot, swoops low,
A crimson berry at her back,
A twig of holly, mistletoe.

God’s Winter

The wind is ruthless – oh but Ruth
Did fill his gentle life of Truth,
Most cruelly racked,
And bent of back,
Whence strife did bury strife,
O pity Love, he had no wife!

The rains do sweep and sweep again,
The lands, for Sky is downward lain,
Though He did weep,
For all his Love to keep,
A puddle making streams to run,
Of tears and blood, and hid, the Sun,

Then, do I wish to fight, to rise,
To point – vile evils, criticize!
But He was strong,
Took all the wrong,
To render that wrong right in death,
For the blessing of his dying breath,

Ah, men do thirst! Ah, men do writhe!
And envy bees their honey-hive!
Though he was dwindled,
Famished, love enkindled,
For greener leaves to grow up then,
Around that stalk pegged down for men,

Doth thou say his name? Doth thou know his God?
Cold sands pass o’er the parching sod,
The sunlight burns,
And continents turn,
But water springs from that one name,
To slake the soul, and soothe the lame,

Hot hands are heavy! Stones are sharp!
Twanged strange, the lute, and stilled the harp!
Sweet music killed,
Then, foulness willed,
The lands lie wide and violate,
O Jesus, stretched, was surrogate!

On men that hoot, and beasts that howl,
And Caution up-flown like an owl,
His limbs were warm,
That bled through storm,
Love’s ember, pulsed and throbbed for Sin,
Despite the wild, the bitter din,

Ay, what of care and wretched woe?
Did He not torn, in anguish, go?
A tortured rose,
Fraught round by foes,
A turtledove hung high in pain,
Who sang for wisdom in the main?

So I remember, day and night,
That day by day I haply write,
With words to crown,
His bright renown,
Ay, reinstate the flesh and blood
Our Eucharist doth much behoove.

A Bird

Did we not kiss and walk apace,
Hold hands, share words, and play?
Did we not go with laughing face?
Tell time to sit and stay?

I wore a blue dress, striped with green,
And felt myself a gem:
Who proudly stepped forth, fast and lean,
Morn’s halo as my diadem!

You planted on my hair a kiss,
Some smooch, to give me ease,
That summed up all my happiness,
Mild mouth! As fresh as breeze!

My brown hair mussed, my sparrow hair,
My plumes of wipperoorwill,
I lent them free and did not care,
That God, I loved you still!

I loved and loved, but Love struck down
Upon my heart and soul,
Rained o’er my body and my crown
Foul blows and split the bowl!

I wanted water – gleaned warm blood
Instead, blood forced to drink!
My beating heart hit to the sod!
Much like a bird, I think!

I Got Up

Arisen from the bed and bleary-eyed,
I looked both right and left, with stifled sob,
As I did long to see thee, sanctified,
By hours, side by side, Fate could not rob!
Without, a lark sat in a tree, most fair,
Within, thy beaming face and oaken hair.

I needed thee like crop fields need the sun,
Fresh, fine, and fertile, bowing one by one,
Loth! O loth! To end the race begun,
Of purple Passion from long discourse wrung,
A heart, a plum, a badge that might thou wear,
Upon thy chest, defining all my tender Care.

The sunlight could not tell how strong I felt,
A devotee, religiously, of Love;
So all the air was gold, and I did melt;
So all thy garb was gold, and precious wove,
Transmuting my two eyes to metal made
Of liquid wealth, for thee, and there I bade.

The minutes fled I counted, Lord and Friend,
Flew precious: O say love hath no end!

The Secret

The winds all whispered, to and fro,
Blithe hours passed in glee,
And none to know, and none to know,
What I did hear and see!

Hot noontide came and beat my brain,
And scorched its will to run,
But I had courage and disdain:
Who’d have this tale? No one!

The brownest rabbits had not heard,
Though long were their soft ears,
And sensible, the chirruping bird,
The mice among the briars;

An hour passed, then two, in glee,
In ecstasy, ebulliently,
But I avowed that none should see!
I hummed an anthem merrily!

So evening lay upon the earth,
Bade it to hush a while,
Stilled raucous play, and stilled wild mirth:
My secrets slept in style!

Till Death

When bitter winds strip countries bare,
Chill church stones – moan and moan some more,
Deprive thick orchards of their store,
Think’st thou, really, thou shan’t be there?
Last-wedded to the soil and freezing sod,
Enswathed in rags where russet cattle plod?

O fancy brittle sticks should fall like spoons,
Or forks, or knives, beside thee overlapped,
Rich panoply and largess of the moon,
For bloodless fingers long withdrawn of sap!
O humorless, still to grin for ay, an age,
Beneath some fragrant heather, clumps of sage!

The hearth fire’s lit, fresh milk steams in the pail,
The nightingale swells out its modest breast;
But thou – hast thou no need of cloth or mail,
Or coat, or plume in hand – no other nest,
No cozy fire-warmed nook replete with books,
But a gaping hole, graced by thy Spartan looks!

The Fir Tree

I smell of pungent leaves,
Shake needles in the wind,
Shed furled up vestry oft,
Have never rightly sinned,
Where to begin?

The world is righteous Joy,
In Winter and in Spring,
And if thou art a Cad,
Thou dost not bring a thing!
Am I a bone?

I sip the water slow,
Give ample harborage,
O shiver as men go,
Deep-rooted anchorage
Possessing so!

I am the essence fair,
The height, the emerald show,
Stand free and don’t despair,
As crows around me row,
All singing low,

In Cheerfulness and Glee,
In still air or in gusts,
I know my sanctity,
And shun thy myriad lusts,
Thy stains and rusts,

For pointing to the Clouds,
I ponder oft on God,
His high angelic clouds,
His voice and rod,
In living sod,

And if thou lovest bills,
Spread wide thy ghastly hand,
Exult in saucy mills,
Throughout the wretched land,
Kiss thrice the sand!

The driest kiss of all,
I give and give at eve,
Odiferous come Fall,
More than thou canst believe:
I sigh and seethe!

The Autumn

The sparrows fly away, the winds fly soft,
Sweet Cupid blows belated kisses mute,
Pale sheathes of wheat are firmly raised aloft,
Cool days delight in sounds of strings and flute,
While simple children play, and act them gay,
And slumber on smooth knolls bedecked in grass,
Smooth-faced and fond, soft as a rose of May,
As hours pass by slow, and dreamings pass,
Upon the breath of Autumn, thus to breathe!
Two lovers share their close and secret thoughts,
Maternal love sets her ripe breasts to heave,
And men gone home bypass their favorite haunts:
Refreshed, this time all bathed in gold and light,
So truly, I think to think on thee, tonight!

These Brethren Friends

It’s fantastic to tell, and dulls not once it’s told,
The story of friends such as Heinrich and Sam,

The one, a grim businessman, with flaming red hair,
His pal, some pale specimen of Bostonian ham;

They were perfect in unity, and wild pulled apart,
Like Romans they roamed and built thickly their art,

They dwelled in cafes and drank gallons of brew,
They were twice as precocious as Billy or Bart,

One would think that they a proclivity for beer,
Made them fly off like birds, a raven, a crow,

For their ways extravagant, and their ways perplexed,
Ebullience that kept both their mothers in woe!
Money, O money! They still wanted more,
And to get it, succumbed rather, to many a chore,
Loved dollars and cents, and paper green-inked,
Evincing an envy eventually blinked.
Slapstick comedians, and polyglots too,
They chattered in languages only they knew:
French, Spanish, and Greek, deep German expressed
With incredible élan and e’en better sagesse,
Ax-heavy Chinese and Italian that soared,
So they might blow past life and never get bored.
O carried they talents, and carried they jokes,
Wrote letters in cursive to all of their folks,
Amounting and summing and playing for joy,
For Sam was a boy, and Heinrich, a boy,
Who cakes of blue ate, and biscuits devoured,
Preserves of red cherries, and varied doughs floured,
Defiant and hungry, inspired greatly, at ease,
They stabbed their grilled steaks like a couple of bees.
They never did row, being gentle. They were pale and lily-skinned.
Their preferences saw that they frolicked and grinned.
Lift weights? They lifted ample weights!
But afterwards buying sweet raisins and dates!

Sam suffered from cravings, and when he waxed bold,
He was known to shop and shop, though often he sold,
Seeming quite green and quite blue, sometimes red,
Beet red at the mouth and hot in the head.
O sashes, Turkish sashes! He needed them all!
He purchased five horses and drew up a stall!
Whereas lovely Heinrich preferred to drink tea –
He sipped tea and tea, and sloshed to the leas,
Also vodka at times – O stone-hearted daring!
Had excesses none – was not “ready and raring” –
A bull-necked Republican, loving music and dance,
He danced salsa and waltzes in sparkling pants,
Complicit with Sam, who had apple-cheeks,
Set fast on a project, would not tire for weeks!

When they slept, they slept sound, snored deep and snored long,
Rang up one another to prompt sleep along,
Clutching their toddies in hands that were warm,
Nodding and giddy, and slumped downward of form,
Both prattling on and on and on,
Nor knowing whether it were midnight or dawn,
Discussing ancient books and high-blown lore,
Philosophy, linguistics, art and war,
Just up until the point at which they sighed,
Ah! Feeble sighs, on which small sandmen ride,
Let then, to sleep and sweetly dream,
Devoid of partnership or team:
O twins are alright, and day’s friendships are true,
If similar wants make acquaintances woo!

My Friend, the Lucky One

I left him on the highest floor of the blandest building,
Typing like a madman, glowing star-bright and pale,
Bending his cap of hair the hue of ale,
In a jacket men generally stroll in, caroling,
As staunch and a staid as a sack of potatoes,
Level-headed and sober, but I was not sober!
Much like a moth or bee, I longed to hover,
Above his frail figure in passionate throes!
O did I fancy the name he tossed at me,
As if the appellation were a marrow-bone
I’d have down by the morrow, learned alone,
Along with German, tasty German, ecstasy!
He seemed as hot and soothing as a cup of tea,
Broad browed and brooding, bent of leg,
Man from whose hand I’d haply beg,
But when I writhed, and winked – he didn’t see!

The Cock

His pride awakens red,
O rise! O rise! For joy,
He is love’s tender boy!
And triumph’s on his head!
Come summer, he gleans seed,
And paens both here and far,
Flies hither when the door’s ajar,
Tears through the yard with greed –
Ah, fairest! Ah, the keenest look,
Darts from his eyes, glassed o’er,
Amongst pale daisies and green clover,
Content never with his quandary nook!
In autumn, let us build
A house of wire and steel,
For Rooster – let us feel,
More friendly toward the guild,
Of farmyard creatures, wanton willed,
Money, faith, floods in, once milled!

The Lovely Hill

Night sets upon the chilly ground,
And does not care if love’s been there;
It waxes in, with black despair,
Deletes all resolution fair,
As hard as rocks and low as sound.

Unseeing, night, it does not heed,
But grasps your image in its palm,
Transforming former fresher balm,
To quietness, without a qualm,
And licks cool blooms with greatest greed.

On the Shore

Young love walks strong
And two by two,
Trails bright bouquets along,
Of thyme and rue,
It trails and trails so sweet,
Beside the tide,
That laps the maenad’s seat,
Where she did ride,

Sublime’s the glare on mountains,
Erected long ago,
Their limpid, lisping fountains,
Swooned once from snow,
Extending toward the sand,
That chills to silk,
When the maiden trails her hand,
As white as milk,

Who dreams and dreams some more,
Of swans-like songs,
A mystic iridescent door,
For ghostly throngs,
The sinewy arms of lords,
Of lovely lore,
Celestial winged hordes,
In days of yore,

She tossed her hair and sighed,
A sigh, then laugh,
Gave the pallid moon a sign,
It was not wrath,
It was not wrath that drove her,
No ugliness did bite,
But all the land did love her,
Both day and night,

A courtly dame, a girl,
Of ruddy arms,
Whose hair was all a-whorl,
With nature’s charms,
A-glimmering and shimmering,
The song of whom was high,
Gold as a ring,
Although her throat was dry,

She’d sing and sing, this maid,
A modern chant,
A madrigal or rich, rich lay,
And softly pant,
In crisp, clean, rustling clothes,
Of cherry red,
That shaped as gusty blows,
Beat round her head,

Alone and beaming, high
As a speckled pard,
Swift-footed, light, and dry,
A moving bard,
Fraught round by couples fair,
All born to follow,
Fresh lavender in hand,
Bright for the morrow.

“Approach me not,” she said,
To nut-brown men,
And shady men well fed
On favors ten,
“For I’m a rare elf born,
And need no sauce,
A wool-white lamb just shorn,
So do not boss!”

And the late winds saw them dance,
Drink wassailing wine,
From Italy and France,
Squeezed from the vine,
A procession sparse in dress,
Possessing blooms,
Pale flowers for each tress,
Brides gracing grooms.

Recondite and rare,
The rarest one,
Did laugh and sing aware,
Of the hours gone;
The dame threw back her head,
Counting her breath,
Because she was not dead,
That ten prayers saith.

She Thinks of God and Spring

In her garden, thick with tulip buds,
The blooms of cherries, dogwood boughs,
All bursting into lusty life,
As young men say their faithful vows,

Bosom-heavy maidens blush,
Sweet lasses gaily laugh and laugh,
None there to tell them nay nor hush,
Or that clothes linger in the wash,

Sweet Marguerite is thinking deep,
Upon the rife and grassy field,
A thoughtful line – it isn’t cheap –
But priceless as the Season’s yield,

She signs a cross in plainest air,
Her heart, she crosses right and left,
She breaks her bread with one and all,
And does not care, of naught bereft,

No crumb does she lament, this saint,
Of passions innocent and true,
But pours out wine without a taint,
Has wafers dry split into two,

Below the clouds that shroud her God,
Who blesses man and bird and beast,
Feet trailing deftly on the sod,
Her Love grown strong with ardent yeast,

Sap courses swiftly through her veins,
Young, bright, and vibrant, never still,
To where warm chastity still reigns,
A plum, a peach untouched – her Will.

Educated Female of Fashion

It would be well to read a crowded book,
Filled page to page with spicy, flagrant words,
And drink a cup of tea, and slowly cook
A thought as free as sea-bound, mewing birds,
Graced by a gurgling spring,
Telling nigh everything,
Bedecked in changing colors bright,
According to the whims of night,

To fill her head as one might fill a jar,
Replete with water, perfume, golden grain,
Shine ever brightly as the fairest star,
And treat the moiling masses with disdain,
Spew out a sappy verse,
Long verses to rehearse,
And brandish some sharp, inky pen,
Play lengthily her part, and then again,

A sassy doll of letters, dressed in lore,
Enswathed by purest poetry each day,
Waxing pretty, quick, and fresh as love makes war,
In Springtime, high and loud and gay,
Buttoned up in patchwork squares,
All odes, seamed fast, like wares,
Her leather a letter all written upon,
To smooth sided Love, to come anon,

O poet, writer, miscreant! Thy hair,
Unwrapped, a thousand lines long, full glorious,
Fans out in flaming coils both light and fair,
Whilst the bugling errand-boy transacts his business,
In morning, with the journal,
At eve, with tea diurnal,
Free moving as thy working hand,
Nor to be buried in still sand.

The Gluttonous Bird

Feed me Fred! And feed me Ted!
The dawn is breaking golden,
And I care not that thou art wed:
To me thou art beholden!

Think on the pleasures of free things,
On apples poached and lemons,
And wanton walks and secret rings,
Our cups filled to the sevens!

Remember trembling with delight,
The smoothest twilit couch,
Whole hours passed without a fight,
Where squirrels do sit and crouch!

Recall our letters avid, all our sighs,
The fishes baked and shared,
Ah me! Thy lips were sweet as pies,
As mine were – Sweet, we cared!

Uncaring, Love, thou slightest me,
And give me bitter wounds,
Denying, also, ecstasy.
I see no kisses, but harpoons,

A ragged bed for all my woes,
Affection rained on thee,
So bless me, lover, in my throes!
Apportion better time to me!

Some purple-inked letter slipped tonight
Beneath the door, sets things to right.

The Oak Tree

See that tree swaying, there? The laden one,
Shivering and trembling like a savage cat,
Adorned by autumn acorns, ripe and fat,
A canopy of leaves as dry as bones?
Those are nuts, not apples, but they’ll do,
A nut on top for me and you!

So high and proud it is, so lithe and brown,
Unique as either giraffe or elephant!
It makes up dances fine and elegant!
It wears a ray of sunlight as its crown!
I would that tree would bow to me,
And demonstrate gentility,

And joyous I would be! And grateful, true,
If he could rain and rain and rain again,
Without a taint nor any smack of rue,
On perplexity, on prim and potent pain,
His Season ay, to celebrate,
Nor sterile Sin to implicate.

The tree is brazen brown and shows no white,
Until the sky unburdens of its load,
Frightful and frozen, whipping wild and white,
And sets upon the still and silent sod:
But chaste, that white shall be,
Make me, then, burn with glee.

The Giving Tree

Can it be a ship, over yonder, past the shore,
Far from the hills sat round the sandy stretch,
A mission for its mast? Some goods to fetch?
Could it be meant for steel, for albacore?
The ingots that I get are from this dripping tree,
Rich, ochre leaves attached on the lankest stem,
Nor nothing I can weave or make from them:
I do not touch them, yet they fixate me!
Shall that ship come? Shall the proud tree lend its ore?
Shall I throw a bottle there, or place one here?
Shall I placate bitterness that burns my ear,
By bidding winds to blow and give me more?
I wax hot and cold, I crack and break my bowl,
The wine spills forth, spills over, like my soul!

Apples and Bread

He built us lovingly and merrily,
A heap of apples green,
And said he ran through life austerely,
Did nothing fat or mean,

He told a tale quite skillfully,
And wove and wove and wove,
As a shepherd garners cheerfully,
White wool before his stove,

Cooked pasta, pears, and passions too,
For this glad soul and that,
All sly and apt to brashly woo,
The genius in his hat,

But stolen – stolen was their light,
Their silken hair and curls,
Given wholly and without a fight,
From hostels and from schools,

He took their pictures all the while,
Fresh-faced were they, in style,
Appeasing his querulous stored up bile,
With hobbies dark and vile,

Smart were they all, and blindly bright!
A panoply of hares!
Apples He munched throughout the night!
Bread he pilfered from bleeding mares!

Around his room, he walked around,
Arranging fruit and bowls,
Surrounded by his cabinetry,
Still haunted by his souls.

A Fruit for Lexy

So rife am I with great desire,
Alas! Love sets me quite on fire!
So well I find thy grinning face,
All other men seem out-of-place,
And scorn bids motivation work,
For sure! While foul moods cringe and lurk!
I donate words and time to thee,
Delivered from hurtful ecstasy,
Disliking liveliness,
As much as jackal’s kiss,
Willing and disposed to smile,
And dancing, tripping, half a mile.
My cheeks are filled with onion juice,
My sentiments are running loose,
And racked I am of brain and back,
And bent am I – alas, alack!
Give my needy hands, my desperate hands,
My wrists and veins and flesh,
My neck and all my paltry glands,
My tresses in their mesh,
To your eminence, to suite his whim,
As he sweats a river in the gym,
My apple up for grabs, green-red,
The efforts I made, freshly bled.
But you tossed it, didn’t you, in heat?
You told the other girl to eat?
“Let Lexy have a taste of thee,”
You cried, and laughed out loud,
“There’s room for Beauty, room for Greed,
“But Envy has the coldest shroud!”
I mused, and shook my tresses lank,
Wielded a bread loaf, threw it then,
At his head before my spirit sank.
“Scarecrow, goblin, jester, fiend!
“Now wear your horns as I wear mine!
“I give no dime to where you’ve been,
“But Cheating wins no Valentine!”

For Amusement or Mirth or Worth

The book room’s a garden, filled with flowers,
A flower in my hands, and you a flower,
Dressed in deep, dark blue – my gaze droops lower,
Alighting on your shoes, in that close bower,
A pair of poppies, proper poinsettias,
That you trail upon the floor, an elephant,
That you plant on the ground, both glum and diffident,
So I might one hundred tears decant,
Into thy tepid cup of tea, ever provident,
Desiring attentions from your eyes and lips and ears,
A dram of mulled wine spiced of several hues,
A spry voiced violin and lover too,

Wait there a second! Throw me a florid greeting,
Even at the end when my ship’s guns have lost,
Errantly firing, none to the point, wind-tossed,
Heed my passion’s prayer, still grand and heating!
My fingers curl up like lacy bleeding ferns,
Painted with vats of dew,
Too vast for either me or you,
Tell you to look at me and comprehend,
Tell you to recite that livid line again,
While I laugh and laugh till half past ten.

A serpent flicks its tail in steamy silence,
Wearing a pair of starry eyes for its diadem,
As crickets chirrup and lovers hum,
Takes a wayward tear, perhaps, as recompense,
Regards me put my hand upon the door,
Softly sigh to see thee more:
The deepest scales of desire, really, turn my head,
But it’s to dim solitude, I’m lately wed!

Goodbye Mr. Swan

Dawn spread sweetly her deft hands across the firmament,
Wrought rose and orange in the east, I simply saw,
I saw it savoring my coffee, toast, and herbal tea,
Joy jubilant above, the daily journal on my knee,
The landscape gave me all I sought of sultry ecstasy,
Nor lover there, nor enemy,

A feather drifted down beside the table, floating, sinking,
As I sat pondering primly, smoking, thinking as I might,
Compelling me to glance above: ah there, some gorgeous tale!
A silent swan sat gloating on the blazing balcon rail,
At which I queried, “Should thou need a bit of bread or drop of ale?
“For sure thou art no enemy!”

I rustled through the news, meanwhile, dared still to briefly wink,
Made faces at the maudlin creature, ephemeral and fair,
Addressed it by many made-up names, from Gondolan to Bill,
Thought weakly well on it, though my heart was drear and passing ill,
And quaked and groaned at every bright-eyed daffodil,
Half-thinking life an enemy,

Whistled and chirruped, well enjoyed the apparition, ached,
A bitter ache, made my beating heart a bobbing bird in kind,
Grown giddy for the novelty: gleaned this, and nothing more,
But figured life most slovenly for the wicked woes it bravely bore,
Ay, older still – and stiller, with strange bird signs before the door,
A white beast stood, with marble feathers simply,

“Sleek celestial saint of flesh, disposed to stand and squander here
Much merchandise; I need, forsooth, no filament of feather!
Explain exactly what thou art, or up and leave, or fly:
What business canst thou have, fallen vast and vaguely from the sky?
Canst thou bless my ear, in earnest, and straightly tell my eardrum why?
No more might my hand give to thee!”

Inform me if thou bringest word of weekly wending weal,
Or if thou hast a nest of eggs to hatch, hied now from thence,
A supplicant or stranger – let my notions wildly spin,
Or sing thy latest song, or laugh – thou, like the spring, art in,
Free thus to speak on anything, from lovely love to sin,
Love-fair informant, on all things sundry!

Said I suspecting magic works from some spry and happy mage,
Spell-scriptures eked from the gilded books of golden glaring ink,
That this sitting swan might fan its feathers o’er the biscuit pile,
Indulging in a bath of limpid morning heat the while,
Stock still, embracing poise, nor to upset its pilgrim style,
Obsessing o’er the sounds of me,

Quiver bird, and shiver bird, for I need a clean-cut crafty note,
Or useless is this mute engagement, vacant, vexing, void!
Silence gleans no meaning, though daylight dealt has proud and perfect pitch,
Aube has got no particle to tide me over for my itch,
Tongue-tied thou art, dumb-stricken, by some unsightly witch!
But lo! I sense an enemy!

Anxious rendered, tapping tentative my porcelain plate,
Cleared I my throat, three times, and dumbly tore my napkin thrice,
Death pale and dreary, scowling merely, that I had paid it poor,
Picture of our strife upon the savage plain, the sounding moor,
Where I wept to break our brittle bond; whilst nothing could be truer:
Grieved I for lonely chastity!

Gusts swept around, awry and vicious – cracked veins throughout night,
Explored betimes a mountain height, whilst sadness laughed most lame,
Clept reason on its pate, and muddled mellow wit morose,
First left beloved Love: a grim, a ghastly, ghostly rose,
Hard as stone or slickened boughs, uncaring that I wept in throes!
Disdain distilled just enmity!

Tilt thy happy head! Act wise, but wastrel is thy soul mean-minded!
Long unkind, hast thou come of late with importunate and glaring eyes,
Wrongly pry me to make amends, who cannot do but make amends,
Quite loth to rightly rectify injurious deadly dissidence,
Dreading ever and eternally to let Love inside my den,
So sorry for thine enmity!

Recollection shimmers on the forefront of my brain,
Teases softer sentiments than thine, dispelling darker wrath,
Almost, might I your form embrace, not fasting or forlorn,
Light-hearted as a lilting lay, sung smoothly through the corn,
Credulous as to the potency of perfect siblings born,
Friends I fondly met by the raging sea!

But here and there I hear a humming – O could it be the wretched thrumming,
Of my heart that soars a-drumming, straining, longfully to meet thee still?
Could it be a whippoorwill constrained, a partridge or a jay,
Grasps garrulously the winds, the billowing winds of budding May,
Spring companion of thy ruffled plumage stiff and silver-grey,
Calls thee thus toward the crowned and crested sea?

“Bird that was my lover, o’er my fair works brought to brood and hover,
“Might thou be kind enough so as to skim the green and fertile clover,
“Forgetting aught my figure and the friendly fate we shared together,
“Simply had shared, much as a thoughtful sibling crafts a Sunday cracker,
“Pressing it in pilgrim palms, then telling tasty psalms above the heather,
“Lounging blithe beside the lacy sea?

“Might thou take thy pinions – depart, my soul! O how should I begin it?
“Fain would I take a predicate than look above my bowl,
“Lift thy wings, and spark no more resemblance of that man ago,
“Black-hearted fiend who vowed my sweet repose to overthrow!
“Nary a farewell said but memoirs made of mistletoe,
“O woe, by the white and waning sea!”

That friend of mine, the rarest swan e’er mystically resided
Westward in the sapphire lakes beside the slowly sounding deep-blue sea,
Took off hereat, a-shiver for starkest stormy breezes bare,
New-told of the caustic mind I kept, toward noon’s hot and garish glare,
High and haughty, soaring liberal, in the spreading springtide sky,
Half friend, perhaps, half enemy.

Something Anders

Expecting June’s delights on the growing grass,
I trailed beside the shore – my feet were loose –
Like a willow switch beside a port of glass,
A sprightly bird, a casual dusk-grey goose,

Clapping beats by which to make me smile,
And stimulate my fingers, spark my ears,
But nare had I accomplished one full mile,
Than teardrop came a-trembling for old fears,

Arisen with a blossom whiff, a scent,
Both light and eldritch from a purple plant,
A wild plant speckled golden, rife, not gaunt,
Projecting rod and rod at a sloppy slant,

’Tis spice, ’tis mace, ’tis pungent, putrid oil,
Enchanted musk, I thought, on a furled and fatal coil!

At a Picnic

Lovely at noon,
As white as moonbeams,
I watched you pour
Out a draft of dreams,
Enshrouded marvelously
In locks of onyx,
Tall, lean and proud,
Two eyes of Sphynx,
And where I chilled,
As cold as ice,
Your hands were rather hot,
And felt quite nice.
They tapped the pretty plates,
They folded on the cloth,
They plucked a stem of dates,
With sinewy tendons roth,
And I bid them tap some more,
Continue on and on,
As the blue waves lapped the shore,
To calm my spirits, lick the dawn.

Hope and Heartbreaks

His voice recalled
Notes of Beethoven,

The chant of birds,
Blue summer skies,

A wisp of stormy
Cloud afar,

I couldn’t catch
At all,

A high white star,
And I, a star,

Below the wreck
Of foamy seas,

Where soft lights
Strangely mingled,

On hope
Distilled enormously,

Pure wet and salt,
In temperate time,

Vie verily with voice?
Mute-mouthed, my heartstrings laughed!

I Needed in Fall

Brash breezes
Whizzed by

Disturbing piles
Of flaming leaves,

Around my table
Set for tea,

Above a piping
Stack of griddlecakes,

Into my nostrils,
Easing angst,

So in time,
My dreams flew up,

A mighty myriad
Congregate of swans,

Making a rosy
Blush of pain

Cast its shade
Across my love-shy cheek.

The Tea Egg

Late afternoon light,
Spilled through the glass,

Resembling golden rod,
Or daffodils,

Fair haunt of motes,
And fairy queens,

Enhancing all my work
Nudged simply close,

A pot of broth,
Some spice, an egg,

I missed so
Opted thus to make,

Balanced precariously
On a single leg,

An egg in mind,
A testament, a recipe,

A rarity of art,
Cooked rigorously:

Sliced egg-rondelles,
And tepid tea!

Mr. 42

O face phenomenal
I found

In front of chipped
Paint columns

One up
From forty-first,

Almost eluding vision,
Eldritch, eerie,

Neither big nor small,
Nor square nor round,

Possessing grace,
Most grim,

While weekend people pass,
Platform-pressed,

Drinking coke in bottles,
At the very brink of battle,

Articulate and comfortably
Treading dust,

Oblivious to blankness,
Odd, beige-colored, bulging face!

You know my eye twinkles,
You ken its girly gleam?

Thy faith and good will
42 have a haven,

Where hams connect with harems,
Am I Christopher Craven?

Church Dinner

Heart-happy
Honest sister

Your soaring syllables
Press like country wine,

And greeny girl,
Your fashion flickers,

Shifting soulfully
In the atmosphere,

Cracking a grin
As I call and call,

For a panoply
Of favors!

More beer! More biscuits!
Hand over the ham!

Dab mayo on,
Just dab it demoiselle!

Toss salad! Add capers!
Shimmy bright sardine!

Until dark night
Splays out,

And winds
Stifle merriment.

The Mountain Lord Christopher

Across the shady river fraught with light,
The banks o’erwooded, specked with house and house,
Bleak gardens harboring nut-brown hare and mouse,
Lie still, O still and quietly tonight,
But elsewhere is the feral hawk and grouse!
Ah! ’Tis somewhere else, the drowsing kite,
Removed from sight!

Tame juxtaposed with wild, both close and far,
The fairest, faintest, strangest, frigid things,
Grouped round the lamp post’s many golden rings,
Outside, tall gates, inside, a door ajar,
Where blankets move with many shiverings,
A kitten curls, and all the children snore,
Lulled by sweet lore,

Some incensed hound moans upward, hour and hour,
Diligence has a mother mixing milk,
Girls linger, droopy-eyed, to fold their silk,
And breathings drift up from their solemn bower,
A bower of breathings from the robin’s ilk,
A primrose pixie and her favorite flower,
Saved from the mower,

Throughout the which, the sloped and starlit scene,
O’er courtyards, grounds, and cluttered carrefours,
Rampant rustlings dancing o’er the pungent flowers,
Range spritefully and tersely tend to teem,
Upsetting pansy pots and banging doors,
Uplifting Christopher and his Calvary of dream,
Ridden out on a beam,

In quietude, frost flakes, and eddies near
To the parson’s porch, the elf-lord shakes his hair,
He strikes the wooden stair and does not care,
Uncaring, scoffs at settings peopled drear,
Dispels deftly grim, grey, gross despair,
For mickle minutes rare,

So doth he sing and sing, for friends to wist,
The lady of the lake, for instance, woke,
The forest sprite, the changeling in her smock,
His tender cousins tearful as they tryst,
Until light, lively humors run amuck,
So much his verses these pale shades assist,
Perfected, whimsy-kissed,

He stomps on clover, tucks a folded wing,
Calls to his mistress, grabs the Tomcat’s tail,
Throws dust, transmorphed to diamond gale,
Bids his silent train to revel caroling,
Sly and subtle, straightly from the dale
Where once he roamed, its nectars sampling,
On yellow cowslips trampling,

Blithe gentleman of glittering gloam at loose,
Girt ever tightly, glad and garrulous,
His feet are light, his thoughts are ponderous,
He looks, but must away to cook a goose!
He fades into Aurora rising tremulous!
Christopher and Company must flee abuse,
To fly in ones and twos,

Now prithee, pray for Christopher, most kind,
Pray for his kind and gentle heart that thrills
Ay, a budding tale by the thrumming village mills,
And what he does, now doest much in kind:
Inspire thoughtful stories, hone thy skills,
Enswathed in linen, garbed in twills.

What Three Were

To have birds and bees
Is pleasing,

Lilies and roses both
Where foxgloves growth,

A dram of dew,
A spot of wine,

The crimson-purple
Juice of blackberries,

Partitioned into
Tasty thirds,

How jolly ’tis!
To wear both green

And primrose pink
At night,

Mixing midnight black
And swathy white

For the sake
Of Urges

Smacking of lipgloss
Redolent, perhaps, of sin,

So happy, soft,
And wayward-wild,

Snickering, pouting,
Pouting like a child.

Your Jeans

At evening
When I nodded,

Near to sleep
As ill men are,

I saw a flash
Of faded blue,

Recalling fish
To every sense

Bluebirds, cloud shreds,
Dewy hyacinths,

Away in plenty
Of swelling squash,

Lost-love, I thought,
A flag broke free.

They were your
Star-spangled jeans

And I thought
No higher bliss,

Hosanna in excelsis
Makes me high.

Use Me

Step on my
Bridging back

Above the lilies
And their pods,

Make use of me,
A living love,

To span the chasm
Of despair,

Transforming grief
Along the way

So what’s left
Is a butterfly,

Rainbow-colored,
Pallpitant.

A Festival

Look, friend,
I laugh,

My feelings burst
In sparkling fragments,

A thousand million
Zinging bells,

That ring like
Christmas in July,

Until sunlight turns
To crystal wine.

We Will Not Be Cold

Set aside
Like toast

To stale on
Chilly countertops,

Love and life
Are glum as gruel,

The honey sapped
From every smile,

Half bland,
And half broken,

We mimic
A flat soufflé,

And what, my dear,
Is that?

The Desert Moon

Too tired to move, almost, I frown and freeze,
Berate the moon, curse all the dunes I see,
From east to west: once fallen on my knees,
Call and call some more to the shady sea;
There, over there, is no sustenance, alas!
Alas! That vacant disc sends not a crumb,
Cruel hunger pangs dart in and sharply pass,
So that word and thought are stricken dumb!
A bird I am, a sparrow, limp and lame,
Much longing for a tarn to tempt my tongue,
A broken bear once deftly strong, now tame,
Indeed! From desperation, a hallo’s wrung,
Too hollow, bleak, benign, and bare to keep
Its meaning, afore the hours cold force sleep.

Your Gem Eyes

Look at me
Because I glow,

A star, a charm,
A lemonbar,

As if I were
A precious thing,

Palm-love,
Deep and shining,

From spring to
Winter,

Then back
Again.

Morning at Starbucks

I was bitter cold, but ah! My eye,
It shone for having seen the sun,
Seed-grasses, someone’s early run,
It twinkled, though the winds were dry.

The weather snatched a shiver, barely,
But I ducked into the coffee shop,
Where tender-spirits tend to tarry,
A ready bunch, a hopeful crop,

Garbed head to foot in wrapping glad,
Expressing greetings, one and all,
Complacent, smiling, never mad,
Intending, well, to have a ball:

I flung my coat on a swarthy chair,
For one, a wad tucked in my hand,
Fell for the coffee’s fragrant snare,
A mermaid beckoned toward the sand:

I’ll take a grande for my tastes,
All for myself, brimful and shining,
Oh, my! For thirst, of course, then grace,
That speed of yours – else stand here whining,

I said quite plainly, snide and brief,
Before bringing in the merchandise,
My mouth bold-hued as a coral reef,
Putting up my feet, with beaming eyes,

A wee and quiet maid, a modest soul,
Grateful to catch an hour’s repose,
A fairy on her secret knoll,
Right fond of books through winter snows!

I moaned, I sat in solitude,
Downcast, alone, though soon engaged
In a piquant tale to suit my mood,
Ay, chipper, like a songbird words encaged,

Mere words engaged me whilst I stayed,
As much as snowflakes drifting white,
Soft flakes of snow that gently strayed:
Then strayed I with them, whilst well I might.

Adam’s Rib

My Johnny, he’s a handsome man,
Who wears his tie just right,
Who whistles when the day’s begun,
A lamb whose sleeves are white.

He croons to me, his face a-glow,
He beckons with a smile,
But where he’s been I’ll never know,
Since honey keeps its style;

And seeing as his lips are hot,
He gives me one up close,
As if he felt true love – my faith!
A miller on the floss,

One minute more, now calm, now cold,
He plies his grinning lips,
And treats me as my love were sold,
A wench with wastrel hips.

Ah, he smacks me firmly right and left,
Cruel-grown and prone to gloat!
Making middling fun of virtue’s theft,
Laughs loud when I emote!

Lady Jersey is Dead

O tall and tall is the neighbor lad!
Think I that he’s as bright as bright,
Calls me for bacon so I’m glad,
Comes soft and tucks me in at night.

Dream, dream and dream is all I do,
Because the world is O so fine,
Eat, drink and pray the season’s through,
Whilst knowing always Love is mine;

But woe, ill, dearth when he says “mine”!
This bonny lad grabs all my weight,
My body now, fruit, glass and vine,
His selfish soul to satiate!

When all he says is mine and mine,
A tyrant tall and terrible,
O bare and bitter Columbine!
Blood ends his thirst insatiable!

He ate an apple, plum, and pear,
A graphic novel for his tastes,
Then laid my pounding corpus bare,
Sweet Jersey called – now perished Grace!

Betrayal and Youth

He uses this abysmal hole,
Claims all my acres and my sun,
Takes pleasure from my prissy pain
And pumps me – though he’s not the One!

He’s not the One, this man, I said,
But since he did not leave, I cried,
A sitting weeping stone – though gay
Was bird and boy and blushing bride.

So, never bride, I blushed quite red,
Still tentative, touched the scoundrel’s skin,
Aspiring to win a kiss again,
Aspiring to let the glad love in;

And now – O black, black, black,
Is what my white love gives to me,
Who banged my eyes and banged my heart,
As wrathful as some sperm-laced sea!

Friend, I’m an angel, fair and free,
Since jumping John was not the One:
Inform me that I’m worth the while,
One ghostly girl beside the One!

Dawn

The firmament was mild and far,
Where blackbirds flew, and crows and swans,
An edifice arose in cinnabar,
And silver dewdrops graced the lawn,

Where once a cry extended up and up,
Then downward died, as from a ghost,
But maiden throat could one presume
To blame for all its store of loss!

If the woman had raven hair I doubted,
Or flaxen locks of gold or hay,
And scowled her plans should be so thwarted,
At the dawn’s most soft, light, early ray,

So scratched my head impotently,
A hapless man, a brooding monk,
A woman daft and vagrantly
Assuming love somewhere had sunk,

Assailed, harassed, afflicted, hurt,
Beset by woe and hurt to date,
Adorned by several tears, inert,
Nor prospects left to contemplate.

The Wind through the Window

Divinely fresh and green
In early spring, in spring,
Wind through the window pane
Came to flit and sing,

So cool and lively there
Beside the ruffled sheets,
A wild and huffing mare,
A team of parakeets,

Dry still, and I the maid
Awoke from erstwhile sand,
And not a sec delayed
On the wall clock’s ticking hand!

I thought I was the one
In comfort wrapped twice round,
Yet might one – another one –
Deprived be of joyous sound?

Blue skies all heavenly,
Pale stretch of azure mist!
Doth mark of man’s depravity
Exist below, exist?

I kiss the air, O once,
And twice for me and God,
To animate the moss
And bless the barren sod.

Yon Fir Tree

A blue-beetle tall and proud and bright
Who takes its stance expensively all day,
And into the festive clinks of winter night,
Drinking gusts of champagne and love-calls gay!

The skaters loop around your trunk so still,
Setting notes and patterns and sending flecks
Of chilly ice, as off a writer’s quill,
And kiosks set with trinkets beckon.

Stone-still and splendid, watching, staring,
A starry crest above the middling lot,
To be in shining specks of snowdrops glaring
While folks dance despite the colds they caught,

Garbed like a gondola or a garden gnome,
An emperor on his dais or Chinaman
Shining sapphire like a palace in the gloam,
A winter palace where a hundred loves began!

Let my feelings hug your perfect form,
Let happy greetings weigh upon your branch,
A flock of airy birds, pale birds of word,
And passions white as any avalanche.

Central Park South

I trip across the road, a book in hand,
A letter and an ink-stained frozen nose,
Thinking myself as busy as a Lincoln,
Old paint-obsessed Dali or an English ghost;

I flaunt my skirt, I kick my heel,
A shrub that blooms by rocky borders,
Shaping my agenda like a Buddhist wheel
In tithes and parts as night gets colder.

Some people smile and some will frown,
Some men will eat and some will not:
A bird’s a bird when it has seed,
Not anymore a bird when seedlings rot!

I swill my drink despite, smelling coffee steam,
Intending aught to share that pilgrim steam,
Full, salubrious and wholesome, after dark,
Still more beneath a hazy moonlit beam,

When dreaming turns vaporous veil
To horses and halos and drifting hearts,
A wreath at last! to crown my lasting flame,
Bloke I vie with by the shopping carts.

Reason tells me afterwards to make a call
On a phone that’s as good as a floppy lily,
Connecting air and earth and stem,
And me and him, you know, but I am silly!

I dread to blunder, avoid things bland,
And lest he find my faulty voice insipid;
I save my breath within my throat,
Nurse it palely perhaps as Mme. Callas did!

You are Patient, I am Purple

Humming bird, you there who’s chest is beating!
A Prince of Pigeons sat on a balcony,
Gentleman cloaked and scarved and mannered neat,
We walked through a whole day’s roaring panoply.

Well, didn’t we? And I tapped upon your shoulder
Like a student of personal history to ask
Close and personal things, until the day got older,
And fatigue hopped upon the bench to bask.

Remember it Love, as an elephant remembers,
O you who dress in collars and silver cufflinks,
From now until the winds of deep December;
Forget me not, my retentive friend, as daylight sinks!

For you are patient as a clenching sweet-blown rose,
Slow to open, and all round lush and fair,
And I am purple, purple as a bobbing violet
Seeking lips and compliments galore to deck my hair.

Our Noses and Posies

How soon I’d feed thy perfect figure on and on
As it stands steady upon the frozen ground,
With crispy crackers as you’re homeward come,
And dripping plums bought by the pound!

How gladly I should give you honeyed tea,
Piping hot from a pot of porcelain,
Buttered biscuits, mint – and still would you be free
Fine-tuning all your hundred hobbies American!

Ah, hot love, love hot-become as daylight wanes
Slowly over hissing land and cityscape!
After tracing names upon cold window panes,
Then should I tell my idle hand to turn a crêpe,

Force spuds through a sieve with chicken broth,
Throw slanty rains of pepper dark as city smoke,
Drag all this glorious dinner through the door,
And laugh till nine through spumes of bubbling coke;

You know, my dear, who strive to warmly keep
Your slender body of ash or yeo or birch.
O venture not to make a single peep!
Let me stoke dispersed vigor with meat and starch!

The Snapdragons

Summer is generous with its wealth. The breeze
Whips waywardly around the ripe squash poles,
Above the herb patch, where grey sage wags,
And thyme thrusts out its digits thickly,

Pleasant and primly trimmed, in a flood of sun
Wherewith the scents of bliss are purified,
Unharmful, normal in a nondescript
Nonchalant and unhasseled way,

A bounty suiting careful crafty dinners
Of fish or lamb chops for mouths importunate,
That all shall turn to gold, gold, gold,
And you, my bonny lad, shall hold the bowl

Among sleek snapdragons, myriad-colored,
Being mute, to your high song subordinate,
Bobbing and playing cheerfully: audacious movements
That flick as quickly as the tender tongue you wag.

The Rooster

That strutting Sir over there, how he chaunts!
Remark the way he shakes his mane,
His frilly plumage long and russet,
Affecting sometimes firm disdain;

O cock and stick! Dark cock and stick!
He pushes night airs from his ken
As jealously as might a Lord,
Or blazing poet with his pen,

Scattering dewdrops in the bustling yard
Beside the speckled pig and ewe,
Arching gloriously over the water pail,
And drawing chortles, feathers too.

The Cliff

The day’s drag made me miserable.
The round moon’s pull did more
Than the day’s mundane, its cracked events,
To fill life’s lingering vacant score.

Gulls mewed bleakly. On this weather drear,
I’d scant rely upon the roaring realm,
The salt-rife realm for compensation,
But take a shell, a wreath, a starry helm;

I’d take them chilly. Mist shifted bare.
Stars danced politely in their place,
And angel hoards made silent choir;
They gather their trustees, shimmering, race.

Clover bowed its brow to drink.
The rose’s absence pricked my breast,
As much as the stinging bee at morn.
Nor a star, nor a star for grim distress!

King Erico

His lips were a trembling rose,
Or if not bloomed, a bud,
On his snowy brow, a diadem,
O’er his spikey locks, a hood.

Ice cold was his stretching smile,
As were his vagrant tracks
Over a fallow frosted mile,
And breaking brittle backs!

Ah, the bulbous backs he broke
Across both plain and square!
A grin of cruel intention
Spread slow beneath his hair.

Chopped cabbage soup for Eric,
Enhanced by hearts and liver,
Limpid and loud, at eve,
For his downy mouth a-quiver!

King Erico drowsed, he slept,
But his eyes were slitted moons:
A pair of prize cracked teacups,
Vague Arctic hounds, grey loons.

The Barmaid

Swilled whiskey flung its folds
O’er the chiseled crystal glass,
Bestowing broken messages
On the tepid table top.

I shook my head like a mop.
A dram of liquid sparkled
In my weary eye, wary,
And late drafts set my legs to rot,

Blue and purple, shot with grey.
Fain would I run outside,
Burst brazenly and tip the hay,
But I sat, I sat to cry.

There were stellar whiskey blossoms
Dispersed on a sable field,
But I simply could not sweep them
Since they were staunchly sealed.

A Day in December

It’s the falling snow you give to me,
White splendor, early fleecy flakes,
For beauty or for my legs to ache,
That I might confuse red roses with rashes.

Sickly season, you bore a hole through my chest
Wind-beaten, tweaked by prickly pine,
Lamentable and long vapidity
I swill into my cup with wine,

So you might throw your glove in, a ring,
A sock at least, old laundry,
And if there’s warmth, they’ll catch a-flame,
And if it’s cold, they’ll drip all day.

My arms eagerly hold significance,
Beckon to a dozen thoughts of carded wool,
Exult in young affection like risen vines,
Shall not be hacked though, by word or tool.

On Christmas

Now quiet Christmas delights the crowd:
Red ribbons and a holly branch
Burn softly by the church at dawn,
A million muffled faces blanch,

Words glitter on the golden air,
Lingering by lovers craftily;
And if you sleep, I do not care,
But pray for love and honesty.

Two Modern Ducks Fighting

Do we split a ruined love-hoard into two
After our very first quarrel – and grand it was
To be drenched from the rain of words you gave
Interminably, until my ears were beaten buds!

Your roguish face grew dull and beige,
And afternoon color soon fled away,
Shadows clung to your mane of hair,
Cold shadows splotched your brow of May!

I wanted to fling a line of words
In perfect unison like bright-beaked birds,
Into your face to lend it light,
Or perhaps a tub of lemon curds.

And since you’d never come again,
Defiant bear! damned burthened beast!
I promise that I stepped outside
To do more than Bacchus at his feast,

While no dewy haze can mend the void,
While no rose can patch the injury.
I think I’ll take to evening walks,
Forget old duck-talk, perjury.

Waiting in the Square

In morning, vacant people mount the stairs,
Buried neck-deep in scarves and wool;
So I sing and laugh with singing birds,
Ten meters from the stone-walled school,

All by my merry self, a-glow,
Plump pouting lips of pear held firm,
A nipping nose, a chilly toe,
Humming tunes of mystic import stern,

Wet from the foggy mist, the bench.
The gingko tree is also wet,
Counts silently the things I say in French,
And pities my sore verbal debt,

Spell tree! Vegetable of enchanting boughs,
Could you pour on me a line or two
Of scintillating wit that’s never dry,
Lest I have to try, and try, and try?

A peony pink of newer lore,
Then, tall and lion-loud, for looks,
Would grow perhaps from my shell-white ear,
Spout waves of deep wild poems, books.

The Café

Come, eat, get up and laugh,
Show pearly teeth pear-white,
Drown in a green tea bath
Or drink coffee, stay up all night!

Lean your elbows, lean them heavily
On the counter-glass above the cake,
The scones and swirls of Chantilly,
Raisin-eyed, your heart a lake.

Grab his hand freely, and aye,
Would I tell you there outright,
To put it on his thigh,
Teach the blue-paned dancing night,

Chuckle, speak, banter, and hum,
Sing sweetly dear, lie not,
As the mixing bowls beat, thrash and strum,
For fickle love-fish freshly caught,

Sit down and converse quite low,
Jot notes about his day,
And he of yours, precise and slow,
Making dainty treats of hay.

Youth

Before the mirror, half-dressed,
It gathers its silks and folds,
Runs through the darkened hall
And past the parlor cold,

Gasps fretfully in grassy green,
Losing all its lily chains,
As the moonlight falls aslant
Across the brass floor drains,

Sighs and sighs for love,
Joy, eagerness, a bird
Of golden feathers tucked
In harmony like a word,

The plaints of which give fog
To the empty kitchen glass,
Where signs are lately traced,
Round, mystic, neat, and fast.

Ivory and insipid, pale,
Shivering for the nipping space,
It wants embers red for warmth,
Heart-red, not commonplace,

A step on the lawn outside,
Terse, tentative and willed
By a thousand wishes wide,
These desires lightly spilled.

Running Through a Copse of Trees

Whether wood or flaky stone
In the copse where sparrows dart,
It’s a pain to tell, but wood is warm,
Matches the throbbing of my heart.

Think me these pillars are solid
Real, quite, befitting dream,
The masts of some lost ghostly ship
A mile beneath the garden’s seam.

Where once was grass is ice,
A Heaven, fills my eyes,
Ebullience runs on and on,
Enlightened, and almost hypnotized.

A flash of trees turns to pelt,
Or pie-crust, or stretched ewe hide,
And hurts me like a mechanic welt,
But resilient, I abide.

There is a shooting star of lights
Ahead of me, arrayed like gems,
Crystals, diamonds, frost-tears,
Whence brightness comes in reams.

Do I go to it? Why bother!
I plié my foot and simply shrug,
Yawn, shake, and pluck a twig,
Call Cupid an ass, convention a slug.

The Chased Girl

Night flooded in on hasty feet,
Harsh and unyielding, black,
Where breath huffed up a storm
That pounded on indifference.

A girl shed a snatch of notes,
That seeped meaning through cracks,
The mortar of walls, jagged tree trunks,
Complimented her proud arched back.

In a wreath there’s seldom grief,
But despite the pretty needles
A bastard chased her a year ago,
Thinking well on spice and vittles;

Hurt doused her weeping eyes,
Like salt water for bar room beer,
Whilst rudeness pained her thighs,
Where not a soul did hear,

And her prayers flew toward the moon
On brilliant peacock wings,
Snow-white, shimmering, pure,
But vile’s the night, and no bird sings.

A girl saw her stinging blood
Pour forth from livid wounds;
Many wounds had this rosy maid,
Who lying still, made piteous sounds,

Dove, doe, and ibex, gentle kid,
Frond-hands, both sadly crushed,
The air breathed hush, hush, hush,
For girls, sweet girls, can’t tarry much!

The School Steps

Autumn in New York comes gently,
Cosmetics the tall park trees,
Breathes up horses’ nostrils avidly
And lends a score of kisses here;

The tea kettle hisses anon,
An egg is scrambled with ham,
Joggers surge forth at morn,
At sunset, workers return;

A lady wears a blue dress,
Blue rose of the book corner,
While a man in slacks thrusts through
The crowd, an albatross,

Steps from the fine eatery
Where roasted chicken rules,
O’er stepping gourmet coffee,
Pricy cups, like jewels;

The school erects, a giant,
A turtle’s swallowed many
And myriad schoolfellows, bent
Above papers that don’t pay;

A glassy ship, a mast,
The gingko tree in fact
Holding, ay, scores of pigeons,
Keeps their precious lore intact.

There are many sons and treasures,
Motives that blossom round the square:
Good ones, better ones, vows
That entice one by the ear;

Eagles, hawks and falcons,
A canary here and there,
Striving, preening, loving some,
Testing the borders of despair,

Embracing facts and foreign figures,
Scribbling notes with inky pens,
Engaging in pastimes fair,
Sleeping, sleeping in their dens;

So Autumn comes and goes,
A flaming cock, a crow,
Transporting all and sundry,
As the leaves fall to and fro.

The Rendez-Vous

A late afternoon stroll by the lake,
Where a musician had played the piano,
Who knew? And ducks for audience
Waddling to and fro and back,

As punctual as a tossed quarter,
My fastidious clean-shaved love,
Your eyes were almost green,
And my envious heart was green.

I cried joyous crystal tears
When I saw you, you could wear
Upon a freshly ironed lapel
Or as sterling silver cufflinks;

But grief departed with a flourish
Of aquatic avian dripping wings,
Skyward nor to be seen again,
For my heart sings and sings and sings.

Samson, I wonder still
About your state of thought,
Perceiving an acorn nut to crack,
A gilded box, a hyacinth,

And my heart beats like a fiend
Four separate hours to church,
So must you take it tranquilly,
And stop its piteous cry:

A plum-gift, an autumn pine cone,
A sugar heart with glaze.
The two of us must weld
Our hearts of glass today!

Who’s Heard of the Girl’s Notebook?

Proud girl defiant, strong, and kind,
A million men might follow your tracings,
Love-scratches on a parchment page,
Beneath a fairer sky where birds are racing,

Endowed with talent from your sister Grace,
Emitting truth, a ripe and precious fruit,
Pretty pens to match a pretty face:
Step, step onward through mud, through soot!

And might your words be ponderous
As the horse-children of idyllic dreams,
Succulent as dates or fleshy figs,
Confronting life in valiant vital teams,

For we have heard from east to west,
The ringing bells of liberty.
We harken, rise up, bravely dressed,
To heed the products of your industry!

Let the thinkers come, and the women come,
With bread and talk and new-born Thought,
Enkindled by the notebook atrocity
That racked your face, a flaming trough,

Delighting in knowledge, shunning hate,
Raining on marketplace and library
Its badges of ink and kinsman’s milk,
Spring green, fertile times of ecstasy.

The Preacher Softy Spaketh

On the Preacher’s face a lily,
On his gifted lips a rose,
Ages wiser than my wise,
Quite spiffy in his clothes,
Keen too of eye.
Lord, we used to break bread on the hill!

Staid, stern and slightly swaggering,
God’s greatest man spoke prayers;
His finest prayers he spaketh soft,
Late light lingering on the stairs,
Pale gold for sloth,
Though his lip – his lip hung quivering!

O pocket-man, some minds are pocked,
Eternal pox, as well, on lustful fiends,
A pimple on the proudest hearts,
And blasted those saltines,
His stark teen art,
He watches when his gammes are socked,

Communion crackers meaning crime,
Who knew his predilections?
God’s kingdom for a taste of salt,
Despite dread holy dictions!
Never manly fault,
Though, what a man makes of his time!

Ah, maiden short, ah lately come,
To a crafty congregation!
How the preacher stared, his eyes a-glare,
Pies of a pornographic nation,
Like bursting berries by the stair,
Devoid of reason, tripping home!

No, Preacher, no, sing still in key,
Youth doesn’t need a taste of thee!
The missus turns her face,
Not knowing Lust, so grim, so empty,
Most certainly, forsooth,
Safeguarding gracious ecstasy,

Though crackers were her limbs,
Her hair of naked flax,
Necro and naughty, the Reverend’s soul!
Does he stuff her bleeding flesh in sacks?
Does he eat his fetish-festive goal,
To sauce o’er all his flicks and gyms?

O night that gains ground nigh!
O stars that blindly see!
From Pisces to stiff-loined Orion,
Don’t you know this lady on one knee?
Above, erects a smooth-eyed stallion,
Grown gluttonous for prim and virgin pie!

Raped and Hammered, Sitting, Singing

Light falls so stale upon these dusty shutters,
Behind closed doors, twice closed with lock and key!
Huge aches and pains afflict me head to foot,
Sickness pales, sore eyes contemplate longevity.

O fetid, gross, and vulgar sun-spat pie,
The sun has spat upon thee hundredfold!
A mendicant crawls toward thee inch by inch,
Dry hands, cracked lips that tremble in the cold;

But for a tithe of this I’d have to bend
Over and over like a broken brick-red arch,
A hare yet not a hare, a willow branch,
Replete with rancors, stationed on a perch.

So Fortune, throw a bone at me, I’ll catch!
Baseball is wound up American wisdom,
And is not meant to wound the thatch
Covering all these words that quaintly come.

The Cold and Windy Beach

I

A sad remembrance takes me far away,
O winter bleak and bare! As time moves forth,
Divesting fairer scenes of aspects gay,
Their buds and blossoms of the bitter north;

I think on thee, one hundred times and more,
Regarding this grey sky, this break and beach,
This weed-riddled land wreck of the shifting shore,
Lashed to melancholy; gulls prate and preach.

No more, though, than my faithful memory,
That makes a sermon of our several days,
Spent in deep, sonorous, splendid ecstasy,
By the ocean’s rote and dewy speckled haze.

A snowflake falls, a word of verse, a prayer,
Ah, poet! Can it be it’s come to gloat –
New beauty for newer joys – dance through the air,
Spin round and round my solemn two-pence coat?

Gulls frolic in the snowflakes, content to soar,
Exploiting common climes in waltzing show,
Whereas I close my eyes and know no more,
But sigh at snowdrops wandering to and fro.

II

Pale charlatan! Beloved and brave and gone,
What might you tell of these tears I grimly shed?
The cliffs are cold, and twilight comes anon
To wrap its gloom around my drooping head,

Inflicting on me wretched hunger lame,
Rude, groaning, wastrel, nor to ever die,
If I don’t draw my thoughts from hence, and make them tame,
Lying about past love, to ever lie;

For like a squandered cake or spiced bread,
Love’s been transported, along with what we had,
Used up and squandered, care-eaten, bled,
Quite good before, but aging rather bad.

I find you in the spinning birds, the thrashing trees,
By the which my very bones begin to ache,
Though erstwhile love has lost its clanging keys,
Methinks – pines for scoundrel thirsts it cannot slake;

Thus cursed in memory and loneliness,
Would I bid you: be both satisfied and kind!
Select your stars and sort them! Rage and kiss!
But keep me, like a hymnal, tucked in mind.

A Life Without Porpoise

Long days have I endured to no avail,
As I were a lost and ruffled flower,
Pulled downstream more and more, a bleeding nymph,
Demented laughing daughter of Poseidon,
Who wants to dance, rejoice, and never think,
Is all, is all, to prance and have a ball;
Though would I have you straightly come,
In spite of sad sea storms and stringent gales,
Magnanimous and filled with sympathy,
Great eyes to gawk at, green and violet,
While I loosen out my hair by increments,
Humming to reason, importunate of luck,
Beholding fortune like a leaping porpoise,
Quite disdainful, princely, passionate and free:
To be, simply, to wave a fin and be!

Turned to Ice

Forgotten, the sunny days of summer,
That grew a perfect daisy, fled,
Young maidens left and women wed,
On tainted wings of gossamer;

No music plays now in the field,
But silence wanders everywhere,
In company of sickness and despair,
Beside the frosted bloom congealed.

The Scarf

Daisy was a quiet rebel,
Rachel Roy cursed as she bleached her dress,
Boastful was Jane, and crafty, Tess,
Whereas Priss thought herself the highest goddess,
Adored her own ruddy ampleness:
Modesty became them all, O prudence everlasting!
Words fit them cozily as cups of tea!
Tall waves or daft, grey seagulls crashing!
One maiden tossed her glossy curls,
Defiant of land and company,
Another drew a score of paisley whorls,
Beside her friend complacently,
A friend who had an ochre scarf, a coral lip,
Bright yellow beads and shoes of green,
Delighting the sun was good enough to sip,
That men were dapper, glib and lean.
This buzzing troupe was more than neat,
Laughed, that men laced shoestrings at their feet!

His Vile Mouth

O gnashing teeth! O lapping tongue!
O hateful jug empoisoned, crass and foul!
Crunching teeth, never a single white communion took!
Stiff, putrid muscles plumped by guinea fowl,
And meant for meanness more and more,
How odious is that gaping orifice!
Forever tainted mouth and insatiable,
Sounds curdling in each interstice!
Ah, there, I see it; or did I dream?
Those bullock chops were filled with
Char-grilled toast and cream.

Hedonius R. Freud

I swear to you our love will grow,
From March to June, with kisses sweet;
I shall stroke your honey hair of wheat,
But after that – you must not know!

O, do not think to gage me, love,
For much too fine, too elegant,
I keep my sacred elephant
In highest standing, which I prove,

Again, Love, yet again, aflame,
I’ll rain, fire, fling my perfect joy,
Erect my Will, since I’m a boy:
To deny me, though, that would be lame!

So let me Darling, dance and grow,
And smooth and fashion out my life,
A piper piping for his tithe,
That all my fantasies might grow!

Sour Lilly Cream

I hope your dinner pleased your tastes,
And nothing bit was gone to waste,
The crème fraiche frothed, the T-bone sizzled,
Green olive oil was gently drizzled.

What a miracle, your lover came,
Who had a wife and polished cane;
Prophetic, that he had filled your purse
After several dealings, slick and terse;

A regal pair of mocking birds!
A ring for you and rose-sweet words!
For him a watch and butterflies
From your bosom burst; then maudlin sighs,

Sighs from her angry parrot-throat,
Since the younger chick was hot-to-tote,
Pressed rudely from that blatant dame,
Whose heart had broke, but loved the same.

Her essence was pure lily white
And could have burned throughout the night,
As wholesome and as thick as cream,
But soured – for a harlot’s saucy dream!

Look, banker, priest and architect,
Behold their sultry dialect
Crawl craftily from gurgling cribs,
In blazing hues, whilst meanness lives!

The Green Moon

My lines fall on a snowy field,
As light as canary feathers,
Or hefty as defiant chains,
Intending to convey a better plan
For humans and their sacred song,
Weaving with my jargon, weaving still,
On a piquant spindle in my sandstone tower
To the bright green moon. I bleed pine sap.
My corpus is an azure mouse that builds
An icy ladder lest it falter, sick.
It scurries on and greets the grinning dawn,
Inspired by winds, bus-talk, loud tools and lingerie,
The drums of Dartmouth Moor, slick cars and beer.
Shall the subtle subterranean music stop today?
Shall I forge an Ode to the stars of yesteryear?

Muteness and Moonlight

Returned from school downtrodden, weary,
Trying not to let memory fade,
I rubbed my two eyes wet and bleary,
Wondered at the high moon’s mystery,

And hummed, for it was pale and passive,
Rejoiced since it was there,
Desired to send it verse and missive,
So strike out mute despair.

Indeed, did it lend unto my eyes
A sparkle, lift my heart,
Obscuring all I did despise,
Instilling, rather, Art.

Friend Moon! So shall I call to thee,
Enamored, small, defined,
In intimate complicity,
While time’s frills round us wind.

I’m Nothing But “X” Becoming “Y”

At the dawn of ages my name is “X”
In a vaster evening destined not to drown,
Not dreaming of dance or daisy chains,
Connections or long distance travel:
My infant heart deigned not to unravel,
Preferring rather, rife vats of soup and milk,
Peppered excursions also, with other members of my ilk,
Across the desert, across the briny sea,
Raising its hands and arms in ecstasy,
Become therefore a “Y” by volition,
On shady plains once governed by pure intuition,
To gladly worship both sun and moon,
Aurora and her multi-colored loom,
The singing silver stars to sounds of drums,
With all my fingers and my thumbs.
I fold again in on myself, a human rose,
Sometimes sexy, liking luxury, and often vexed,
Admirative of yellow fruit and ancient legacy.
Zoroaster scratches whorls across my chest at school.

A Date with the Mundane

There’s a speck of gold
At the corner of my eye,
Since it sees so many shiny things,
From the necks of birds to diamond rings.
I think to see you dressed at noon
Politely in your tailored silk lapels,
Deep-browed and sweet-lipped:
All members of hellish woe and rubbish, though,
If it is elsewhere you have sipped,
You ghastly clench-footed crow!
This wilted lettuce, these daffodils,
These truffles rolled egregiously in nuts,
The wine glass rim you slyly lick,
Contribute to deficiently.
I’ll see if there’s more economy elsewhere,
Before the public leaves shake their leaves bare.

Green Eyebrows, Blue Mouth

I have loved and detested equally,
Between hot tea and dictionary jazz,
Peeled peas in young simplicity,
But lived my life in any case;

My lips I’ve streaked with sticks of rouge;
I’ve blessings blown so solemnly,
Baked bread, used learning as a tool,
To make plain words more glittery,

Blanched at beauty, strong and broad,
Liked parks so much my brows turned green,
Cooked curry after playing on the sod,
Lapped up the ocean’s deep blue sheen,

Aloof or barely, firm or frail,
In search of piquant little things:
A butterfly on a crisp, white sail,
A seagull gliding round in rings.

Long Goose Stands Tall on a Tomato

O Susan Stellar’s ten to twelve, Sir,
And wants to lick her silver spoon,
Stand by the stove and stir and stir,
Beneath the dewy crystal moon;

So shall she occupy her time,
My bonny Susan – stitched gray socks –
Her father’s joy, her mother’s mime,
Upon a chair, upon a box;

For so I know, and so I know,
There’s a tall tomato man outside,
Whose eyes are savory, dull and slow,
Who lusts to take her for a ride,

The Devil being in his name,
Comforted, lewd, his mother’s fool,
A secret cook, in search of game,
Ah, some girl goose on a tomato stool!

He salts the hours flagrantly,
And rants at female patronage,
Crawls out of bed for chamomile tea,
Regurgitates shrimp bisque and sage.

Sing Susan, laugh Lily, light of God,
Recite your lessons for my love!
Stuff all your verses in a pod,
So Christ might drench them with his Love!

Fleur-de-Lys – Delice!

Raindrops fall
On the fertile plains
From whence a steam
Casts chilly beads,
And evening’s lost
In misty shade,
Much like the thickest
Winter wool.
Where art thou,
Fleur-de-lys?
Where art thou
Lamb and fleece?
Night’s hands are harsh
Sometimes and slick,
But still hast thou
Breath, a candlewick,
Or will I sadly wail:
Thou wert a fish,
The wind had mail.

Pigeon Purple and Crow Black

Walking, I saw a pair of pigeons
Lodged in the branches of some tree,
Looking excellently, I thought, a humming bee,
Then rubbed my hands and carried on,

Until I passed beneath a crow,
Black as a sooty chimney sweep,
Staring ahead: it made no peep,
But shivered there and would not go.

O plumage rich of sitting pigeons!
O solemn, inky black of crows!
A petri dish and not a plow
Should mingle aspects of their sons,

Producing monsters, creatures fair,
Hybrids and halos, dark and bright,
Chemistry, that is, performed all right,
Bringing genetic spawn to the genetic stair.

I must admit, I dreamed of it,
In the open air where birds did play,
Alive and light and rife today.
Night doth all these things unknit.

Lift the Ship with Rigging

There never was a pastor like Mr. White,
Who starched his collar every week,
Lived for the education of his congregation,
But had a wicked little leak;

For on his chest, he had much hair,
And groomed himself with pornographic
Visions of full-blown female ecstasy,
So his ship was set on automatic.

White nights he spent innumerable,
In an erected church of secret sin,
Devouring greedy gobs of creamy pie,
To let his gourmet Devil in,

O’erloaded with damnable apelike hair,
Wide-eyed and wondering what to take,
Along with bible lore, a bib,
To appease his lusts with more than steak:

Since rigid ships sail forth in brine,
Since bel-men toll for liberty,
Since films rewind as oft as wind,
And lusty mouths want tarts of berry.

He was spoon fed and insatiable,
Guided, meanwhile, by memory,
Instructed by floating clouds of dream,
His heart beat louder than the sea;

His heart beat loud, the man was proud,
What matter? He left to explore!
An apple girl, a custard girl,
He took though she was friend not whore,

Delighting in Rebekah Gay,
Waiting to taste her, bend her down;
Desire produced a bad display
Of gashes on her friendly crown.

John White was a hormonal hammer head,
Alas! For rigging and young girls.
Pirates and roses shouldn’t mix,
Nor porn rip laurels from our curls.

So this occurred in Michigan,
By the salt-laced and loud orgasmic sea,
Wherefore that which is gay is very dead,
Beet-red for a stark, licentious key.

Do ships need rigging to erect?
Ah, Rachel and her gaiety,
Whom mortal skin could not protect!
Did she need this groinal circuitry?

A newer day arrives, my love,
Whence men shall labor through the day,
Melodious and bountiful,
But where John’s now – no, not a ray.

Rise and Smile

Good mothers make their riz au lait,
Yes Sir, from LA to Japan,
Stirring pots with biceps made for brawn,
As circumspect as any man,

Working, earning rice and grain,
By means of happy diligence,
Protecting their young fry cleverly,
Dreaming of love and decadence;

But who should smile to see her cry,
Or care that she might chance to bleed,
Beleaguered, bound or preyed upon,
Subjugated to hurtful lust and greed?

Where is this BAG of graphic wool,
Man totes upon his shoulders wide?
Whose rice-filled teaspoonful of love,
Tells his mouth to smirk from side to side?

Whose pearly whites flash at fair Pearl,
As dawn sheds lewd calamity?
Sonrisa soucia! He smiles for rice,
Dissected to gross industry.

Ah, stripped upon a pole sometimes,
A shivering palm tree dry as sand,
Or wet, or hot, or deathly cold,
Hangs bare. His gloves warm knuckled hands.

I sigh: that pots are never bogs,
Is evident, since rice is white,
And earned through honest laboring:
Marveling deceit unfolds within plain sight.

What Hast Thou Eaten?

O what hast thou eaten, my love, my darling, my dear?
I smell upon your breath red wine and steak,
You did not have at dinner, lo! I fear,
But your boots are blanketed with mud o’ the lake.
I smell a fragrance on your neck resides:
Soft, smooth, and silken, profound and sickly blue;
So tell me if there’s aught my love denies,
And I shall neither sing for him nor choose to coo.
Oh why seek all your pleasure far from this,
Your well, your water, your sorry mate, your lass,
When we have shared our bed and warmly kissed,
Us arm in arm? But this has come to pass!
This thing has come to pass, concerning bread:
That ye this mead and meat have chose instead!

The Moon Laps Up the Night

Ephemeral shapes intrigue the happy mind
From slumber, enduring bright and fair,
So many things exist we shall not find,
Though the Night extends out vast and bare:

The milk-pale moon appropriates the sky,
And bids sweet perfect Venus sally forth,
Comprising a partnership above the rye,
Keen, pointed, whose princedom spreads from south to north.

These madcap partners, have they myriad wares!
Tastes that titillate and rows of eggs,
Makeup, a set of special winding stairs,
Star coffee, fruit, and beer in kegs.

Ebullient, I bid the cold moon drink,
For my heart maintains its prayer and passing pity,
Call it a smooth blank slate on which to think,
Hope it lends luck anon to all things witty.

A curious couple in the firmament,
Are the saintly two to whom these words are sent.

If Not First, Then Second

You know that I have loved you, fool,
Since summer shook its emerald mane,
Above my tortured, fawning brain,
Recalling words we spoke at school,

Being an aspect of my soul
To remember sharing sentiments,
And those promenades in elegance,
Which took us round our supper bowl,

Whereat your lumbering frame did stoop
To hear my converse, soft and low,
Fairly agile, like an ash-wood bow,
Tired-eyed, disdaining still to droop,

At the advent of July. My friend,
How waiting stuck upon my breast,
And I thought upon eternal rest,
Shook muck, my worry had no end!

Having spent with you long days of glee,
In walking, talking, balking, dining,
I’d not have believed, I’d tremble whining,
Ensconced at home: yet you were free!

“I’m not the type to let you hang,”
My bonny simply stated, smug,
Whilst granted me a splendid hug,
And knowing never that I sang.

This phrase you stated easefully,
Into my conch-ear skillfully,
To preserve, perhaps, my ecstasy,
Then wandered off quite merrily.

I did not disrespect your laps,
But doted on your memory;
That we made one team, good and sultry,
I remembered after several naps.

Sunflowers are similar,
To girls who dream day after day,
On lovers left, who will not stay,
Morose and stuck and loth to stir,

For turn they to their source of brightness,
Which holds its distant course despite,
Those groans lamenting it at night,
Sad flowers stilled in quiteness!

I poured over heaps of books, meanwhile,
Since you were gone ostensibly,
Trailed through the parks and drank plain tea,
Attempting to lose myself in style.

And the bridges had me on their backs,
Hard beasts, fraught round by living vines,
And birds traced simple, high designs,
Above my head, across the lakes,

Which I did shadow misty-eyed,
Pained at the heart, delirious,
Reflecting on a vanished kiss,
That was exchanged once, side by side.

Ah, dusk collected thickly – God,
I thought the lake should swallow me,
Fill my ears and eyes and ravage me,
Lest I, with weeping, drench the sod!

The local bells chimed fervently,
From the zoo where children laughed and played;
Though frail, I felt, like any maid,
Upon the hour, happily,

And would raise my stubborn heels to march,
To address the beaming city lights,
Night-scapes, and cheery peopled sights.
How dry I was and dull as starch!

Time fled swift-winged, a feral crow,
And I dragged on complacently,
Accruing that knowledge taught to me,
At school, where minds, like eggs, oft grow;

Luck did not break it: time was strong,
Despite Luck’s piteous sparsity,
Young lovers found complicity,
To carry the lonely hours along;

Whereas I met misfortune’s mouth,
Subjected to vilest dialogue:
Our tale would have no epologue,
Since you denied to love me now.

You should have writ a better note,
Before I bit that apple red,
Or worn it plastered on your head,
That you would leave me to emote,

So soon brushed off, a wisp of night,
A speck before more cherished love,
Whose pleas you kept within your glove,
Rekindled yet – your ties forgot!

I think that I was bound to smirk,
Then blush with shame from head to toe,
That I’d been your friend a while ago;
I called you back, but it didn’t work.

“This is not wisdom – eh, Cherie?
Best guard the sanctity of flesh,”
I breathed, with nerves as thin as mesh,
Sore object of proclivity.

Alas, to be midwife, not a bride,
Where other girls plan on and on,
Importunate rich gifts at dawn
Of laces and silks and argent rife!

Given thus to maudlin miscreance,
I sat beneath a gingko tree,
On school grounds, cried from one to three,
And bid new wealth pour over me.

Brethren held hands in the sun-drenched square,
Bandied talk, and laughed out raucously:
Young people I saw lovingly,
Glad of their abstinence from despair,

Absconded in my webs of thought,
Much like a plush and purple rose,
To reflect on bees and silvers bows,
Held briefly, yes – but never caught.

Saint Patrick

Have we wine here – elsewhere gin,
Rumors of Christ – but flavored rum,
A hymnal – there, hyenas, lo!
Black notes of sacred import, spots,
Upon a night-laced negligee,
Laughter and celebration – tricks,
That call out loud as spry as birds,
The thirst for knowledge of our God,
Whereas these famished gullets growl,
Tall organ pipes – mentally,
Pale incense – who seeks these whorls?
Contentment sings – the sweetest things,
For flesh of fish – another wish,
Sacred, profound – or light, profane
As deft as a knock on the door of God,
Or a pat on the nape of fancy Maud.

A Christendom of Snow

Soft winter, herald of sacred mystery,
I love to contemplate the hues you bring
Beside wet stacks of wood and drifts of snow,
The purest of all whites, and berry reds that glow,
Wishing so much to partake of thee,
Looking gladly at all things, light-headed,
Before this perfect ecstasy. The country’s not more free,
Though doth I fear – ah, frightfully,
For of pile of silent, sly and silly Issues,
Issuing forth from the hard nexus of human desire,
Since greed surpasses gladness often, whirls,
Beguiles the leering senses to sinning grievously.
The bright brilliance here I find,
Brings peace and quietude to my mind,
Fancier and realer than I, and without end,
Covering fairly all the land, blown by his breath,
Harmonious and never lacking ease,
Throughout the spreading trees and lacking these:
Might he exult in mercy, kindness, honesty and lore,
Nobility insurmountable, to grace his august name,
Forever and anon. Red berries on the bending bough
Instill me with sweet pleasure, boundless, quite succinct,
Deep as the blood lifts my veins a measure deep:
But through these myriad dainties fair – I do not weep.

Lady Godiva

It snows and snows: one feels alone,
Feet curl like frail oak leaves, and hands will fret;
Cheek color amplifies with berry blush.
Thoughts become starker and delve into drifts,
Trying to dig out gold from chilly soil.
A theorem’s tested tentatively as treason,
So no wonder runner soles shall balk,
Even if there are prospects of shaking off what’s old,
Deftly as the shaking of a leg, the tying of a shoe.
The spacious setting’s spangly through and through.
I believed that wearing holly berries on my lips
Would be fairly presumptuous but interesting,
Or diamond snowflakes in my tresses gossamer,
Or pungent tea leaves at my fingertips,
Checked myself then, for growing boughs of folly.
On a neighboring hill, blond Jezebel
Puts on her facial varnish, primps and sighs.
Smoke curls in her demented feline eyes,
Propounding measurable meters of pure addiction
Which make her lashes curl up more and more.
The sonorous wind chants verse, but time’s a bore.

The Prince of Flour

His nose is sharp and long, quite striking,
As brown as coffee grounds or soil;
He says his life is full of toil,
But he doth hike and oft go biking.

Erratic in his rigid hands,
He slaps his dough for hours on end,
Assures himself his loaves don’t bend,
A clever man – a man with friends,

Who dances, dances, dances well,
Not caring if his clothes are torn,
Or if crows waltz across the corn,
For his brain had grown a ringing bell:

A bell that tells him – lad, ’tis time!
There’s color on the bread, bright gloss,
So fold it, punch it, sling it, toss
The dough and bake bread for my rhyme!

Stomp both your feet and dredge the boards,
Roast fibrous fare, just operate,
Or cross your legs and contemplate,
The purple rain outside – demurs.

Design and Desire Build Holy Fire

Delectably, I comb my hair as sun pours in,
Subliminal, feeling vitality and cheer,
Looking forward to honey yams and a bright new year,
Prepared for gifts and books and caroling,

And wonder if the Holy Spirit doth exist
In sappy branches, ever loving life,
Or if shadows weave more perilous strife,
Rather than ridding fruit of its bitter pith.

Ah, sharp weaver, spin and swiftly spin,
As high as burgeoning winds must take thee,
Or low as limpid rivers in thy ecstasy;
But would I Will thee smartly spin and spin,

From dawn to dusk, enhanced by self-made fire,
Intangible creator with thee complicit,
I see thy science, art, and wondrous wit,
Most intricate – for thou, God, art the Sire!

Now by the door outside and through the trees,
I question what abundance is and wealth:
If these were willed by God in his righteous stealth,
If holy fires exist to embellish these.

Is John Done?

He thinks he smokes a
Peppermint stick,
Playing dice on the back
Of his hairy hand,
Sucking and sucking,
Peevishly, perverse,
So common
That all his steps
Are rehearsed,
Cracking his mahogany
Cane in the city smog.
O he’s a flexible snake,
But some say he’s sweet
Like peppermint,
Black licorice
Or vice:
Debauchery, like tweed
Looks good,
And fits him very nice.
A flock of angry letters
Will not force him to
Come home,
For there is brandy in the sky,
And his gopher throat is ever dry.
Indeed, his pipe is never done,
Pipes on, to greet
The cheery sun.
Oh, why monsieur?
A fly is sly, ’tis why!

Men are Mighty and Mysterious

A man has expectations, chores,
And duties he must carry out – for which I call him stud,
Carpentry, cooking, sweeping, gardening,
Prepared always to take the garbage out – for which I call him hare,
Which make him hard as church stone chiseled,
Potent as paint, ruddy with righteous sweat – a bull perhaps,
And yet, though not a girl, I do not know him yet.
I suspect he harbors sentiments, both hot and cold,
Feelings and convictions, fancy tricks and turns – a poet, lo!
To be abashedly suppressed or exemplified
In art, song, word, or hobby, thus character,
And dawn anoints him with soap and lavender – that pricey Lord.
The mighty are provident of shelter, somewhat like a tree,
Finances and stability, warm meals robust and hardy,
Since the best of them are generous, wield cutlery and brawn,
And match subtle distress of dames with quiet sanctity – redwoods and cherry trees,
Ah – sometimes – if his heart’s a treasure trove and key.
Educated partners are elegant, rogues are egregious,
Hot dragon men can machinate, aspire – erratic fiends,
Prove loving, though love be deleterious
To the busy maid at Aube, who’d rather keep her fire.
His hair and thoughts intermingling, make seed – a botanical innovation,
Thistle and upright heather, or a prickly rose,
A vivid object, fascinating, and fair, that grows,
Pure in its quintessence – or else, a wracking weed – what balderdash!
Joy is to him, well, either hindrance or joy,
For as simple bread to girls – this bread doth feed the boy.

The Black Rose

Raindrops slap down upon the earth,
Plinking on sleepy rooftops as we snooze,
And shiver in the evergreens.
I wonder where the crocus is,
When it shall make its great, bursting escape,
Where the pure and vital music is.
Wild deer shake their snow-white flags
Within sight of official office desks,
Bashfully leaving their sibilant imprints
On this lonely country map.
I am as orderly as a blue spruce, I say,
As meaningful as silver-edged fir,
But these trees are scanty and demure!
Elsewhere, a black rose grows
By a vocal patch of bobbing mint,
Fragrant, tall and elegant,
A prickly wanton dissident,
Not knowing how much I love
Sweet rose hip tea and inky prayer
At night – to tear a maiden
From the cheap influx of smoky-eyed despair.

The Scale Game

These wiry limbs must hoist, pull, lift, and drag
To get to the golden, lofty crag,
Employing only the most basic of mechanics
To impress their existence on the plate of perfect time.
A Will compels them to shimmy on and on,
A desire dresses itself in their wide wardrobe,
To ready them for their apex, the season’s climactic,
Instilled within some shape, some form of destiny,
Some art, some wish-list painstakingly devised.
There is nothing as intense as cold sea salt,
Or the design of modern dinnerware for hard-boiled eggs,
The keenness of war, the craftiness of invention,
The sanctity of loaded kitchen cabinet, stacked with scales,
Gilt porcelain and napkin rings, set to a tune of Mozart’s,
Some note cracked from a hoof of Beethoven’s, or ball games.
We spilled wine of fiddlers, fruit, and flowers here,
Told tales, as well, to titillate the ear,
Licked frost together, counseled against the stasis of frost,
Twirled pens lengthily in our fingers, more spry than most.

By The Beach, Repose

I lie on sand, listening to the roar
Of crashing waves, inebriate.
The cliffs rise up like bleached bone fingers,
Harboring hawks and billy goats.
The sand sieves through my fingers slowly,
As I contemplate the eggshell sky.
Minutes languish here, and hours pass by.
If I deign to trail upon the twilit shore,
I would the pads of God accompany me,
Beside the beating heart of the willful sea:
For him to sing anon, and sing to me.

A Fiddler Was The Lord That Day

This stretch of sand, it was the hair,
The hair of my beloved, unraveled bare,
Wind sawing back and forth – I stopped to stare –
A hundred turtles came – that dare!

A legion sallied forth with brawn,
To lay their eggs in batches brave,
Each digging for their spawn a cave,
Eggs shaped like notes, from dusk to dawn:

White phosphorescent shapes – officially,
Like oval gems or pearls of prospect,
On hatching, bitter and quite derelict
To have to breathe air – out toward the sea.

The Book Contained an Evergreen

I fancied the book I had held an evergreen,
A sprig of it, a branch, a tawdry twig,
That being gracious, stripped of everything,
Left pins and berries, snowdrops, sparse and lean,

Collective meaning, myth, and leaf-fringed legend,
I loved to read for all their tear-stained hues,
Teams of l-shapes, i’s that spun around in twos,
And o’s like berries, ever read, sans end,

Printed on flimsy paper loyally to press,
Fragmented from a single stem of woven spine.
The essential of it sparkled, feeding fire,
The eternal wagging tongue of my sagesse.

The Broken Red Berry

I split the berry on my thumb,
So that it made a mouth at me.
There was a little tongue of flame,
That Robin sang in ecstasy;
The casing was bright scarlet red,
But the flesh was yellow – like fine dust,
Or gold intermingling with sweet lust.
O opulence, rich as if from Chinaland,
I could place thee on a pile of folded silk,
Account thee amongst my finds – as true as milk!
A beak it was of fruit, a breaking bulb,
Distracted me from my easy run:
Sweet rumination, though, what mickle fun!

Pat Me to Kill Me

Sometimes I say that I am poor,
A wretched woman clad in rags,
Though my garments stay fresh in their crosshatch bags,
And acquire no dust by the chamber door;

Still young, but aging slowly – God,
I am neither whore nor animal,
But this rigmarole doth make me stall.
I have time yet to smell the sod,

Still will I go to church, a maid,
To breathe its incenses and wood,
Where I am wont to stand, have stood,
Until time sees me downward laid:

For harsh winds stir my glossy locks,
Despite my predilection for lullabies,
And my rosy palm – it oddly dries,
Might lie beneath, someday, a splay of rocks.

So pat me, life – pat my pride flat,
Steal the wind from all my wandering words,
Bake me in sunlight cruelly with thy birds,
But my blessed love – I cherished that.

After Christmas

After Christmas celebration, a vest above my shirt,
I set to reading a perfect play, content,
Expecting neither boredom nor admonishment,
And despite the frightful weather, spry, alert,

A-humming in my chest, a hummingbird,
Quite eager from my brow down to my heart,
Particularly relishing this foreign art
Because ’twas foreign, weaving round the word,

As much as I’d devoured the fish fillet,
A trice before, for supper kindly laid.
Oh, I felt clever! A lady and a maid,
Prepared to draw past learning forth today,

Bold Cyrano de Bergerac! What could it mean?
What import, turns of fortune, brilliant fate,
Should stay me with its rife and golden rate,
Enhance my chest of lore, and flaunt its sheen?

Hearkening to music all the while, I read,
Concluding thus, with musics, was I doubly fed.

Hot Bib

There was a tall and handsome man,
Who had a sparkle in his eye,
A cherry mouth – his cheeks were dry,
And he cavorted in a minivan,

Dark as a raven; women raved!
As ivory as an elephant,
His hands remembered prurience,
And he had lewd pictures that he saved.

O violent man most specter-full!
How this rich windfall is wonderful!
Hot glowing apples for his mouth,
And wet smiles for his days of drouth,

That fall upon the lobster man,
Enhancing his young vehemence,
And call themselves so cheap, cheap, cheap,
‘Till they end up in a mangled heap.

‘Tis a grass clad monster, flapjack Sam,
An ebon ram, a brain of ham,
Who drinks his lust with alcohol:
First one, then some – can’t drink them all!

Priority Line

I wonder what these hands of mine have done,
Or are bound to do, from one to a thousand things,
Inspired by the moon, beneath the sun,
Sanctioned to ponder thus in many rings;
For so things live and grow and die,
Make art: high, coarse or dubious,
Sometimes and well – but pale and dry,
The steeds of sickly famine are querulous.
Dawn sheds abundance on the grateful earth,
Extracting musics tremulous and fair,
And bursting buds; it should have no dirth;
But breathe to newer heights without a care:
These unwed hands swoop down to gather dew,
As deftly as Diana – Phoebus too.

Tickle Cherry Pickle

Drool, canine vomit of the leaf-green moon!
Pad hither on your feet – thorn-free and arrogant monstrosity!
Bark for confections in complicity, bark, hound-dog, bark!
Your bib is stained with gross and vile simplicity,
Your claws dig graveyards in our carrefours,
You make bordellos of our family stores,
And your saliva sinks like cherry juice implicitly.
The children’s feet are cucumber fronds, their hairs are tendrils,
You cover their salad faces with marbled cheese,
The black dog stirs his wives hot pickle juice,
And he slanders, swears, and slurs – I cannot marry these.
Red roses, baby’s breath, and crocus’s come popping up,
Like fish bubbles toward the light: to take their righteous cup.

Money Doesn’t Grow on Trees

Call softly to me, O my love!
Since weariness afflicts my breast.
Though absent, thou dost love me least,
Love comes not freely, time doth prove,

Nor is my heart immortal, sweet,
And grievances weigh heavily –
Fain would I live and heavenly,
Lest sickness rise and take my seat.

Whist thou art living, learn to squeeze
That lot good work entitles you,
In efforts honest, fast and true:
Sound money doth not grow on trees!

Is all, is all, my handsome, fair
And favorite darling. Much ado
Must fret and starve the Seasons through,
But afore we do, might love be bare!

Hot Tea and a Cinnamon Stick: M is for Moinneau

Moineau, or sparrow in the park,
I could equate thee with a star,
Sweet, gentle friend – how rare thou art!
God feathered thee – God left his mark!

Less water goes into thy bath – chéri,
Since sand gives thee thy plain toilette;
I could not catch thee with a net,
For thou art faster than a bee.

But ’tis thy color I like best:
Brown like rich coffee – mild like tea,
Replete with luminosity.
I bet God wears thy tiny vest;

Shares aught thy symphony at dawn,
At eve, thy seed and simple joy,
And thou art true and simple, coy,
Though flittest madly o’er the lawn.

The day’s a pretty cup of light,
To which thou addest cloying spice,
To make the mundane hours suffice,
But stilled, thy flaming tongue at night.

My mouth drinks tea – I think of thee,
And like the tea, thou art not strong:
Chill wind must carry thee along.
This cinnamon – a twig for thee.

Hey Miss

Morning showed me a brindle of thyme –
It sat upon the window sill –
A trophy for a bird perhaps,
Or something for the box with dill.

It made me think of old love gone,
But – hey Miss! The outside spoke to me,
Propounding bitter vacancy,
Hemlock to fit inside my tea.

O could I then have smelled the sea!
Omelettes or warm wash moiling suds!
Instead, I swooned for coffee grounds,
And thought my hands were bathed in blood;

Hey Miss! The garden spoke again,
Through the thyme sprig, faint, degrading spring;
But I was busy with my pen,
Kept time – did not hear anything.

His Hair is Light

The neighborhood was frosty,
And all the trees were bare,
Light mingled with late shade,
Caused my wond’ring eye to stare;

The way had evergreen –
Would I have it last awhile –
Partaking of this fantasy:
I saw a man; he smiled in style;

‘Twas late, the trees were bare,
The light drenched both my eyes,
For which they fashioned elegance,
Divinity in sheer disguise.

Whittled, from wood, a man,
Life-sized and pale of skin,
Whose hair was a splash of light,
Glossy like crystal or beer,

His sapphire eyes aglow,
Matched with incumbent snow,
Though these I could not catch:
Were birds that needed thatch,

Or magic orbs, or flames.
Whose prize? Not even Ruth
Could fancy such a foot,
Or eyelash flecked with soot,

That candid, triumphant smile
Prepared to light a mile,
To drink – to dine – to sleep,
Flexing his shoulders all the while.

My musing clothed him round
In folds of gossamer,
Ascribed to him a voice,
O sweeter than dulcimer!

Bidding him sing thereon,
To sing and gently sing,
Bringing rich thought to bay,
Then riding like a king,

So I did dream a knight,
A lad, a gentleman,
Whose hair was purest light,
A grant, loth – not my kin!

The Ant Called And

The creature was genetic,
A muscle multiplied,
Fit to frame a mountain,
On its ebon side,

A bit like steppingstones.
It ate only a bit,
Walked its winding zone,
And didn’t need to sit,

A hulk though just a tad,
Replete with energy,
He built a door – a trice –
His DNA – was nice.

Since he did not stink or smell,
I called him merely, “And”:
A multi-faceted
Goliath of the sand.

Saffron’s Soul

A man wielding a rod can be a menace,
Caring nothing for civility. He feeds,
He feeds flamboyantly on what he wants,
Indulging sexuality, stifling other people’s needs,
Smirking and frowning, drooling at the mouth.
No ballet for him – pugnacity,
Or art for him – pornography,
Seeks always spice – like saffron – for his taste,
Or buys it for a mickle price – like rice,
Unwraps it slowly, savors every ounce:
Drugs, wine, or women – my, that man shall pounce!
I do not think he loves his mother, so
Wanton ways and vice provide the animo.

—Please keep feeding this male chauvinistic pig.

Cock Foot Games

O burly man! O bogus man!
This is sorry nourishment
For a maid that takes impingement far:
He has cheap beer, a diamond bar,

He keeps vile hatred in his brain,
Starches all his dirty socks.
This man’s insane! He has a cane!
His wants explode like chickenpox!

Eventually, his foot will rise,
His hand, his arse, or head,
Expecting to be deified
From the dark folds of his seedy bed,

And call for more – more – more!
Then gnash his teeth and storm,
Such cockerel! Such cockerel!
His heart is cold, his groin is warm,

Allowing him to scale a fence,
A wall, a bus or nation too,
Demanding sweet things for his lips,
Unwrapping, loth! Both me and you.

A rod grows from Cock’s brain, I say,
A shovel getting oh, so long:
Tools of a pig who hath his way.
‘Twas for his tail I wrote this song.

The Child is Lovely

Winter’s here with song,
Jogging and games,
Poinsettia makeup, Clementines,
Rose-pink girl blushes,
Perfection, godly symmetry,
My youngest child – God’s with thee!
Do not despair – oh, no!
The time shall always
Come again,
For banter and bright snow,
Floor hockey and more milk.
My, thou art lovely,
Thy tongue’s adept,
Thou art figured like a grasshopper:
Might speedy kindness be thy core,
And grow like roses outwardly.

The Mooncake

Behold the purple moon! It waltzes there,
It dances there up in the air,
Bedding the star-throb by its side,
As sweet as crystal ice – what ho!
It sees a little cheerio
Sauntering and swaggering in the stalwart dawn,
Prepared to eat her mooncake wedge,
Yay, eve crumb by crumb, much like a mouse,
Preferring powdered starch to grouse.
Cheerio! ‘Tis so very fresh, this place,
Rife with promises and expectations,
Great chunks of precious golden yoke
For all manner of modest predilections.
O slavish study! Nourishment!
The beans herein shall take us skyward,
A lawyer here, a doctor – I, a bard.
Ambition, we shall have thee plated soon,
Like Friend Pierrot – or Phoebe’s not the moon!

The Tiny Apartment

How small this room is, how big
The lamps seem relatively! I wonder
At your lofty stature here, in this curious can
Of condensed self-love, whereat
Your arms spread outwardly like wings –
A brilliant sight in fact! A boon!
These porcelain dolls upon the shelves, they wink,
As if fulfilled by starlight, strong like sake
Or chill plum wine. They mock us, dear.
A shimmering cascade of beads provides the door
Within the actual door, implicitly well-spoken.
My hand plays serenades for it – lo!
Its smooth solemnity provides good cheer,
Reminding me vaguely of the ocean, mythic potions,
The discreetness of small birds. They’re taking flight!
Oh my! That man outside, you might espy
Through these dusty shutters – is in his prime,
Comports himself much like a lord, you know!
Methinks he has a speck of shaving cream
At the corner of his lip. Might he like pie,
Delilah, we could ask him for a trice,
But the tall cut flowers are lovely despite
In that sapphire vase. I suppose your heart
Welds itself like a gypsy to their gypsy stems,
And bleeds pure dew. Draw a disc, dear,
From the wooden turntable – more animation –
Place it deftly in the CD player and dance.
I’ll dance right along, pivoting, plush,
The apotheosis of conviviality, serpentine.

Let’s study Chinese by moonlight Sister,
Shedding English words behind us like steel blue jazz.
A pretty character is your belt-buckle, iridescent,
And the air with these buckshot words is redolent.
Friend moon over there – he sips significance from a spoon.

The Morning Cold

I woke feeling blue.
It could have been the Ice Age, Pierrot,
Or the glassy surface of your mythic moon.

The temperature makes me shiver
As if I were a Florida palm tree
Adored by scarlet blushes, tinsel hands,

And my garments do not please me.
They’re not distinguished, they’re not superb,
Assault my eyes with bland deception,

So I feel flat, flat, flat,
A rag doll or a dame in day dress,
Alone to spin my pen assiduously.

The potato couch creaks sharply.
Hie potato, ho! Paint for painting
Lies dead in some quaint corner, lying,

Though I give regards to Impressionism.
There is truth in tamed vivacity,
And punctilious pine trees outside smile,

The wind lifts up, it bares its back,
Snarls through the woven ash wood snares,
Objects of beauty – brazenly.

I get up and tap the windowpane.
High Helios, if I could smear my face,
Just smear it with cosmetics of golden light-headed

And burn upon the early hour
As for a gentlemen of Lourdes,
With holly berry lips and swinging hips,

Hang my silky smile upon the air,
A prophetic sign of welcome: say,
Shouldst thou send me word of love in a Robin’s beak?

His Name was Arson

There was a man of steel and fire-warm
Who ate cold turkey with his hands.
His sister made him sandwiches,
But he hated love and murdered it.

He had asparagus fingers – lo!
The rigid fingers of the damned,
Which scratched his bristling sailor’s beard
Until it found his medallion of dreams,

Not ersatz – worth the sickle grim
Of dripping death who makes his bed,
Wriggling his maggot toes. It snows.
It soothed his heart so chill and nice.

He tapped the floor with his hairy foot.
It made him smoke more, knowing vice,
Since his sister slept eternally and sound,
Beneath the floor, within his chest.

He planned a flaming tree, and fruit of fire,
The chameleon man, he planned and sang,
Inspired by acute desire, lust,
For his mind – his mind had ovenry,

Released upon the street, released.
The boy had Turkish Delight, you know,
Kept track of blocks on his flickering tongue,
Partook of fire and blood, catastrophe.

O flames of liberation! O fallen men!
Firefighters perished. The cad
Cackled with roaring flames – when quenched,
He’d stolen his own vile life away.

Sisters, neighbors, prostitutes,
Clandestine messages of hate,
Infested reverie that whetted Will,
Where are they now? All’s fatal, still.

The White Flowers Smell Sweetly

I had a vase of flowers at home, a gem,
A relic which we filled each week with love.
It was studded like a sultry Indian belt,
And painted midnight blue – a mystic flag,
Spilled over with lavender and baby’s breath.

It sat on an oakwood table cryptically,
A blessing to which we tended, mystified,
Listening to our keen discourse and laughing songs
Like a crouching bunch of ears implicitly.
It could have been a national, a socialist.

Methinks it regarded baked bread cautiously,
Sending out several stars of wandering intellect.
I picked my fingers on its thrusting, bursting buds,
My nostrils filled by pure insinuation,
Suspicious of the vase – it fed suspicion.

A high heat glazed the baking bread – come, crust!
Come shaking flowers of joy, all shaking snow
Of perfect petals by the cabinetry!
Perchance a god shall take the bread and break it,
A lily field of flesh, igniting dream,

Whilst I shift the flowers quietly, a rose,
Leering lividly upon my cheek, a book
Offering its tea-stained pages to my parchment hands,
Bleeding words into the morning – butterflies.

The Rocking Chair

It’s usually still,
Hammered mahogany
For my rocking babe,
A painted rocking chair,

Gilt contoured backrest
Easing usage
Like the smooth, easy slope
Of flavorful linguistics,

Providing the memory
With piquant errands,
Retrieving milk
From the throat of old mythology,

A monolith
Upon the patterned rug,
In sun or moonlight,
Neither grim nor overjoyed.

I sucked milk here,
Sucked like a lamb or wolf
Until those needs were quenched,
Those desperate needs,

With eyes of coal,
Enkindled by silver starlight,
A star, a brooding star,
Or chilly mendicant.

Quaint furnishing!
Exalted coat rack, plane
On which to scrawl
Sleepy poetics and psalms,

I don’t forget thee,
Even perusing notes
At school, a scholar,
For thy form’s still musical and deft.

A month from now,
A season coursing fleet,
Cherry blossoms shall loosely fall:
And you, chair, count accrual.

Pigeon Vanity

I remember visiting Bryant Park quite frequently,
Wearing schoolgirl skirts and lovingly worn leather shoes
Before the winter snow set in, and kiosks popped up, decked in lights.
The pigeons already wore their scarves, prophetic creatures.
Their iridescent violet and green collars one takes for granted,
As the pigeons waddled back and forth, cooing, white yokes on their upper beak.
They should ejaculate conversation, pronounce good dialogue,
But their beaks are practically woods – insurmountable deficiency –
Emphasized by a sympathetic snowy ring – doesn’t say a thing.
Their mating colors sparkled though, vivaciously,
As fresh as petunia confectionery teeming in chained pots
Like gigantic ceramic mixing bowls, organizing elemental richness!

The pots fashionably freeze. The snow drifts down
In the gracious sunlight, gracing day-life,
But at night these dreamy flakes of memory
Remind me of summer hues, floral city birds, bold vivacity.
Next spring, I shall go again. The pigeons shall call again,
Ecstatic, one by one, viola d’amori, proudly wakening
Lovers, children, university students from deaf complacency.

Cousin Raymond

Oh! It’s a harlequin in his painted mask,
Arrived straight from Venice, Wadsworth!
The bitch is gnawing at her wrist, he says,
Because her brow cannot quite touch the ground,
Vomits eggnog, now, and Irish cream.

The ravens caw at him. He caws right back,
Wearing a baseball cap and kidskin gloves.
It’s birthday weather. This land was his.
He thinks of dying his straw-wisp hair,
Seeking always to impress – some cash, his car.

The pearl-white moon set in a sky of onyx
Beguiled his eye for hours straight, a ghost,
A living ghost! How interesting and sly!
He needed a length of gauze, an alibi,
Some cord for Raymond, flushed and dry,

No one to know or care or cast suspicion.
The wind’s a nagging jenny mule, he thinks,
Until the parking lot accepted him. He braked.
Cousin Raymond, the newt, took toward the lab,
Jingling his coins and singing made-up carols.

My bride is here, my bride! He shrieks,
As he meets a Chinese scientist to-night,
A chemist – joy! A biologist,
Who cries and bitterly cries and cries,
Performs the waltz for him, two-step,

Just like a spinning top. What tepid jazz,
What tears came sparkling down like ale,
What a snazzy skirt, what uselessness!
He snuffs her out for Playboy glee,
He hangs her dead, yes – one, two, three.

Queer Cousin Raymond is an adventurous
Pioneer of hot adventure – blue-ribbon stuff –
Got caught in an act of deep delight,
Then repented, but not for nuptials.
Stolen brides, he coughs, are like sweet jasmine tea.

The Sandstone Temple

It’s a beehive, an anthill, a crowded jar,
A music box for sacred verse, a bird.
Its steps date back two-thousand years,
Cloy the mind to dreaming things it’s never thought,
Like a pure and complex lotus, casually.
Its worshippers: flesh and bone and back again.

The monks are poppy blossoms, chattering,
Preparing for hours of chant rehearsed,
And incense sticks, shrimp brothers, men,
Musicians and mendicants, wood carvers,
Pouring in and out of their sacred palace
Like conveyors of honey and song.

Surprise, surprise! Six red men hang,
Blood on their hands, some miles away,
Grimacing like the best or worst of scum,
Cock-foot criminals whose eyes are eggs:
Big burst to the ego. The temple, though, bleeds.
The evergreen branch is hushed – we strew our seeds.

Just Married

Promising mornings filled with eau-de-vie,
Teacups and cubed sugar traverse the curtains,
Whispering folly always, blithe and plush,
And sparrows sing outside. The woman sings,
Flinging together jam and crêpes and thick whipped cream,
Since boredom’s a battle – cracked white plates.

Her hair is blond but green. She feels platinum,
But her husband says her heart is tin.
Those chestnut cakes with icing aren’t for him.
A bitter bed of ice, is it? He’s dry,
He’s dry and cannot frankly spit.
The human feline licks her lips fastidiously, relentless.

The lady nicks a stick of butter, breaking fragrant bread,
And picks it to pieces, a picking jungle parrot.
Her yellow shirt sends light beams through the air.
She could have been an astronaut, fancy – she is not!
Preferring pastries, rather, and delightful men named John,
Under the impression that she’s actually a citrus tart.

Life couldn’t be blonder; God, it’s as light as air;
And featherbed fluff surrounds her cool love boat,
On which she’s Legal Regal, brazenly.
Gentlemen come with crimson roses, worshipfully,
To kiss and prophecy about her married hips,
Even on Sunday, as sweet-lipped Jesus mounts their cross,

Even when the son’s at home to suck his milk,
Even when the daughters learn their cross-stick hatch.
There are birds elsewhere, dances and pride,
Personal jokes and public demonstrations, work,
But the wife hoards diamonds – and Dick’s berserk.

Eventually, she must reassemble eggs,
Value albumin and mundane household things,
Although they are not lovebirds. Footsteps
Force familiarity sometimes; ballet’s not swing;
And cold oranges fall from their pyramid thoughtlessly.
Perhaps she’ll tell a lullaby, wash laundry, perfect her kiss.

Barnyard Blues

The door’s left open, dig,
The locust tree’s on fire,
The farmer’s got a hoe,
The men have muddy boots,

Magnificent night is cold,
Since cowboys are not sold,
Its moon his gold but deaf,
And had not seen me yet,

The radio plays hits,
But the ceiling planks have cracks,
Wherefore the rain drips down;
The machine stops – it spits –

A bale of hay is there,
Strewn cigarettes to the right,
But they’ve been set a-smolder,
And give but sickly light.

The evening star is bright,
Pierces this shroud with glee,
Perhaps will offer wine,
With luck, eternity.

In a Flash

Church bells on Sunday, books,
But doth the sunflower turn around-lo!
Cheap trinkets fall like rain, and we buy,
We buy and buy bright things of glass,
To make us smile like stylish cats,
Wear feathers – birds of Paradise,
Wear jewelry – parrots and cockatoos,
Put apricot glaze on pastry cakes,
Glossy covers on the latest tomes.
Veneer anoints our nails, the dame’s lips are red,
A metamorphosis is an ecstatic feat,
But do we essentially lose the meat
Of infinitely more modest and ancient bread
By praying toward vain idols? There is brocade:
The brocade is toast and marmalade. A swan
Swims round a hefty theme, composing gold
For its lapping beak down to its perfect toes,
To which we might turn for a boat – adventurous.
The sting of cravings is oft infectious,
Covering pure truth like a black and misty gauze,
A zone of flies, a pestilence for parsons,
Lawyers, maidens, men, a temple made of sand.
We forget philosophy starts from the hand.
Myriad flashbacks yield up lore and simple ecstasy,
Compiled facts and figures, useful as honey is to tea,
Boundlessly needed philosophy, clovers four-leaf.
The king-cake of commercialism cedes to heated apple pie.

Six Men and a Green Bean

Two by two, six saucy men,
Six proud and tall, unsightly men
Sang songs of pricey broads and beer,
The fun of yesteryear, of yesteryear,

Devesting oranges of their zesty peel,
Delectably, protectively,
Rubbing their bellies and wagging their heads,
Just risen from their lordly beds.

These brethren kicked a can around,
But it was shiny, hard and round!
And jiggled their belts with raucous sound,
And boasting of their worthy pounds,

Until their saw a young brunette:
An alou-alou-alouette!
Thought she was fruit and picked her too:
For them to play, for her to rue.

Their eyes were pea-green flecked with pearl,
Lit up with an a greedy whirl,
Devoured jealously their game:
That greeny bean, how sad and lame!

Twilight came round pathetically,
At which these men fed up sumptuously,
Having left that best of sauces red:
That virgin flesh just lately bled.

Seeds on a Green Plate

I woke up dreaming of apple seeds,
Amazed myself, as men bought fresh journals:
What well-groomed birds! I rushed past them, brooding,
Just barely staring at their fish-flat soles.
Away, the cars rolled! Away, the maudlin taxi cabs!
And I marveled some vixen tried to catch my eye.
Fox heads, fox ears, and the reticent sun,
The sun dripped in, insinuating pith-smart Plato,
Whereas I had to scurry to and fro,
Even with textbooks – even with bestsellers –
Toward school and education, that old scheme.
The metro pole was a pea-pod, playfully;
Coated shoulders looked cold to me; I was already game;
Thereafter all that snazzy lore kept up morale.

A plate of rolling peas – success in these –
Although there was something rather sinister –
Or did I have the jitters?
In the concept of spilled seeds on a green “six” plate:
So much I had to contemplate!
What did these exalted cigar-role metro poles
Have to do with final exams or the cool New Year?
They looked like lances – Lord – or monoliths
That needed hieroglyphs of paint,
But I ignored them – a mystic gypsy – a broad,
A composer of lucid poetry by a metro pole lake
Whereat ducks and swans and harts poured out.
Words wove into wool, kept fleece in tow.

I Verily Dreamed of Thee

I saw you in the hall – how tired we are!
Our eyes were weak from study, dark and dull,
Required soft repose – but then we’d stir,
We’d stir and profit from the winter lull,
As eager as Ulysses for his isle
To greet our parents, help about the house.
Not ready, though, I’d think of thee, meanwhile,
Pondering, musing, quiet as a mouse.
Oft, weary of myself, fain would I look,
Since curiosity is relish sweet,
At my fair companion posed above his book:
Him due to work, as working brings in meat.
Ah, friend more young than I; would I press
A rose into thy palm – wink at thy kingly dress!

Ding-Dong Bell

Who will find the rose to-day
And put it in her lap,
Or smell the lily bloom at six,
Pluck willow sprigs then nap?

Who shall find a six-leaf clover,
To put it in her shoe?
Who shall praise the moon to-night,
Brew coffee, drink it too?

O who shall love and live, my belle?
A woman through and through?
Ding-dong, the church bells cross the green
Chime merrily anew!

Shalt thou make and sell and gossip much,
All set with modest land,
Forever and anon, my dear,
A ring upon thy hand!

But if thou see’st a snake, my belle,
Be sure to shout and yell,
Or else be robbed of all thou hast:
For men, as beasts, are fell!

Ballad of Quiet Things

The stars are out above the sea,
A bright display and beautiful;
The forest sprite flits round with glee,
Among God’s creatures bountiful,

A-laughing, swinging, calling friends
Beside a marble basin bowl
Until the joyous evening ends
For all God’s creatures bountiful,

Whereat the moon tends to her reign
As children sleep well, dutiful,
And the evening star glares in disdain,
Even at God’s creatures bountiful.

O moon, drum, mirror, limpid pale,
The things thou art and masterful!
Dost thou shed thy light above the dale,
Beside God’s creatures bountiful,

And guide the rhythm of the sea,
Apollo’s kin and Neptune’s tool,
Then wet the thicket of the bee
So that it might be bountiful!

The schooners, yachts, and boats tied in
Where the harbor breathes air moist and full,
Lie still until the day sets in,
To wake God’s creatures bountiful,

Casting shadows, dark and chill and grim,
Whilst cries the mournful whippoorwill,
Transpiercing fog with rigged masts slim,
Far from God’s creatures bountiful,

Aught much to rival piping Pan,
Or Bacchus on his bleary mule,
Before the moon that glowers wan:
Soon rise God’s creatures bountiful.

Aloft into the air then gone,
Behind the hillocks, mystical,
And leaving dust upon the lawn
Where tread God’s creatures bountiful.

Meanwhile a dryad of the trees,
Fair, pallid and ethereal
Steps on the dust and simply flees,
Fleeing God’s creatures bountiful,

Nor playing harp nor drum nor flute
Though she might be fantastical,
Lest she become a satyr’s lute,
Poorer than all God’s creatures bountiful!

The stars wink out, fade one by one,
Church bells mime verses lyrical,
To herald morning’s rising sun,
Sire of God’s creatures bountiful,

Who over morning toast presides,
Whence chirrups are hysterical
That dance and wend in from all sides:
Announce God’s creatures bountiful.

The Fly

You loop through the day, O fly!
Pulling vagrant airs behind thee,
Mounting and falling, shining, beaming,
Making eyes at all people drearily,

Creature of cities rife
That teem with men diverse:
Black, white and yellow – loud,
Of loudness that men curse;

Thou fly, art tower and speck,
More hardy than a hog,
Despite newspaper wings that flash
Through alleyways, gutters, smog.

A height, and you can reach it;
Though could I, saucy fly,
I’d sing and sing – you buzz,
Resonant, fast and sly!

Thou wend’st on the field
And threaten us with sting;
So I don’t wear thee, churl,
Slip on, instead, a ring.

Your Nose is a Cave

There is no word for it – amazement sits
Quite naturally upon your nose,
So large it is, sublime, a-flare,
A bull’s nose, brighter than a finch,

Perhaps a pouch of potpourri:
No, grander! made for pungent fare,
Great, rich, and fine, a glowing spoon,
A spoon dipping into this – my song.

O nose of magnitude and might,
Could wine placate this orifice!
A sea would do, a bay would do,
A river or a vat of soup,

That boils as much as this – your nose,
Curious cauldron ebullient with brew,
Some wicked spells, some giddiness.
There are bats, my bonny, in this cave.

There is snow and frost. My, this is firm!
This ridge of pear and eglantine,
A speckled leather beast, a curse,
A candle made of wax – now light!

Reside Harmoniously

In the world, there are vast broad rivulets,
Replete with water, foaming, bright,
And mountains for the daring foot,
And stars throughout the night;

There are birds of paradise on high,
And creatures kept below,
Steaming hides of stallions, playful mares,
And men who wander slow;

There are meadows for the honey bee,
And wells for the parching tongue,
Cathedrals for light maiden’s feet,
Where holy songs are sung;

There are gallows for brute miscreants,
And fences for the sheep,
There are poisons and delicious drinks,
There is strife and also sleep.

But God! Might we have harmony
Despite these bloody times,
Pious feeling and economy,
And art, along with rhymes,

And Christ and cross and spirit,
To guide us though we stray,
To warm us through the Winter snow,
To shade o’er summer’s day!

Carrot Mouth

Her tongue licked round and round the spoon
As if it were a snake and not a tongue,
Long after day had worn me down.
It was a bloody plain of silt milord,
And she blew and blew upon the blazing sand
Like a high trade wind, but ghastly gray,
As a cat is gray – ah, cats!
The sounds of her butterfly breast were sharp;
She was palpitant – itinerant –
And profanities from her carrot tongue
Made hot cakes for purgatorial consummation,
Blatant, whole, uncensored, coarse,
Satyrs would find deletable – O! one to six,
From the Ganges to the River Styx.
‘Twas in a desert desolate of varicose vexation
I would have her throw up from her maw,
Undesecrated, therefore, my previous temple of contemplation;
But that beastly bird, Havana, flew away,
And not a brazer to my name!

Note on the Communion of Rev. John White Dedicated to Miss Rebekah Gay

There was a pastor named John White
On whom I’ve written e’en at night,
For such a monstrous soul was he,
He robbed a woman of her glee:
Rebekah Gay; the maid was blond;
Whose young face was both fresh and round,
Who bore a child that she did love,
To whom she cooed just as a dove,
Was silenced by the minister:
That lust-driven man and sinister,
Since he had predilections sad for porn,
Struck Gay as he would an ear of corn!
After having his wretched way
With a girl by whom he’d often stay.
Ah, ravished beauty! Brightness lost!
He thought he saw a partridge sauced,
Did John, who whet his appetite
In front of porno flicks at night;
So cried Rebekah, fair Miss Gay,
Though all her fertile blood did spray,
And not a fall of snow to cleanse it,
But a cup o’ noodles fairly was it,
Composed of strands of flaxen hair –
Vegetable past times in John’s lair,
Those carrots floating near the brim,
Sharp visions, not of Bethlehem!
The results were vile and hideous,
Rendering old John White perfidious,
Indeed – that females are not jam,
Nor were eyeballs meant for vulgar ham.
The pastor planned to eat his doe,
But to jail, is where he had to doe.

Orange Juice

I poured the orange juice in the glass,
And told you to say when. You nodded, nodded,
Never stopped nodding until I struck you, villain,
Thrice upon the face, as playfully as a cat,
Placing a sprig of thyme vindictively behind your ear.
I asked if you liked my handiwork,
Inquired if you liked the way I poured,
But you were infinitely, frightfully, insidiously bored,
Since you’d been elsewhere at night – night bat!
And came home smelling like the Moulin Rouge,
Whereas I, Pierrot, am not a prostitute,
Shall be a parrot in the Great Deluge.

She Has a Wicked Weakness

She has a wicked weakness, though she smiles,
She bats her kohl-lined lashes when she cooks,
Dresses punctually and flaunts her many styles,
Lives for her money, even more for looks,
Lies expertly and ruthlessly – that snake!
With her wagging tongue and eyes and swaying hips,
Lets menfolk thirst awhile – then lets them slake!
Her features modify with tucks and nips.
She has the grasping hands of dawn, this dame,
Not often used for prayer – but lithe and long,
They dally over men who do the same,
Men who are weak and ugly – weak not strong!
This bed troll flaunts her gems with rare delight,
Hides her diamond ring – puts it on again at night.

His Hands Spread

O Johnny Smith, he had a lean game face,
His face was heart-shaped, though he glowered,
His clover eyes and mouth were one big flower,
And when he spoke, he spoke with grace,

So skillfully: diamonds his words,
The best of any gentleman’s!
He could dance, too, like a country lad,
Neat jigs around a partner’s skirts.

This man, he had charisma – style,
Smooth fashions and much novelty,
With smarts he had complicity,
Though I thought, sometimes, his ways were vile,

Since his cards did not conform with mine,
Being hurtful and oblivious,
Pugnacious and not marvelous,
That my eye did bleed – it turned to wine!

His spread was rich, the man was proud,
O Johnny Smith was hard and loud,
And I spoke my grievances aloud,
In this desert city rife with sound,

Whereat his hands spread like speckled birds,
Disguising bare epitome;
I did not want him next to me,
Would fly away, perhaps, to Lourdes.

What’s pleasant pleases, naturally,
But men who don’t see eye to eye,
Must learn to either yield or lie,
Reshuffle what they have or flee.

The Pigeon

The best pigeon had a recipe,
A preparation time I liked,
Scaled feet that made swift clicking sounds,
A mouth that often breathed the snow;

Its shape was like a quaint potato’s,
Its iridescent neck did glow,
So I judged the ingredients were fine,
And made useful things like the plain potato.

Six toes were there, no stove in sight,
Could have fit into a mincemeat pie
If the bird made servings six – but vice
Informed most spoons to stay away.

It knows the time to fly, wears hours
Upon its broad and storm gray back,
Hides like a little sack in many flowers,
A jar of organ sounds, a saint.

This is loveliness, I think, I reason well,
Since I love smooth cob-wood pipes and stones,
The sort that happens to endure
For eons – the pigeon lasted these.

Emerald Green Peppermint

It was not the scarf I asked for churl,
Nor the duck soufflé I had in mind:
The circle you approached me with,
The petty disk – the peppermint –
The emerald green peppermint I abhorred,
And would not place upon my tongue,
Not being a consensual duck at all,
Nor were my human fingers webbed.
It was no earring for my ear. I rescind.
The candy cracks, and its fissures break my nail,
Reminds me of your scornful, broken mouth
That crunches daisies’ brittle stems,
Gulps zephyr winds for colossal whims.
Could I make your navel suck the disk,
Then have you lie upon the dewy field,
Coerce a bloom to shimmy out
From your gilded flesh and snag your breath,
I should give bliss to Lily instead, in two insipid draughts.
Aggressor, dastard, putrid egg, sugar-gem,
Coddle a wormy clod upon your leg and grin.
This mint has been in other lips. Darling, the bee’s mouth sips.
I close my chest, die young; I shall not let you in.

The Green Night

A bicep threw me down. There was no sound.
My back hurt on the springy turf,
A question mark – a squiggly line –
Which frowned but no one found the frown.

The clover blossomed and the moss,
In deep pine shade where thistles grew,
Smelling of earth – a chilly earth;
There coursed my red, red apple blood.

The night had vibrancy and so did I.
Wherefore did I have to curl, my feet beneath,
Like a schilling or a willow leaf,
A stick of rupee red or cinnamon?

For did I not have bones? Have legs to walk?
Was I such a fop to lie there still,
Beneath simple stars that sneered and mocked,
Foam on my lips, sweat on my face?

Dreidel now, a wooden dreidel,
A catch of bells resounding shrill,
Spilled porridge: firm, my flesh,
But my spirit quailed and fancied death.

Where was that bloke? A bird’s nest,
Shedding twigs and straw defiantly,
Recalled his brutish musculature,
But no bird was there to tell the tale.

I Took a Kiss and Did Not Smile

A handsome lad gave me a kiss
I took upon the mouth,
I thought was soft and very nice,
Returned and did not pout;

A taste of fall, a butterfly,
That gave me cause to whine,
For his promises were fairly dry,
So I was left to pine,

Wondering if my cheek could redder be,
Or my eyes more wet and sore,
For the darling practiced vagrancy,
And said he loved no more!

O silver moon! O precious thing!
How high I felt back then,
But did not garner anything,
Scratched substance with this pen.

Olive Oil’s in a Crib, Popeye’s on Break

Olive Oil has a limber leg and cannot stretch it more,
Looks like a leaf of spinach. A frog’s in her throat,
Meaning she’s been sickened, perhaps by jumping all day long.
A mendicant grabbed her woolen sock and pinched her hip.
She wept a maelstrom, then fled back home, galloping.
Popeye had a monocle, a parchment nose,
A stormy disposition to match his hardened brawn,
Lived primarily for olive oil. She was succinctly smooth,
Loquacious, fine and sage, like a chatting doll
Or a tawny teddy bear. Popeye’s heart was paternal,
And beat about his bush in the manner of a butterfly,
As watchful as a Spanish general’s. His girl was ill,
Monstrously ill, and shaken by fatigue. Her smile was bleak.
He served her toast and tapenade, champagne,
Her tales of preference – then she was fine again.
What was the matter, asked he? She’d lost her gloss,
And her eyes were beetle red from weeping – eh?
Olive Oil said a man’d pulled a nasty prank on her,
Leaving a russet rash upon her leg. She needed fortitude,
She said: fortune and fortitude – else be a savory side of foam.

You Are a Kiwi, Not a Bird

Your soccer play’s spectacular
And I’ve hardly taken my spectacles off
But am speaking in the vernacular,
To tell you, to tell you wryly with my heart
That I’ve been wary, even from the start!
Ah! Friend, Porphyro, I have gladly stared
At your ebon car that in the twilight glared,
Calling you a swift leopard, and compromising,
Recalling your philosophies and ways and criticizing.
So my eyes were moonstones at your loom,
And you were a gentleman tailor-made, did I presume,
Worth you weight in diamonds and pricey silks,
Redolent of strong cologne, spearmint, and thickened milks:
A sight, Adonis, did the tall time honor,
In that you had a baseball cap and collar;
Fruit – did I think of fruit – since you were fair and fresh,
Dressed sometimes in bright green, were sparse and lean.
O did I seem, dear popinjay, did I then seem?
Did I feign your praises, or did I simply mean?
All your character condensed into a ball,
A ball of pristine fruit to set beside my wall,
A kiwi, Sir – a kiwi, elliptical, not square,
That I enjoyed for all its velvet hair,
Possessing a taste upon my tongue most succulent.

Sir, was it rain or was it definition?
Did the kiwi bear a sign or was that superstition?
Would it at the brink of dawn descend?
Look toward my awestruck eyes, through the garden wend?
Should I hold a kiwi in my hand? Or sit upon the sand?

Upon the hill, a fortress and a moat,
A grate whence waters spew forth, flecked with spume,
And I, the prisoner of Aquitaine, shall gloat,
So gloat I shall before my wooden loom,
Steadfast and steady-handed, humming a lay,
Whilst light floods o’er the stones; whilst shadows play;
We are not there, although, if not; I shall not care,
For mists spread out across the moor, distending seed.
O stark black feathers fallen in my hair!
O friend of friends, dressed head to toe in tweed!
I sip tea, I contemplate the pangs of love,
Ten thousand kiwi birds dance round my head in reverie,
And do not know if I have sipped my final draught,
But hope the Death is kind, and sweet, and holds a cane,
To spite the cares of Earth, to show disdain.

I’ve brewed a potion for your parrot beak,
Mouthed words above its brim till I was wan and weak,
To draw that paradigm of passion from my book:
Conquer one, conquer them all, with a breathless wave, a look,
Extract your character, your soul, your intellect,
Ah! weaves of Heidegger that would not leave me derelict,
Lest I become a hopeless fly-trap, dismally sunk at dawn,
Unsteadied, lost, and quite deprived of brawn.

Your lips are pretty works of art! They’re smooth and succulent!
Mine are famished, but I cannot say they’re virulent,
Or give no music to the sky, or tell a tale, or lie,
For life is short – an eye-blink – aye, an hour’s time:
Enough to celebrate a spoon of honey, kiwi, lime,
Enough to knit a Celtic knot for my cherished Valentine;

But seconds dry our worth remorselessly, care nothing for fine lace,
Or wealth, or tongues, the fleeting fairness of a face.
Threadbare, thus, the desert where our footsteps trail,
For which my bonny lad must quaff his gin and ale,
Or, if refusing, still accept a token from my mouth,
And deign to call it argent, exeunt and let me be:
Now tell me, athlete, if you don’t fraternize with bees?

Assert if we shan’t catch us both on bending grass,
If we shan’t eat a morsel as folks pass,
If the zephyrs do not call to us, to gather buds,
Collect them in a pea-pod, strew them round,
If we shall not dance as Spaniards dance,
In rhythmic rings, clapping our hands,
Alice as evening chills the sands,
Alive although the candles wink out one by one,
Still creatures of both moon and sun,
Ah! to toss our feet in a field of tallow sticks!
To bathe anon, jump over candlewicks!
A kiwi can’t be foiled before the roses furl,
Primroses clenching furtively – are we not obstinate?
The dog upon the sea wall took his bone and ate.
Are we not more? Or do we procrastinate?
If it’s now that we must lay our heads,
Lay them quite still and bid Adieu,
Or prayers – but good friends bid Adieu –
Shall we tuck ourselves into our clothes?
Succumb to secret, lustful throes? Shall we stretch our toes?

Oh, you were light and shade,
A dose of sweetness like sweet ore,
Whereas I am a sorry maid,
Can barely hear the ocean’s roar!

The daylight fades, it was succinct,
It vaunted many hues, and words were inked,
Our paths collided – more than this –
We sealed our substance with a kiss,
Summing our bags of memory and song,
Confronting night, eternity, its starry throng:
Love could not ever sum up wrong!

The moon looks ripe and succulent, looks like a tomb,
Bizarre dichotomy! It sees, perhaps, the noon.
It does not lend much warmth, but hangs aloft,
Speaking silently with methods soft.
Is it right to know more ecstasy than this?
My erudite kiwi friend – another lengthy kiss!

The Porcelain Dog

The air cold outside,
The clouds are steely gray,
I am no longer by your side,
My aspect is no longer gay,

My face is frozen sore,
My teeth do grind and clench,
I do not love thee more,
Nor shall you call me wench;

The rose fades from my cheek,
As I walk straight and sure,
Though rancors make me weak,
And still I’ve found no cure.

A doll sits on the shelf,
Where once we ate and slept,
Stare blankly – cannot help
The tithe of me you kept.

The Goose and the Golden Ring

The high-necked goose observes the men go by,
From the chilly lake; her feet are never dry;
She trumpets when she sees them, ravenous,
Puts on the smooth act of an empress,
For never liking Winter sparsity,
She switches to this for better ecstasy,
And contemplates her uneventful months:
Largess from hot and masticating mouths.
This curvesome creature flutters for a ring,
Shall stamp her foot, turn round, do anything,
Dreaming of golden ingots, pleated ties,
Bellowing her practiced sweetness to the skies.

The Yellow Dog

Smoke curls up in the air. The trees are bare.
A yellow dog lies o’er a fading Persian rug,
Like a pillow or a cozy sack of peas,
Beating his tail at all the things he sees.
In the kitchen, oats spill on the teak wood floor.
He eats his lot, and does not ask for more,
Licking his chops, but gazing downwardly.
Oh, for the sap of loving friendship, syrup-sweet!
The coat of dust that dulls his master’s feet
Is dear to him – oh, faithful, meager dog –
The fire crackles praises on a log.

You Are My favorite Sandwich

You are my favorite sandwich and my Sunday’s best,
You smack of simplicity and lettuce greens.
The bread imparts a tang,
And all your words are mayonnaise,
Accomplices of olives and their briny wisdom.
I could stack you and have that all be you,
Take you to school or the Caribbean,
New Zealand or a French Plateau,
The heel of Italy – I’d drool –
Moist, modern sandwich,
I’d love to have thee in a sack,
I’d fancy having thee with wine.
I think that etiquette is fine
And have thee deftly, ten to one.

The plate I have is made for us,
Reminds me of gold filigree,
Is not yet cracked,
Domestic order without domestic spate,
Retains its loveliness throughout the year,
And keeps its green peas in.
The roses on it grow,
Deep crimson orb on orb,
Displays of baby’s breath,
Attractive, twinkling violet heads,
On Spartan utility.
Here, here I have grown an eye and ear,
To listen to your song-words, thrilled
Your substance transcends want,
And feeds faithful desire,
Sometimes consubstantial.
I’d have your virtues multiply,
And cast their waves of strong sea salt,
And beckon ever to my lips,
And manifold promises disclose,
From the window sill to Heaven’s door,
Redounding to this credit, that we love,
Within these flavors teem,
Within, imparting nourishment,
Dissolving to a breath or pulse.
Ah, dew upon my lip! Ah, zest and need!
Another shall not have you,
No, not in ten years or twenty,
Presuming generations that we’ll transpierce,
Adventurous, o’er springy countrysides,
Because the yeast is bountiful,
Because the gist is savory,
Because you fold out on my map,
In billows of mystic stalwart gold.
I’d crack an egg and have you,
It costs little to adore you,
Or dress your sections in crab-red and white and blue.

Loneliness

I took a walk by the moonlit sea,
With an ache in my heart and buzzing ears,
But I stopped – seeing a shell of dainty size,
I’d keep, perhaps, for several years.

It was not broken. The shell was light,
Reminded me of ears more human,
Small lamps or cryptic, random books,
A moonlit beam that lasts till noon.

Receptacle – it was – of quiet lore,
Both plush and flimsy, heartening,
Wherewith to fix my mood, which raged,
And chilled with no one listening.

If God could be a speck of sand!
If He could own the shape of shells!
My head would brood less bitterly,
Exult in all these calcite bells.

The Doll Wife

I showed my love the brightest smile,
But he just laughed and looked at me;
I gave the most that I could give,
Unlauded, since that I was free.
I combed my glossy tresses brown,
With relish, seeking but to please,
Received a glum and gloomy frown,
Some coughed up words – no more than these.
I asked if I were hated, but
My lover merely shook his head,
Then called me some gross simpleton,
Averring I were best off dead.
I’d been the topmost of my class,
Now vanquished to this house of glass.

Denied Promise

Our neighbors tell us to read and read,
To wait a while till we are wooed,
To live defiant of base greed,
To love a love that shan’t be rued.
We build our nests and drink our tea,
Have sons and daughters for sweet joy,
Though often, like the sweeping tree,
A girl must suffer for her boy!

Sodomy

Marriage means sometimes gifts and jewels,
That promise bright eternity,
Red roses or a pot of rice,
A cup of honeyed ecstasy.

To tie our oaths is why it’s there,
To tie them without rope or string,
So we might as angels live,
No matter what these spare years bring.

The price of marriage, not just love,
Involves the heart which can’t be sold;
What matter when push comes to shove?
A bloody bed and beatings cold.

So what did holy marriage mean?
A blackened eye, a sacred bruise.
So is that what time came to glean?
We burn our hearts, no time to lose.

Poor Miss Holly Flannigan

Desire makes a fellow thirst
And often sees him at his worst,
Addicted to the honey bee,
Enamored of his fiddlers three.
It offers berries for his tongue,
Familiar songs he oft had sung,
All of his favorites, one by one,
He flips thee o’er and conquers thee!

Vanity

A butterfly, your tastes had made,
You snubbed your nose and made me sigh,
You hushed me twice – I knew not why,
But I was sad and silent stayed.
Like a German sound, you flit around,
From the greeny grass to the silent shore,
And said you did not want me more,
For which my stretched complaints resound.

Lily Poem

I plucked a lily from the field,
A fleur-de-lys in June,
Men used to wear upon their shield,
Poets relished for their tune,
Spoke softly as one speaks to babes,
Chanted as maidens did of old:
Art thou for castles or for caves?
Art thou for looks or sold?
Ah, poetry! A poem by a tree,
Is what this fairly means to me.

Celestial Grace

I dream of green eyes – for my Lord – and
He hath promised grass and sod to me,
And dancing feet – for dearest lord –
We must roam and revel by the sea.
I muse on firmness – for my Lord –
Strong is the hero who swings round,
Pure character – for gracious Lord –
His seeds must spread without a sound.
Then are the footsteps on the glade, my Lord,
For Emmanuel hath wandered here,
And he hath seen the lion’s paw,
Who’d sent him far, forthwith to roam.

Want

If I shall love, I do not know,
Or if the Spring shall know my name,
I cannot gage where it shall grow,
Or if my soul shall be the same.
The ground is frozen as my heart,
For sunlight mingles with the shade,
Entwining – I am torn apart,
And though moons wax – I’m still a maid.
If kinder words shall come to me,
I do not know them, not today,
No birds sing now in ecstasy,
But I scribble verses anyway.

The Tiger and The Rose

I’ve seen a tiger and a rose,
Know both their secrets verily,
Saw tiger’s faults – admonished those –
Admired that the rose was free.

The tiger soon was far away,
Whereas the rose remained in place,
Thrived lustrously throughout the day,
But in the end – it lost its face.

Despite its thorns, the stem was plucked,
For Beauty, Valor, or for both,
So that the fairest bloom, unlucked,
Exceeded tigers in its roth.

Forgetfulness

I was kissed – it took a minute –
Stolen delight I did not need,
But the gentleman did win it,
For love or Greed.

An hour past noon I found
That I was ill at heart,
A ship that’s run aground,
Discarded art,

Waxed warmer, mustered strength,
Thought that the bloke would call
Or make amends at length:
No, not at all.

The Winter

O Winter! There is boundless peace,
A show of spindly evergreens,
Snow flurries white as downy fleece,
A thrush that strikes its prose and preens;

There is peace in silence and in song,
Candles that flicker on the table’s edge
O vanished souls that flit along!
O cringing yellow blooms of sedge!

The fire heats as friendship chills;
I do not feel it anymore,
But shiver as bleak winter swirls:
How hearts can be both rich and sore!

Precocious winter had its peace,
Quells falling snowflakes through the day,
But love has quibbled like the geese,
And like these snowdrops, cannot stay.

We Saw a Film

The city lights beamed,
Spices were sold: saffron and cinnamon
To the many, though we took our time,
Breathing company and merchandise.
The vendors bought and sold and we were bold,
Wore vests of shadow through the streets,
Laughing like lions.
How milky the stars were! I thought they sang,
Fancied they had a choir on Heaven’s field,
Steadfast and hopeful.
My heart was knotted fast,
Or it would shiver its designs loose,
Stream them behind – like a train of silk
On and on atrociously.
The movie screen fixated out eyes,
Offering ethical questions of important meaning,
And scenes that lasted till the morn.

They dissolved as did my hopes,
Once crystal, now brittle glass:
The man was taken, I, a dame
Of problems, mystified.
His hands were white as pear,
Touched not a hair.

Window Flow

The light poured in, my breast turned blue,
The color of a bluebird after dawn,
Complete, unabridged, and shaking words
From my chest out through my mouth.
My feet were claws on the hardwood floor,
Directed by the runes of the cryptic day,
Collective memories and ancient trees.
There was a recipe, a song, a lay.
They were not within my pockets, no,
Not with me: but I stirred my drink,
Found meaning afterwards, six fathoms in,
Compelling my poor mind to think.
Salt ocean air and country air
Mixed mystically, and I denied
I was a woman: preferred the manta ray.

He Was a Dragon

He was a dark-haired gentle creature
Who wore an apron every day,
A photogenic fool the sun adored.
How I loved his rail-thin body and his gait!
He could pour a glass of wine and be as sweet,
Reminding one of claret or Zinfandel.
Its depth in mine was resonant,
And my heart sounded like a tympani,
Voicing opinions I did not care to say.
My hands had ink upon them,
At the break of dawn, at eve,
For he was a blackberry boy
With a curvesome petal mouth,
A blessed catch, a vegan.

Without his help, I’d bleat,
Long-eyed, dissatisfied,
But he pulled my spirits up
And wrung them in the clouds.

There was not a place in New York
I wanted to visit, but that place,
That broken grass next to the shady pond
Where we laughed and languished, liking ourselves.

I called him a dragon dripping humor,
Expecting to climb his scales myself in time.
In the name of chivalry and solitude,
We’d grow – and who more –
Into the quiet night’s étude.

I Feel Sore, I Do Not Soar

If Winter winds swerve violently,
I do not want them anymore,
Their sting has boggled ecstasy,
I feel just rancor at the core.

My pinions fall, they spread around,
They flutter as I start to swoon,
Defeated and without a sound,
For I am battered, shaken loose.

This Is Not Poetry

This rowdiness grows like a weed,
It stifles all the other blooms,
It has a light and noxious seed,
And stays love’s looms.

A shadow upsets both my eyes,
That see a raven and a crow,
Pain-stricken where they once were wise,
Downcast and low.

Our golden love is turning gray,
And I have smelled the stormy sky:
It ruins what I have to say,
Bleeds friendship dry.

You and I

I am modest, timid, slow, and plain,
Have olive skin and dusty hair,
Walk by myself and show disdain
To others, though I’m not that rare.

The winter pleases me with snow,
With berries red and holly bough,
With myriad dainty lights that glow,
The roads through which one has to plow.

It pleases me you could be here,
For you are much more rare than I,
And hope that you will stay the year,
For that your face must please my eye.

How strange! That one as dull as I
Should live to have such company,
A stellar tutor, bright and high,
To rival Heaven’s panoply!

My pockets warm my brittle hands
That clench for simple want of thee,
United, though, o’er wondrous lands
Of snow: how cozy that would be!

How cozy, yes, to keep you close,
Thus prompting friendly dialogue,
Now taciturn, and now verbose,
Now at the fire to beat the sog.

Then night and morning, here and there,
I’ll sing your praises and your name,
These things for free and love laid bare:
Steadfast, exultant that you came.

Trying to Love Thee

Seeing thee makes the morning right as rain,
Thy lustrous mouth, thy perfect bow – I stare,
Approach thee with a longing in my brain,
To do you justice, hoping that you’ll care:
O medicinal maiden! O child of blazing suns!
If only I had a taste, a subtle taste,
Then lose myself amongst thine earnest fans,
This pain should pass, and nothing go to waste:
For milk art thou, and fruitful branch art thou,
A hundred times more splendid than thou wert,
Wearing an honest kiss and praises on thy brow,
Released anon, for love, though I should hurt.
Thou art precious over diamonds, fair as jade,
Free as a meadow rose: thou art the maid!

Sand and Brandy

The man averred that he could have the one,
A dapper man, who had exotic tastes,
Grew neat-edged mustaches and cherished fun,
Whose mind engendered terrifying wastes:
Said he took brandy wherever he did wish,
So filled were his two eyes with hate and scorn,
Made other people cook and scrub his dish,
Then had diversions nice – and called them corn.
He beat his woman into sand, he did,
Since she had little brawn or space to live:
A lonely turtledove he daily bid
To bark and bleed: this did he give.
So we pour brandy over sand again,
By accepting roguish ways – give in to them.

Apples and Milk

First, Johnny liked to eat them after eight,
He liked his scrumptious apples – ate them all –
He liked the reddest ones upon his plate,
Was satisfied, appeased, and quite enthralled.
Those globes, so round and succulent and smooth,
Became a sanctity of orchards bare,
Bright, wet, and dripping, like vermouth;
He sat upon his seat and did not care.
He did not care, did John, for they were milk,
Unlike the kind designed by Paradise,
Bought and exploited – rich as silk –
That made him simply smug, slice after slice.
His gun – the grill – was a black as charcoal gun,
Took good souls out for breakfast, one by one.

Le Pere Noel and Pornographic Lee

Ah! Father brought me T-shirts and a shell necklace,
Straight from the mall – I thanked him so!
I’ll be alternating these with broidered lace,
Feeling fine and dandy from head to toe.
For school I am prepared – for school,
Having left Le Pere Noel at home for more
And better things, acquired through acumen,
Nothing here to stop me, no – all set to soar.
But what has this hand done – eh? Sultry Sir?
You trapped me without license, grabbed my flesh,
Abused my trust: so I have ceased to stir,
Succumbed to nerves and writhing in my mesh.
Mr. Pornographic Lee, you do me ill,
Instilling doubts that even time won’t kill.

Machine Gun Baby

When I got up, my father knocked on me,
He pinched my ears and knocked me frightful hard,
Subjected me to smooches, tipped my tea,
Stroked all my lace and dressed me like a pard.
He never asked me if he could – the point –
He took his liberties and made me hurt,
Laughed as I grimaced, smoked his weedy joint,
Sat next to me and flipped my azure skirt.
Ah woe! That fate condemned me at my birth,
To cater to my father’s vicious needs,
Sanctioned childhood’s toys and never gave me berth,
But hot milk Milton filled me with his seeds.
I’m the Machine Gun Baby, you might like to know,
Fed up by now: but how the cherries grow!

The Metro Pie

Hard, metallic, bright,
In simmering sugared light,
The trains dart to and fro
Like licking tongues:
If snake is there,
The pie cutter has it,
Or if criminal,
He takes the Sunday cream,
With a cherry and a chimney too,
Nor a dewdrop to calm him.
Who knows where the people grew,
Before they were mixed with the berries:
Boysenberries and elderberries?
Noodles Hungarian
And apple-ripe Chinese,
Grapes from Italia
And authentic onions
Who yell and cry.
Romantic couples add
Their crystallized ginger
To the common plate,
Where doors of opportunity open
Like eager, gaping mouths.
Oh, the promises! The promises!
There is a busy-body murmur
Of stream-of-conscious balderdash,
People getting from point A to B
In ample time,
Holding straps that do not make them bleed.
This is a gooseberry tart
Of organic utility.

Eight-hundred years ago,
Drums beat on green fields,
Rhythmic and medieval,
Celebrating love and life and war,
Where brutes laid siege –
What fond seat then? What wheat-bread lunch?
What grease-smooth train
To wend us home?
Those hits were just as strong
As those we sing out loud for joy,
Come sun and come moon:
The iron horses race
For apple-cheeks and forgotten blood,
Beneath the fertile ground – perpetual!
Aye me, there’s a grass stain
On my favorite blouse,
And my husband has sore feet,
In March, what’s more,
Or in sweet May:
But all this, ear-some Friend,
Slips well away!
I know this land has been before,
Opening a savory book
Of perfect proportions,
Has been through change and strife,
On the scarlet signs I see
As the train rolls on,
Denoting scaly stations
With mosaic walls.
This is a relic, relay,
Re-telling of an earthy plot,
Room beyond rooms
Where passions play,
And weddings frieze
In icings royal.

This is the pastry
Of past reminiscences,
The savage apple tart,
The cradle and the grave,
Fraught round by
Moon-months of holly,
The speedy relied-on tool
We use to cut our time
In ideal wedges,
Seamlessly:
Ah, fire horse!
Ah, metro pie!

I Have Never Seen Corsica

I’ve never breathed the pristine air
Of Corsica, though in my chair
A still and silent girl, I stare
At those rigid statues with no hair;

Landmarks of curious value placed
On a grid of fine, antique design,
Were what I saw of that other race,
As old as gold, as old as wine,

Haphazard as some fall of rain
Or oat-flakes on the dewy turf,
Majestically and without pain,
Upsprung like sharks out from their surf,

Each face on which is relative
And kin to that one which it flanks,
Unchanging yet provocative,
Of common stone – yet give we thanks!

O visages of oat! Solemnity!
That grow in hearts and nourish minds,
Produced by some strange circuitry
Once, long ago – as time unwinds.

O Corsican rocks that tease one mad,
O swarthy art of stone afar,
For these, are gawking people glad!
Tea leaves of victory! A par!

High ho! the company of men,
Inspired to travel day and night,
With sun and moon and blessed pen,
Erecting glory for their might!

Endow With Fins

The sun expands, a beacon,
Where other stars are placed,
A hefty thought for weekends,
Or light – buds in a vase!
There was a shark named Marguerite,
With some such bar endowed:
Methinks that it is called a fin –
I think it – though I am not proud –
Whereas a camel crossed the sand,
And had two times the self-same hand,
Bars one calls humps upon its back:
Endowed with these, where life’s a rack.
Just as perplexed is Friar Cock
Who wears his comb atop his pate,
Wherewith he struts around the clock,
For dawn’s sake garbed and never late.
Ah, pointing up and up these signs,
Appendages that time combines,
Throughout the struggle and the light,
The trials by day, the sounds at night.

Herrlich

Great white sharks shed their dapper teeth
36,000 at a time – what loss!
They’re vicious, have no trace of fleece,
Yawn wide as sleeves, devour dross,

How many requiems inspired!
Exeunt a flood, and it comes back,
Of gentlemen – how rich attired!
Their blazers fill a sorry sack.

The ocean’s splendid, so it is time,
The jaws of which no one can stand,
But we all fall – nor sense nor rhyme
Impedes the wave upon the sand.

Here – here – lies Heinrich, grizzled brick,
Whose autumn was shark-like too,
Who slept quite sound seven hours quick,
Till death claimed him: honest and on cue.

Enswathed in sheets, enswathed in work,
Collections, pastimes, treachery,
Avoiding nooks where shadows lurk;
There is an end to ecstasy.

On the sleeve of Adam! Breezes change!
Torches are lit, and torches fade,
But this beast, Oblivion, is strange,
And swallows life where it is laid.

Kangaroo Kiwi

What’s that, hops around
In scorching noontide light
Through hoops, through hoops around,
With feet, knows how to fight,
With barely any sound,
At day, at night?
Is he a kangaroo incensed
Kindled well within by springing fire,
Inside the circle, out from hence,
A halo round this bouncing lyre?

The kiwi’s seeds swoop round,
As black as night or shoes,
That over floors resound,
Tapping down the seeds they sew,
An island each, an island split,
Grown clustered on trees,
Dripping with dews of Providence,
Dripping without recompense,
Above koalas and bouncing kangaroos.
The kiwi’s green for love,
A warm, eternal love,
Pervading eyes and hearts,
For you a part and I a part,
Soft clubs for drums,
The ripest fruit,
Aurora’s dawn aubade and symphony,
To wake and rise and swell.
Eternity projects itself inside
And needs release at ten o’clock,
Hanging ripely from the jagged bough.

Koalas in the sun,
Grip gum trees with their claws,
Each claw a flame, for what’s his name?
Emmanuel who works it slow,
The son of God, who’s wisdom’s well,
O gem of Man! The springy seeded soil
Engenders blooms and bells,
In that land, where farmers toil.
The koala sits upon his tree:
Emmanuel, pray for you and me!

Tom Gray

The Shark-like
Tom was a great finned monster,
His fin was a word,
Much like the words for cat or bird,
But he was bold and only moved forward.
He swallowed seals, he swallowed clocks
That ticked and ticked on mightily.
His teeth and fins were triangles,
For his name was simply Tom – that’s all!

Danya and Rita

A monster or a maid,
A maid or infidel,
They wanted rum and wine,
But not together, separately.
There was a bawd, a book,
For the girls respectively:
They were sipping bumble bees,
Indulgent every day.
One spoke to men, perhaps,
Whereas the other naps,
In glitter and in ink:
Too weary, no? to think.
There will be shimmering summer butterflies,
Out through the door to dichotomy,
One path – two paths – just so!

Let the Trees Tuck Me In

The ocean strikes again the sand,
Sending frothy sheets of spume,
While the cherry trees send out hand on hand
To supplicate the moon.

The stars are all above us – Love,
The hue of mother’s milk:
Ah, pull the sky from there above,
Kind cherry smooth as silk!

Draw ebony over house and hill,
Eke comfort from the air,
With every branch, now all is still,
For us this cloth to wear!

Intimacy

Gladly would I have you lay your head
Upon my lap, as I sit humming soft,
Watching the stars outside, beyond our bed,
Shed milky light upon this shingled loft.
How sweetly would the radio music play!
How deftly, instill in us a score of dreams!
Now cheek to cheek, we both recount the day:
Its happenings exquisite and its seams,
Patchwork events and sociability,
Significant in life: then less, much less,
Good loves trade everything for ecstasy,
And cold and dying lips do cease to bless.
Proximity is cozy, better still,
The liquid ore of love – drink then our fill.

Spring in Paris

Ah, swinging are the cars around this arch,
That branches all around, a web divine,
Sponsoring markets and perfumeries – one book
Cannot encompass Paris in a line –
For the buzzing bars and fragrant creperies,
Restaurants that merit stars for practical zeal,
Parks of high renown, the dwelling place of bees,
In shades of green: bright, vibrant, real,
O city strong in gorgeous lights all night!
Where regal lawns meet squares replete with joy,
Feign would I always have thee in my sight,
But that design requires another ploy.
Children bright as stars take off and moil around,
Sweet love is rife, paramours abound.

The Star and Moon

If a ladder reached the round and glorious moon,
Would dreaming hands craft alters for its price?
The star had gotten there, it lingers – lo!
Glad Venus knows its neighbors through and through,
Trophy of midnight, badge most honorable,
The paradigm of constancy, it doth well adore,
As much as lovers love, as much as waves need shores.
A needle signifies its lace and so on,
The evening star and master moon, both vital,
Persist as much as snow or wind or rain,
These things existing – inspirational and fair,
Routine objects of reverie and pristine art,
For crafty minds that celebrate a storm,
A calcite spire, a gusty day, brocade,
Conforming with tableaux and tapestries
Grown alongside of altered spectrums intricate,
Whilst the star and moon preside complicity,
Compelling men to dream and hands to draw.
Send we, then, adoration, in our prayers,
As this godly spirit climbs its moon-ward stairs.

L’OO

Men pay themselves richly,
Wicked in act and thought,
On their beds and in their heads,
Devilish and ill begot,
As ravenous as snakes
For the pretty birds they catch,
For the vermin that they snatch.
Look there – he girts himself
Thinking of conquest and concubines,
Putting on his shoes as slick as spit.
He holds his women so he won’t get hit.
His comb is phallic – fancy that!
A gilt comb from California – so!
It’s an extension of his simian tail,
And I wink to see him fetch his mail.

Nutte

O gigolo O Nutte! You treat yourself again,
Disregardful of what you wreck or taint,
Smile at yourself, snarl in disdain,
Succumb to the allures of cash and paint.
You bite your apple punctually. You shut your door,
Saunter as casually as you jog or use a whore.
Infernal Gigolo, Gigolo, grass-eater, pig,
You horde your truffles – horde them. I don’t dig.
Amped to loiter at a barber shop,
Geared to wear an ephemeral crown of suds,
You seem as sweet as custard cream,
And ogle the prude procession of passing buds.
Unctuous tart, false art – how sharp you seem!
Life is a dream, presumably: a long lucrative dream.

In the Inn and Our of It

Light besets the inn and licks the tabletops,
Illuminates the plates and warms the tiles,
Excites the cat to wake; and her green eye;
It beams at me. Candles adorn the shelves;
A flame’s a useful thing; for night’s obscure;
Their soldier-like dedication suits the place
To the degree tailored skirts become the businesswoman,
Picket fences line houses, and beads the necks of dames.
Stark night has been – Aurora triumphs here –
Inside and out, in shades of rose and green,
So larks can sing and mockingbirds and girls,
And scholars teach, and judges rectify.
An Aussie mows the wet and fertile green,
An Englishman sits down for toast and tea,
Whereas in bed, the Princess cries – a pea!

An Item for My Eye

The pigeon has a band for me,
A purple band and green,
That matches its calligraphy:
Stark black and pretty sheen.

The kiwi has a shade for me,
Ah! emerald for this isle!
O fruit that gives me ecstasy,
So I might dance in style!

Wandering, also, I have seen
A roe deer in her flock,
Her tail, a letter, white and clean,
Brown-flanked – a running clock.

Red apples, too, look fair and well,
For passion’s scarlet, cold,
Convey a story time can tell
Of kings and princes old,

While peacock feathers grab my train
Of thought, with light and shade,
Flamboyant, like a fiery rain,
Insistent not to fade.

Mallard ducks, then, drakes hilarious,
Immerse their glimmering green,
Though for us ‘twould be precarious
To be where they have been;

Not so – the boy upon the knoll –
Who keeps his roll of bread,
Guards it preciously with cup and bowl
And daisies round his head.

I mark they’re getting seed and grain
And specks – ’tis what they want:
God in the sun, and God the rain,
God to bless the boy who’s gaunt.

Barn Day

I’m a wee lad who wields a switch,
A rope in hand, a rope in hand,
God, tell me if I’ve got an itch!
I’ll take it out upon the sand.

My darling, she sits on the shore,
Quaffing wine from the bottle merrily,
This child – I love her more and more –
But better still in ecstasy,

For which the barn door stands agape,
The floor is bathed in lamplight flare,
I stare at my love’s bonny nape,
And grab it – no, she doth not care.

She yields herself, as light as straw,
For I am strong as mountain rock;
She dives directly in my maw,
Leaves a curse word and a shining lock.

Ah, bloody day beside the block,
‘Tis not yet noon, I hunger so,
Dry as the seconds on the clock:
I make timely work of death and go.

Night Envelops Us

Was ist dir los? I’ve heard no phrase
From you for the past hour, Love,
Or could it be you wag your tail
Since you have no mortal words to say?
Shake meaning from your sylvan pelt,
Breathe poetry so I can hear,
Love me with life and blood and bone
‘Till dawn breaks o’er the forest green.
A shaggy dog howls to the Virgin moon,
And maidens think of mirrors, soap,
The roses of a bright and brilliant tomorrow:
Friend stag: stamp thrice, and we’ll elope!

Zwei und Drei

Mist enshrouds the crop
Of strawberries afield,
That are not dry – how hot!
But bear fresh and fragile leaves,
Sweet fruit the size of paws,
Of hare or fox or wolf:
Three creatures
That go round, round, round,
As on a carousel.
Little girls shout fresa!
Or fraise in proper French,
Erdbeere in German too,
Not to mention fragola,
From the sun-drenched Italian tongue,
Thinking of sunny taste;
So be there mellow days of grace
For the seeded strawberry,
The wild and domestic strawberry.
Tiny feet slap upon the soil,
Heart-shaped faces laugh giddily,
Collectors fill their pockets
Richly and politely,
With crimson merchandise:
Hue that’s a breeze for us to see.
Strawberries regard us happily,
As if they were steeds or zebras,
Luxurious and sensible,
Possessing sight and hearing – ha-ha!
Footsteps shift atop both straw and sand,
Tripping, otherwise waltzing,
Foot-padding and zigzagging,
In Spring and Summer – loth!
Eager to slice the fruit
In kitchens filled with forceful light,
Segmenting joyous stuff
With sagely smiling mouths.
The dissected strawberry confronts us
With two wise eyes,
Set about by venous rays,
As if to say tra-la-la,
Or tira-tira-lay,
Shall there be silver rain today?
Shall Neptune thrust on another coat of rain?
Rain to wear on gules,
So men might spear us regardless,
Holding their plated tridents gay?
Shall a lover head-of-hare,
Or frugal cat or lusty hound,
Apply champagne to us in May?
Shall we be his heart-of-love in May?
The dancing spheres
Have made us comets
As they waltz around deliciously,
Determining when we grow –
In Denmark or Provençal France,
On Italian hills or coastal cliffs,
As bright and light as rain itself.
Perceive, wayfaring merchant!
A rainbow spreads
From two to three
Across the summer sky
Portending bounty from three fan leaves,
And humble lustrous heads.
Economy Paradisal
Though the horse is in
His master’s stall,
And unicorns eat hay.

Zest of Sun and Pith of Moon

In Heaven, angels; oranges on the ground;
These things approving celestial blue,
And singing mouths that bandy sound,
The passion from these being true.
Hey, ho! O Sun who comforts men,
Allowing them much merriment,
And zesty dances for their ken,
Unbridled – doing detriment,
Hot sun, that mocks the pith of moon,
That has no proper heat or light,
But hangs as barren as a dune,
Watchful o’er thieves, that thumb the night!
The moon is pithy, authors bless,
Though the sun retains its livid zest.

La Dame de la Maison at Bryant Park

O be not wicked, wicked-wayed,
My heart of hearts this day!
For I’m a guileless, sweet-tongued maid
And will not trade my gold for hay;

Well-a-day! my master strong,
Make not to deceive me light,
For I must come-a-come-along,
Love thee by day – tuck thee in at night.

The purple blanket’s laid all square
Upon this bed for true loves blind,
For I do keep it well and mehr
With saucy notes and vows that bind.

My love, he sleeps, my earnest love,
Who doth not slap or rend me dry,
As the beasts have ceased to rove,
And his caring dame is nigh.

If thou couldst hear me, gentle Sir,
Should I give the contents of my heat,
Till neither you nor I make slightest stir,
Soft – forgetful of our art.

Lettre d’Amitié

J’écoute mon ami que je ne vois plus,
Hélas! J’espère de ne te manquer trop,
Venez, printemps! Venez, douces fleurs!
Il vaut mieux chanter qu’on ne puisse aimer,
Parmi amants, amis et telles douceurs,
Les champs de jonquilles tout parsemé.
Peut-être je te reverrai la Saison prochaine,
En voyant que je pense à toi, O bel ami!
C’est facile quand il n’y a pas d’haine
D’aimer – homme d’honneur et dame jolie,
Je t’envoie mes rêves et mes prières loyalement,
Et tu peux faire le même pour moi, chérie,
En jouant à l’infini comme des jeunes enfants.
Je t’adore, vraiment, tel qu’une toute jeune fille!

The Egg Crucification

I do not say that it was fiction:
The egg, it had a fate,
But was given o’er to human consumption,
As if it were a date,

And boiled till it was hard like wood,
Possessed its halo gold,
Ensconced in white, to show it’s good,
A good young egg, not old!

This egg – this egg was crucified,
Immobilized on a fork,
That had never thrived and never lied,
But relished ’twas, as it were pork!

When All Things Flower

I do not know why I am here, demurely lingering
Between the garden wall and the wishing well,
But I clutch my scarf and turn my chilly ring,
As the birds fade one by one, and chimes the bell.

The twilight is a silken coat, and I must need
A little more than that, since I am pale:
So pale and gaunt, and filled with more than greed,
And think I on old vagrant knights and mail,

Alone and pensive, turning pink and blue,
Whilst numbness spreads toward both my ears,
The roses bow, and each bright violet too:
All flowers bloom, yet I am stiff with fears.

The old dart glances sharp, and young men laugh,
I am haughty with that other girl who strolls
Trailing a tulip stem and rough-grained, crooked staff
She has bravely plucked from a burning pile of coals:

So that is it – so I do hotly burn
And wander brittle in each winter bone,
Though at the school, I thrive and deftly learn,
A cheery maid – misanthropist am none.

Red Rose Raleigh

How harsh the winter wind flits cross the street!
A girl misses her penny in a frozen pot,
Stoops down to get it, drops her penny treat,
Recites a verse of lore, she then forgot.

Ah, poor cold folk! What balm is there for flesh
When eve’s air cuts and burns and violates?
Red Rose Raleigh makes a simple wish
On the shady lake; his bundled nerves abate;

He blinks his eyes and looks up toward the sky,
Musing, dreaming, thinking, pondering, deaf,
Planting his feet firm on the ground, quite shy,
And light, as well, as ay, an autumn leaf.

O Red Rose Raleigh! Love wends here and there!
Where one side’s sparse, the other boileth over,
Where hot is – also cold – or dull or fair;
But doth he love his tender lady’s gossamer!

He broodeth and he thinketh more and more,
Romantic and inspired from head to foot;
He fears his love, and then doth love her more,
Transports himself with joy, then chews its root.

Pea Mouth Joe

The foulest man there ever was,
A lily-livered cad, a charlatan,
The vilest and the worst of men,
Who liked his mulled wine in a tasse,

Hound and fox! Wild stag and hare!
A bloke not worth his shoe or vest,
For all the pork pies he professed,
He dreamed a lot and was not there.

His lips were green as swampland,
Moronic, ugly, sharp,
Whereas the better lads all played the harp:
He popped peas, devoured them, from a can.

Wherefore did Pea Mouth Joe eat peas?
They felt good in his gut, ’tis why!
And whined he ever o’ being dry,
Though filled he was, unto the leas!

I saw pale Pea Mouth Joe one time,
Upon a hill, cream-faced and mute;
He had a belt and had a slumping boot,
So wrote I this consoling rhyme.

Red Steak and Sour Cream

High noon hung overhead like a pendulum
As people walked like lizards far below,
Sun-like and ruddy children marched and marched,
The damsel turned her head, green as a larch,

Wine glasses clinked, and waiters toiled,
A poet hummed a tune from by the park,
A German bantered to his German friend
Of happenings in France and Portugal,

Some fox-faced gentleman passed by
Holding a leather case and battered hat.
He bit an apple, threw the core away,
Tapped on the ground with one strong toe,

Held his hand unto his chest and breathed;
He deeply breathed for he had overworked.
Ah! White man mighty with the nut-brown tan!
The days passed by sometimes too fast for him!

He’d sold a brand new house and yard and car,
He’d pawned a wristwatch and a golden chain,
His ways were slick and hot with avarice,
His beard was shaven off and he was pretty,

The change he had weighed in his linen pants,
For all the years he worked, he had much more,
So he could be a mockingbird or bear,
A bear addicted to his honey cell,

His tendencies were shark like and all well,
Perfected by how-to books and sage lore,
Honed by a young man’s energy and wit,
Razor-blade antics, looks, and speed.

How bright the future was! Giddy and smart,
Mac planned on doing better every time
The clock fell on the nine-mark, and he wept
That Hortence should make char-black chicken roast.

Success whetted his appetite, as winning does,
Whereas losing seemed the world’s most blasted thing,
And when he struck a deal – this was red steak,
Braised steak flavored with friendship sour cream.

Not gluttony but ecstasy! No hedon’s rite but love!
The larks of Europe did not chant more fair
Than he did, when he saw a winning streak,
Ah, parrot on its perch! Ah, landed Lord!

Dim evening light fell through the window pane,
But candles conquered it; they decked the board;
Hortence spat out asparagus and ham,
And the business man did bless her, more than once.

Lettre

He is handsome, strong, and good,
And I adore his lofty ways;
He rules with love and hath no rood,
Industrious, in sunlit rays,

So well do I trust that fondest head
That never hath done any harm,
I hope to woo him and be wed,
In safety infinite, without alarm,

Flanking that well-read scholar through the day,
As crows above make raucous war,
And celebrating each advent of May
With dances gay and kisses four.

So stamp that thought – I do admire –
As much as Psyche did her Cupid, thus,
Or Venus her Adonis fine,
Proud as a peacock – hating fuss.

Full epochs will I gaze and gaze,
And he be worthy, fresh, and smart,
That I might sally forth, in young amaze,
Find love’s sweet genius – call it art.

Rome Watches, O Precious Children

If watches were a telephone,
Then should I see thee safely home,
For pearls in the world abound,
And there is life where there is sound,

Sweet children! The moon and all its stars
Smile down on thee, in blazing bars,
And if a net – a fisher’s net,
For the dross crime makes, gleans unpaid debt.

I’d see these watches worn in Rome,
I’d have them bought in Christendom,
In France and gracious Germany,
Hot items for world harmony!

If a telephone could be a watch,
Ah, then I’d watch my priceless batch,
Exulting in my heart of hearts,
Devising better wheels and parts.

Angelic Devil

O handsome gentleman, O friendly face,
O master, mister, teacher, love,
Things began with songs and several parties gay,
When you wore scarves, dressed like a turtledove.
You showed both morning wit and sympathy;
But in the evening, fierce and vile,
Replaced your brilliant words with lunacy,
Grinning stylishly, but lost your better style.
How could you treat me so blasted slyly Sir,
Who have an angel’s aspect but no sense?
For wretched tears, my life’s become a blur,
And you’ve given no avowal for recompense.
Your robe was made of silk; now spotted hide
Is all I see, which makes me one sad bride.

Chimney Horse

Fuego! A horse lies in this hearth
At the Essex House, ah, bitterly!
The fire is one grand, flaming mane,
And the people smile, they simply smile,
They laugh right through the clear glass pane.
Was it a mare, a stallion, or a stud?
Did it work and toil and strive to death?
The fire of genius blazes, these genes make hazes,
Does all strength so consume itself in ash?
Poor tresses of light-quick conflagration,
How does one quell it, but with ice?
That I will drink with water in a cup,
And champagne afterwards – thirst! I sup!

Gemutlichkeit

I.

It makes me shiver to see you, as if I were a lake,
I itch, and my acts are awkward; I’ve spilt my tea;
And my instinct tell me to run with lackluster legs
Until my doubts are quelled, my heart is stilled,
The bird is tame now – cannot hurt me more –
But in you absence, I feel even more
The heaven that you were, the hard and shining gem,
The athlete of Olympia, the savior of sinewy limbs,
The balm and healer and ointment for my life’s every sore,
Or run to you when my nerves abound;
And if you have me after all, accept my foibles.
I shall call you the highest mountain,
I shall address you when my needs are rife,
Make tea for you and boil the soup,
Like a river woman for a man of fortitude,
As water loves soil and pours out silken silt,
I’ll love adore and cherish even thee,
Looking forward to an eternity of richness, honor, faith.

II.

You know, the common pigeon might well fly its iridescence
On a stark black spool of string. An honest bird,
It is not vain or proud, resembles you,
Fits in with nature naturally, and has nice wings.
It wanders haplessly but selflessly, a vagrant,
Adorns both roads and clouds, befitting each,
Gemutlichkeit! It vaunts itself around
Without having to ask or tell, God’s Will! God’s Will!
It unravels like a pea that sheds its cause,
Revealing splendid life that duplicates
For joy, love, perseverance, on and on,
That really must maintain the hazy door of dawn.
When all the trees are rendered bare,
When they are stripped by autumn to the gut,
The bones, the joints of bleaker ecstasy,
The evening star still shines, a milk white star,
So wherefore doth this cold race starve?
The pigeon bobs and dips, a tongue-tied comet,
Making silent wishes upon its splotch of star,
So that it shall not starve or lose or fade,
For future joys ride on the better work of bright today.
Behold the frantic company, this gray dive peers amid!

III.

I pound along this road, conform with it,
Across its clustered stones, to seek a gem, a tie,
Who knows? The ebon path of tar streaks through the grass,
Convincing us to buy black sacks for running. Pithy genius!
Where is my oxygen? He wears a scarf.
He wear a scarf, cufflinks, and handkerchief.
He’s as good as the lobster I’ll someday cook for him,
Not counting the gold that will buy the broth,
Or the family that bolsters young economy.
Going down the far road seems quite the adventure,
Building sand pyramids and snowmen, harmless fun,
These ends in sight – we tend to tidy up and thresh,
Wield switch brooms and sing witchy songs at night.
The father will be a winking turtledove one day,
And I, a blackbird, as luscious as in May,
Giving soap to kiddie sparrows who must cogitate,
Of which I dream around; take espresso for today,
Object to Chantilly, and watch this wintery world.
Now, there is heat in bleakness; wealth means industry.

IV.

How the pretty birds wear feathers!
How the men wore shark-like black-and-white jackets in their time!
How much I love my written word with tea,
European romances and treasures of the sea!
We’re bright like berries, musky blue and red,
Must be audacious enough to swallow these
Most portentous tokens of good weal,
Break through hard casings with our beaks:
Relative to problems, formulas, and fact,
One, two, and three, the process one derives.
Frequently, though, one chews pollen in order to vomit honey.
Will time be split between frustration and transience,
Or will the limpid spring reclaim the salt, salt sea,
Leaping, gurgling, and lunging, but never ceasing?
Pomona guards her apple with a knife,
Santa red-berry and his elves of evergreen
Toil in secrecy, mingling alchemy and love,
For precious is Gemutlichkeit! More precious Time,
Pretty quality and products of the gazing soul,
Implying you and me, complicity,
A mickle deal which suits us both.

V.

We sign this parchment with fresh ink,
And working hands with muscle bound,
Have brains with which to sit and think,
But we’ll be buried in the ground!

We’ll soon be buried in the ground,
Nor time yet left to blink an eye,
Or relish music’s humble sound,
Like winter’s trees, be stiff and dry.

Pigeon and I

What difference’s ’twixt you and I?
You wear a collar, I, a gem,
You walk on roads, I tread them too,
Your talent takes you higher: fly,
Though flying bends your pinions so!
The stark, inky stripes upon your back,
Resemble legs in nylon O wretched wren – I, a ren,
Crossing a crosswalk, dabbling paint
Upon a mobile canvass free of taint.

Black blot chromosome, white pool egg,
Some bounty – some, not all!
I hatch a dream, I see your gleam,
We fly our kites, we fall.
The crumb you caught, ’tis for good health,
The one I found, ’tis for a bell,
A bell most beautiful, a dish,
That’s good so long as nothing cracks,
Brings luck, or satisfies a wish.
Homes, however homely, need successful recipes.

Play your viol, ask for purple wine,
And I’ll write one verse and study French,
As far as effort goes, and passion buds;
But tall Time holds to us a wrench,
Drowns us in a flagrant flash of suds.

The Girl, The Tower

I knew she had ambition, grace,
Was interesting and fair of face,
Could run a race or fill a book,
Or tempt a fellow with one look;

She was puissant, pretty, prim,
Had equality of limb,
Both artifice and symmetry,
Climbing mountains: her proclivity,

But when a gang o’ertook the maid,
She was abducted and foully laid,
Her wants abandoned with her needs,
Succumbing, thus, to grosser greeds.

Alas! The darling had two feet!
She was much too smart to braise their meat!
Reduced to a puddle in her prime,
Her feet were sliced off for a dime.

Do you look on, O wakeful moon?
Is this what you have chanced to see?
A girl with legs that mattered much,
Then ruined towers – left as such?

Two Things In One

The baker used elbow grease
To verse liters of spring water, building the dough,
And not a little bit of know-how:
A ponderous file of recipes he’d learned by rote.
Tempered water poured over quality flour,
In a jolly, frolicking, timely rivulet,
For which there was much shivering and beating about the bush.
Yeast said their love would grow, faintly but emphatically,
And that their love should be homogenous,
Triumphant and finished fairly, when the timer ceased.
My, it was a bunch of cherries, building there
In the baker’s mixing bowl with whacks and thwacks,
Until the dough maintained its gloss and sheen,
Ornery work for an ornery day! Begun at six o’clock,
Finished at eight in a 500 degree ten-thousand buck oven,
The bread came out in perfect russet rolls,
Scored, swollen, tapered, nice, projecting pride:
For it was the stuff of dreams. Hot for a break,
Some simple scholar Steven cracked the break, famished
For a lick of love and poetic Flemmish.
He stopped to look at himself in the boysenberry jam,
Then started at seeing the rife and marvelous curvature
Of his separated, cavernous baguette:
For the top seemed like a femme,
The bottom like an homme,
But transmorphed to a roasted apple.
Still were they fashionable and fair: though barely there.
The student said farewell, then belched,
Having neatly partaken of wheat at eight.

Listening to the Beatles in New York City

The day is drear, the cars are near,
The suffocating sky is stifling worth,
So music – music’s what I meant to hear,
Or die of boredom, dull and worn.

A Beatle’s like a pharaoh, mystical,
Who harmonizes more than sparrows do,
So he’s a Beatle, as if that were all!
You know, musicians have their daring-do.

Ah, diamond skies and lonely days!
Long-lasting friendship and the gift of peace!
All’s glamorous and splendid – this amaze
Must raves produce from Babylon to Greece.

I think, and thinking, meditate,
Through evening, on things curious,
Adjusting thus my normal gait,
For dreams bright and delirious.

O! On pyramids and Beatles, whole-wheat bread,
The benefits of tea, seductive songs;
I feel these notes within my head,
And hearing them, I go along.

You Were a Laughing Seahorse

I loved to hear you laughing,
Telling jokes at the table with everything,
Fresh flowers in their vase and you a flower.
But how you laughed! How ebullient you were!
Having had time to tear bread and drink tea,
I admired your profundity,
Wisdom and wit, stuck together like pastry,
And finished with glazed and bright flamboyance.
You had a seahorse laugh
That bubbled up like mutual champagne
Since we both caught and cultured that dear laugh,
Entwining thereupon – jeune homme –
As dewy swans glided silently outside,
Pearl white: so didn’t we dance?
Didn’t we dance after late champagne, chérie?
Faith, not all laughs are the same.

Chinese Builder

The night held glowing lanterns
That were like mandarin oranges,
And you, you were an intern
Who horded math and adages,

And I knew you thirsted, knew this pain
For which you read like lozenges
These books that give fools dumb disdain,
But birds in Winter leap and forage!

So you, my dear, learned new Chinese,
Claiming that characters keep the mind in shape,
As if a neuron were magic ink to please,
Or a cover were a foreign cape.

Pithy Genius

I love poetry and art,
But respect smart science more;
To take the world apart
And put it back again!

To see both front and back
Of every verdant leaf,
Know why there’s green and black,
Learn facts beyond belief;

These be the epics long
That one must know by rote
Where change replaces song
With every autumn coat.

Nature’s a pithy genius,
That gives us colors, voice,
As if it were a senior,
Who gave us Will and Choice.

Formulas and theorems,
Should suit my fingers more,
Than verses to solve problems,
Or oranges, or albacore.

If I Could Reign In the Weather

If the weather were a horse,
I’d learn to reign it in,
That doth not show remorse
For wild and savage sin,

That shatters boats and roads,
As if its eye was blind,
Or we had lives of toads:
Most terribly unkind!

I testify as witness
That the weather doth not heed
Either prayer or good advice,
But hath an evil seed.

Humph! People learn to bow
More quickly than they stitch,
Or row through problems, row,
When Nature’s in a pitch!

Miss Martha Moll

A sparrow here, a blackbird there,
All drinking by the fountain spray,
The air was fresh of early May,
None did mope with grim despair,
But men rejoiced and women played,
A petal fell and silent stayed,
Where there were trees and musics,
Magnolias and daisy blooms,
Red tulips side by side with white,
Down soft as fabrics from the loom,
Of creatures new-hatched on the bough,
Pale maidens danced and were not proud,
In league with Graces high of brow,
In tune with breathings blown around,
Lithe kings and queens, young dames and lords,
Gone forth in loud comportment gay,
Flecked nut-brown, sly as roaming pards,
They greet today! They brood today!

Betaken to their bowers,
Of small and sprightly flowers,
The eye that jealous glowers,
Full wary of their powers,
As wont to drink of dew as wine,
As apt to sing as tell a tale,
Couched soft on cattails, grass, and vines,
Whilst boys to school cry hail-hail-hail!
The moistened cheek turned red,
Like berry, rose, or beet,
Once kissed, a giddy head,
For loves will meet and meet,
Lives left to work them fine,
Adorned with wreathes divine.

Miss Martha Moll held fast a cup,
Of tea, of hot green tea,
And tarried not to drink it up,
She saith, “It so pleases me!”
The steam enticed her nose,
To wrinkle up the more,
In sunny weather mild,
A round, but once or twice,
A waltz, light, artful, styled,
Enswathed by gleaming hair,
By shining chestnut hair,
Compelling men to stare,
At this diva sound and kind,
A maiden and a saint,
Her ruby lips that pined,
Still free from earthly taint,
Dependent on the day,
Time, place, and climate bright,
To make her footsteps stay,
To lend limbs ling’ring might,
Implicitly, a lanky sprout,
Well remedied of Season’s drought,
Fresh sunflower, slim sprite,
A garden rose, a lily white,
O elfin beauty of delight!
Who vibrancy gave to the air,
Her aura gilt, her songs of gold,
Her batting lash and bosom’s care,
Allowing Heaven loth! To grow,
In mortal regions, timid, though,
Protracting whispers weak in tow,
Ah! Trailing vaguely dreaming,
Beneath sky’s teaming,
Reciting, thinking, listening,
Beguiling looks and glistening,
Dawn’s dainty chit, weird whippoorwill,
A dreamer and her tender heart,
A transient tepid tide,
Upon the sidewalk dried,
Enchanting as a spell,
Or dewdrops in their dell,
Did not think much on binding love,
The tricks of love, its wiles thereof,
On guiles, deceptions, plots or schemes,
That slip around like salty breams:

Since youth is fortitude,
Demanding focus, needing room,
Gone milling in the multitude,
Not yet deserving ghostly tomb,
It flits and flies,
It burst and boils,
It does not ask but takes,
And does not fade but makes,
No wilting weed on worldly green!
More boundless than the ocean’s sheen!
Seeds spilled for whipping winds,
Thrust through all sorts of blinds,
Spring’s spirit signify,
Honor too, ability,
The meat of modern cities,
Replenishing the emptiness,
Despite wide maps of Guinness.

Ensconced by sightly stalls,
Where trinkets were and chains,
Pressed close by overalls,
Goat gloves and window panes,
A pricey panoply,
Beside slick shop displays,
Of globes of fruit,
Perfection purple-skinned,
Firm, felshy melons,
Dates sold in gallons,
Pears waxing sallow,
Grape clusters mellow,
Sweet Citrons succulent,
Ripe-swollen, round, translucent,
Grand gaudy orbs,
Glaucous leaves galore,
As wet as in a pour,
Pile, stacks, audacious rows –
There – Martha stepped and stepped,
Daring diamond-sphery eyes,
Both staring forth,
Distaining prickly peels,
Smooth rinds, and sweets,
Tempting tongues to treason,
Beyond the scope of reason,
In tumultuous blinding bustle,
Approached Martha the church,
O’er walks of cobblestone,
Bathed limpidly in light,
Alone, forsooth, alone,
Animated by faith,
To gorgeous states of happy grace.

Then, might she worship on her knee,
Beholding hope aflame,
Her hymns all humming like a bee,
Chaste, steadfast, pure, and tame,
Full-fledged in innocence,
Unknown to sin, inspired,
Thirsty-headed for beneficence,
Enkindling sultry fires,
So groaned she for the mass,
The holy mass at noon!
Prim processions that pass,
Give boon, give boon!
Upward she climbed
The chilly steps,
With lips that mimed
The solemn clefs,
Invoking spirits near and far,
Fond forces passed away,
To pray and pray and pray,
Eternal love, a star!

Gripped she the wood,
Of burnished rail,
A soldier stood,
In silver mail,
Behind her form a-tremble,
She, possessed by agues feeble,
Anointing living flesh with fear,
No man might hear, in faith!
This lady, saith she her word,
Though pallid words build frigidly,
Foundations fair and good:
White wishes crystalline,
Not washed away like sand,
Her folded hands of Columbine,
Pressed closer, inch by inch,
Speaking for her family,
Gurgling for her love,
Darting their look above,
Her eyes fill o’er with ecstasy,
Ay, part her honey lips,
For that angel-sweet sips,
Staid, the lily at her hips,
Pointed ferns, her aching feet,
Oh, ache they did, and ache,
Her feet that trailed the brake,
Her feet that combed the ground,
Day, night, and day, to stray around,
Marvelous things, shod daintily,
Two clovers curled, walked merrily,

And when Martha stopped her chant,
To wipe her beaded brow,
She ’came ill, gray, and faint,
Quite ravished now!
Cruel coldness froze the nave,
While winding winds made Martha rave,
A thirst taught credence to behave,
O! Pain, misfortune, guilt,
Despondency and misery,
A dram of dull duplicity,
Tell bitter buds to wilt and wilt,
Made aught for sweating hands to hold,
Caused Voice to flutter bold,
Released to skim the tapestries,
Rampant in mysteries,
Importunate, and proper-said,
In earnestness articulate,
Haughty, though goodness bled,
To sap it slow and late,
A brittle leaf her breast,
A lodestone in her chest,
But was it flu? But was it art?
But should it rend Miss Moll apart?
She bent and burned,
She sighed full-sore and learned,
To ask with bated breath,
The gods, why she breathed death,
Why coursed her blood? Why cracked her bones?
Why she seemed crisp with many suns?
A serpent in her hair,
Embodying despair,
Transmorphing her lovely eyes to starkest black,
Ay woe! And no known cause to thank!

“O God, I know not why it is,
Upon this crimson rug and floor,
The humors in my form make war!
Death stoops down to seal his kiss!
Was I meant thus to cry,
A weep and wail and weep,
That life could peter out so cheap?
Rather would I die, she thought,
Fall down and fail betimes,
Then struggle with her heart chords taut,
Prone, then, to hear strange chimes,
Retracted to a silhouette,
Some scant and shadowy marionette,
Some whiff of smoke, a shape of steam,
Some skeleton beneath her mien,
Scarce more, though moist with mulch was May,
Mindful of work, positioning play.

Her eyes shot up in vain,
As anguish wracked her brain,
A fly upon her brow,
That sucked her like a cow,
Quite monstrous did she trow,
But in a minute’s time, what luck!
What luck, a pastor heard her rhyme!
Appeared a grim and gloomy man,
Dapper as well, a bell,
A clanging bell in hand,
Defiant of her Hell,
Cool like the whitewashed winter stream,
Like a chiseled statue, beauteous,
His eyes, the hue of amethyst,
Dressed slick in pleatings numerous,
An apple at his throat,
To stand, perhaps, to gloat?
Would he misuse her ill?
From her pallid visage draw his fill?
Pluck virtue like a daffodil?
The sacred, holy man,
Upon that frightful hour,
By use of practiced word,
Dispelled its prospects dour,
Raised up his hand to sign,
A mystic charm, decentered wine,
Into a crystal glass,
For the lips of the greeny lass.

O joy, thereon! Long-lasting joy!
His sanctity was resident,
Pulled qualities beneficent,
From glory’s fruit and faith,
Salutation for the wasting wraith!
The gesture love had fashioned,
Earnestly impassioned,
Above the crown was stationed,
Of that palpitating girl,
Lest she dwindle, shrink into a curl,
Began to glow, a golden mist,
Fed by the power of his fist,
Wrapped mightily around,
The frail thing he had found,
Paternal, tugged a pater noster,
More brave than chauntings of the rooster,
From still and simple air,
Abjuring phantoms to beware!
Directing spirits stay in place!
Stifling banshees sick of face!
Restoring health and soul,
In league with yon baptismal bowl,
Thunder, deep, commenced to roll,
As church bells kept their timely toll,
Anointing dry and lifeless soil,
With musics, strains, and tunes,
More perfectly than oil,
To spread them out for many moons,
Like any man to toil!
Engendered once condensed,
In puissance unconquerable,
Projected outward; so owlets send
A midnight message voluble:
Rich and rife,
Young Martha seethed,
Wit sharpened like a knife,
Nor aught to grieve,
Nor sickness catch,
Indebted to the pastor’s word,
Of perfect bliss assured.
“O might I plant upon thy face,
A kiss to thank thee for thy charm,
Who, all my worries did abase,
My craven malady disarm?
’Tis but a passing token,
And should not perjure anything,
Exults that thou hast broken,
A vile and tightening ring,”
Miss Martha said,
Chin jutting forth,
As chipper as a bird fled north,
Heart beating red.

Ah, villainous, a ghost,
Still loitered up above,
To screech for curds and toast,
And crackling turtledove,
His appetite insatiate,
Gluttonous for braises,
Pale damsels snuffed in hazes,
Obsessed and drooling o’er this pound
Of flesh deprived of sound,
As flaccid as the sea!
Bared he his wicked fangs and left,
Without the spirit he had cleft,
Without his bitter theft,
Extending viciously each side
O’ his white and ether hide,
Snarling for the snare he lost,
Miss Martha Moll, triumphant there!

Invoke fiercely as he might,
Without a tongue, nor any voice,
The foulest liege-lord of his choice,
He could not cease to fade from sight –
The pastor’s motions gave him blight!
The pastor turned his wrongs to right!
Vowed he to quake and shake,
To tear the laughing lass in twain,
Her shanks to bake,
Like any lust-filled Thane,
Devouring them again!
Ay, ay, and ay,
The chance had passed him by,
To wrench a Christian thigh,
Alas! For wastelands cold and dry,
Where fate condemned him
Now to roam, a devil purged and smoked!

“My child, thou look’st amazed,
And tend to kneel, though standing straight,
Beleaguered and grimly grated,
Secretive and sedated,
E’en in thy pearly prime!
Wilt thou not forget thy foe,
Or free thyself from fear?
Await thy mistletoe?
Bedeck with blooms thy ear,
From springy boughs,
Thy praises said and done for now?”
Spoke soft the pastor, winking fond,
Miss Martha but a quivering frond,
Or a bow that stretches tight,
Or a healed and hearty Wight,
All set to go, but baffled, oh!
A rosy girl, a Christian friend,
Regretting that the Reverend
Ignored the lush delight
Lingering in her wistful sight,
High cloying and piquant as a dish,
That might her palate gratify,
That might satisfy a wish,
That might a manly mortal deify,
My, he was a stunning fish!
With newer, better eyes she gazed,
At this glibly worded friend;
Her sentiments were gently crazed,
And seemed without an end;
A temple of delight was here,
Where Love did step courageously,
Romance and glee throughout the year!
A rugged face considered dear!
Made a simple child,
Who chastely wiled,
A pilgrim and a pioneer.
“I’ll go, then come anon once more,
Mindful of home and work and chore,
Glad for your kindly mien, a bit,
Your thinkings fast and lean, your wit,
Of proud and precious stuff composed:
So how should I not like thy rose?
Adieu, fair Sir, anon, anon!
O! I have much to think upon!”
Cried Martha simpering,
Who once stood whimpering,
Vexed by her love, and nigh perplexed,
Avowing an-a-limb to flex!

Evening dyed the sky vermillion,
Streaked through with orange-gold,
On the brink of dark dominion,
Still not fading, still bare and bold,
A flamboyant ship upon the crest
Of a blank horizon, brightly dressed,
Repletely rich with lights,
Offsetting the apple’s frothy whites,
Which Martha took completely in,
Letting all the colors in,
Full joyous to the bubbling brim
Of jubilation, sharp and prim.
Lo, there! A glowbug hovering!
O’er there! An oak tree wuthering!
Great seagulls glided by in rings,
Amidst a land of carolings,
Chests toward the ground, hard eyes aloft,
Warmed by feathers never doffed,
In search of bread, a neat-clipped crumb,
A morsel – nor to hunger dumb,
A fish, a fish, a floundering fish!
Gulped whole as men
From one to ten
Sipped real pastis and ate
Salads, plates first of rate,
Miss Martha Moll to pass them by,
Snubbing her snippet nose,
Her speckled snowflake nose,
Whilst flouncing cream-white clothes,
Tripped on and on,
Without a silly fall,
A maiden and a doll
Who said that gulls were hirondelles –
Not hideous – but something else!

Broken through the door,
Of her cottage house, her real estate,
She sunk upon all fours,
To find a metal weight,
Alas, alas! Just sassafras,
A jar of beans, a threaded ream,
Wheat flour and a duck,
Milk bottled skimmed by Puck,
Crisp Anjous bought for cream,
Flax seeds and sacks of rice,
Cans ready in a trice,
Egg noodles and mackerel,
Corn powdered at the mill,
Apple cider, apple juice,
Vermicelli scattered loose,
But lacking this drear weight,
Deserving of this weight,
She’d bang her hand against her pate,
With all her might, completely taxed,
Telling her rage in several thwacks!

God willed, the object found,
Gave much more than a pound,
Appeased her well and far,
Her cares were leveled par,
For on the shelf it sat,
A little dwarf without its hat,
Unwitting foe had she to reach,
As girls reach higher for their peach,
Nor any help beseech!
She took it off to tote,
To caper round and gloat,
Placing it on the chipped-paint balance,
Thereon to work her many talents,
First equalizing butter sticks,
Then flour for her mix,
Red currants, berries red,
Her recipe writ but never said,
Molasses cups and sugar,
Hazelnuts worth murder,
Gathered all her skills, and gaged them too,
Proud flour had fallen on her shoe,
Exulting she had made her mark,
On pastry, singing like a lark.

A firmament of stars from east to west,
Saw her heart impassioned cooling slow,
Much like a crust of tart or torte,
Must stoutly pass the test,
Their tender casings cracking low;
Though her budding chest had not a stain,
No taint was there, nor burn,
But the tresses of her mane,
O’er looked her pounding bosom’s yearn,
Infuriating quietude! Was not a stir,
But her shuffling feet,
Became quite fleet,
When she exited the oven’s ken,
Her work in hand, to suffer then,
Burst desperately across the yard,
In timid darkness, diamond-barred,
Pursing her pretty lips,
And scratching with her fingertips,
Vigorous as a bride,
On foot, without a ride,
A pastry package at her side,
For which she’d moaned, and huffed, and sighed!

Approaching the reverend’s door,
Desiring to see the man who’d pegged her chore,
Fond as a filly or a foal,
Nigh to its wond’rous goal,
She knocked and knocked and knocked,
Cowering, as well, in knitted socks,
Timorous as any fox
That ventures cross a shady glen,
Sublime as a sunflower,
Helios’ friendly follower,
Sporting blanched skin, and tremulous,
Prickling at her neck’s nape, querulous,
She wished to be gregarious,
To impress her savior’s heart,
Naturally! She showed a grandiose grin,
And pristine rows of kitten teeth,
Before the Pastor let her in,
Whence walked she his long arm beneath,
Clapped her arm against her breast,
And said her fresh-baked goods were ay, the best –
That he should have some – pleasuring,
In those products made by measuring,
Beaten better by her steadfast hand,
Than meager housewives do in all the land.
O! Did she blush from ear to ear!
Strainedly, she tried to peer!

“God bless thee,” said the Pastor,
Nodding sagely, gazing fast,
Twice stated, “God doth bless thee”,
Discerning eve’s gray clouds amassed,
That would not rain upon her head,
Nor bother her belated breath,
Nor wring her paltry soul to death,
Nor jolt her wretchedly from bed,
So, judging all, firm, fair, and well,
The girl in safety, unassailed,
He did not mock her mickle efforts,
He did not chastise wants most true,
To scour motives – why, oh, why?
Project presumption – where, the lie?
However, turning on his heel,
To bid a backwards “Sweet, goodnight,”
He saw Miss Moll intend to kneel,
Swayed piteously by some inner fight,
One foot upon the doorstep,
One foot impressed in sand,
One smile for her kind Reverend,
Harboring a demand,
So would she speak – but in her throat,
A frog lodged frightfully,
Lost all those words she’d learned by rote,
Her eyeballs glazed unsightfully,
A captured frieze, a fossil,
A montage made of muscle,
Far from the evening bustle,
Miss Martha Moll did tarry,
To kiss and kiss the Pastor, marry,
Beading with love’s heat,
And loth to take a seat,
His rugged looks, his aspect, she did eat,
Quaffing the stern set of his face,
As if she’d met her iron man of Thrace:
Two kisses for the eyes,
A couple pecks for either cheek,
His stone-cold hands did mesmerize,
And won blessings from her beak,
At which suddenly, ashamed,
Miss Martha started back,
Hoping she did no harm,
To the early charm,
Of being a patient lulled from deathly sleep,
By the Reverend’s magic’s mighty sweep.
Did she tremble then, and pierce her puckered lip,
Until it bled a ruby drop,
A gem for well, a sound and sacred man,
A gentleman besides – no misanthrope!

“Dost thou banish me to die,
“Upon this witchy hour,
“To pluck my hair and cry,
“As thine eyes glower?
“Sir, canst thou be so mean,
“As to prohibit labors light,
“Of love implanted keen,
“In my body, left and right?
“I need thee and I cherish thee,
“I worship and I dream on thee,
“Lord, hast thou seen my quivering mouth?
“Dost thou realize my bitter drought?
“Ay, fancy, I shall cut my wrists,
“If all I get for wells of love,
“Are the pallid knuckles of thy fists,
“Sad bankruptcy – and not a trove!”
Chomped the youthful lass and cried,
Who on the gravel stomped,
Sporting a loud and lurid flame,
From her footsteps to her mane,
Flailing her arms, and pulling her hair,
Cursing the Pastor to the Devil, but mehr,
Grieving, groaning, groveling,
So deep in love, the master must learn shoveling,
To unbury her from wanton lust,
To strengthen ties that render trust,
And doth not move a maid to die!

“Relent thy passion, for its price,
“Its price, is one of strictest treason!
“If essaying doth not suffice,
“Then approach me with thy brow,
“That sweats a poisoned sweat,
“For all my love to grow,
“E’en in ye, who flails and rows,
“Like a mermaid netted from the sea,
“Like a child, or a shaker mad with ecstasy,”
This good man saith, beaming bright,
Touching her bended brow,
E’en in golden nets of night,
As a raven thrice gave raucous crow,
Its echo climbing bravely up,
Enhanced bewitchingly by shade,
This man, this child as audience,
This master and this maid.
Obeisance given near tall, shaking boughs,
Rites and recitations accomplished,
The Pastor told his prayers aloud,
Miss Martha’s flaws admonished:
For all the human heart is weak,
Oft bitten by despair,
Its desires, fluent as a leak,
Palpable as spices seasoning a custard pear,
Drenched through and through with heady wine,
Drenched and cuissoned, this fruit from off its vine,
Until the worthy Pastor restored reason,
Delivering a shivering soul from treason,
Shaking golden virtue, meanwhile, from his cloak,
In myriad flagrant sparks – ah, well!
A beacon gives no inch to paltry brawn,
And has no fragile fires to stoke, the stars amongst.
“Peace, rigor, love, faith, honor,
“A friendly farthing for thy honest works,
“Well worth a lesson and its fireworks!
“We part today, to bed, and not to wander!”
So saith he, the gown-up man,
The dapper man and godly man;
Whence Martha wandered home,
Polite to boot, benign, and wan.

October 20, 2012

The Sad Tribulations of Josephine Willington

Writ by Alice M. Baskous

Poor Josephine! Fraught round by city sounds,
The rasp of roads and busy avenues,
How loud and harsh! How brash and forcefully,
Those branded trucks move thickly on and on!
Fain wouldst thou sleep, and all of these unheard,
Between thy pillows, bed-sheets, coils and swathes,
An ebon crow upon the window sill,
To strike its frantic mark portentously,
While coffee’s poured in perfect porcelain cups,
While papers, at least five, ephemeral,
Spread open round the toast and minted jam,
The tulips bloom beneath lithe boughs of palm,
Enticed by sunny rays to shimmy up,
Whilst through these happenings dost thou slumber,
But shadows in thy eyes, and spangle-gloss,
Perhaps, in deep oblivion provoked
To toss thy feeble frame in silken sleep.
Bright morning thrust its way traverse the panes,
The curtains moved, by green and scarlet stained,
Edged neat by twisted fringes, stripes and bands,
Reflecting hours happily, with cheer,
Despite thy stubbornness and breathings slow,
And not a meter of thee animate!
The light, and streets, and town have not an inch!
Some pity, that some wearied demoiselle,
Lieth on her bed with beaded brow,
Her blooming cheeks quite flush, her lips agape,
Her golden hair splayed loosely side to side,
As fair as ocean spume – disheveled time!
Though, making pools of wanton loneliness,
A peony imbued by heat and sun,
Not opened, not yet up-sprung from her rest,
Young maid ingenuous! A part to lose,
Just so, in doing nothing, nothing done,
And no great effort – ay, to wake!
Then, stirring somewhat, jolt and twitch,
A finger moves before the hand to flex,
Alone – but art there prospects of a wave,
Awhile, and later on, brief greetings said,
The mutest tongue to deftly iterate,
And mouth predestined for locution, ripe.
What’s useless and sleep-baffled, sluggishly,
What’s passing tender, head to hand to toe,
Impelled to burst upon the common scene,
Resuming business, taking liberties,
Extracting virtues from the daily moil,
And profiting from common palaver,
Exchanges cordial eked from friendly minds,
A single soul in dealings infinite,
Sweet things to grab where are there boundless stores:
One pleasure, amongst others, two or three,
Where the dame is also satisfied and fair,
Meek, unassuming, well-bred, shy and kind,
Possessing mainly qualities of worth,
Inherent goodness, weight, impinging none
Upon the sanctity of other men,
Alike in dainty ways innocuous,
To natural seashells fashioned inwardly,
Her etiquette well calcified,
A sight to see, and even more to hear,
Not brazen, rough or raucous, never bad,
But gifted great with tonalities superb,
Implying many talents meant to shine,
Producing, also, modesty, not hate,
Or prejudice, disdain: those sentiments
Congealed to render men apart from men,
Who think in terms full selfish – being men –
Abhorring sometimes peace and properness,
Shortchanging, snubbing, sly in every greed,
Belligerent and roguish, repenting naught,
Embracing fallacies and baseness much,
Entrenched in notions none too straight,
To hie them home, to think them how they will.
What doth it matter? What doth it cost? What guilt?
Miss Josephine gets up and taketh tea,
Before the hour of eight, and solemnly,
Not apt to jest, not having company,
Attuned to all the tickings of the clock
That in the corner stands, a rigid work.
If postman’s satchel gratifies, that boon
Remains beside two flights of stairs untouched,
Locked in a box of mystery, or ecstasy,
Not pried of promise – small and wonderful –
If in so many bills there lies a gem!
The hands of Jo grabeth fast a fruit select,
And set to peel, bestowing on her skin,
The taste, and scent, and feel of orange rind,
Delectably, for which she lifts a smile –
That plainer maids could seldom match that smile.
O innocence! Might piquant aspects keep
Their vivid blooms a day, and more forthwith,
Nor e’er to fade, so far from stagnant blight,
Or crooked vice, or step ill-made, forsooth!
Yet unbeknownst to taint, inviolate,
A flower’s frame folds in upon itself,
Unwont to yielding drams or increments
Of aught its precious self, for happiness,
For self-respect and more: pure dignity,
Allowing one a firm and independent strength,
And inward beauty, brilliant as a star:
So sitteth Josephine, her eyes aglow,
Unquenched by perfidious peril, want, or care,
Disposed a-time to proceed from thence,
On springy foot, not prone to hesitate,
Toward sunlight glory, warmth, and niceties,
Her range of expectations, slight, but grand!

The woman, shedding drowsiness as dust,
Dander, or loosened petals from a tree,
Put on her better garments one by one,
Her arms aloft stretching cozily out from sleep,
That ordered plans go forward; her torso shaketh;
Desire prompts her legs from whence she stood,
Onto the landing, down the steps, and clear
Into new autumn’s mellow landscaping.
Sweet joy! Her senses be so touched by winds benign,
Demurely humming o’er her ear a subtle tune:
Free, fresh, delightful, drawing no compare,
From any of the corners of the globe!
Pale airs uplift her tresses with her thoughts,
Epitomized volition, describing what it will.
She’d split the morning, like a cake, to bits!
Take time to know the sands on which she’d stroll,
Shout boldly to the baker, read the news,
Compose her day with choicest morsels gleaned,
From the vast and teeming season, for her part,
And share in those events, entitled liberally,
To every man, on Earth, exceptions none,
Releasing joys, ambitions, wishes, needs,
For these to crystallize, in one unsevered whole:
Much as a dough gains value on the hour,
A painting, filled profusely, meanings fond,
An epic, merit, verse by noble verse,
These joys belonging to the soul of man,
Lost piteously, his essences untold.
Young Josephine gave voice to daring strains
Of music: melodies from lips most proud,
Mellifluent and sharp, profoundly wrought,
By grace of wild – keen, wild imagining!
A seashore’s worth of graceful tuning boundless,
Articulate beyond most modern lyrics,
Blithe, strange, and loth to cease this merriment.
It might be said, her notes, she wore like jewels,
Or paints – these being foreign to her mind,
That visage she was given, fine enough,
To flaunt without the aid of artifice,
Exquisite anyway, its colors plain –
Created carefully, lest friends should list,
And answer like for like, then onward fly.
’Twas not a sin to carry on obliviously,
Her notions hers: as tides to shores align,
And birds to melody, and pens to grips,
No one the same, but reborn from the lot,
Still smart, still entertaining intellect,
Distinguishing a dapper spirit’s sum.

A white and wizened vendor o’er his wares,
Displaying watches, trinkets, pins and chains,
A score of leather belts, tied prettily,
A set of buttons, wallets, merchandise,
Both cheap and wholesome, crieth out her name:
“What luck o’er there! Art thou, Friend, good to talk?
The maid responded in a trice: “I am,
“Though not for long, for simple restlessness,
“If thou canst gage it – the day’s still young –
“And working wheels must roll on punctually.
“Have I a date to keep: a bosom friend,
“Awaits me not a mile from here – so speak!
“Go on, if thou be so disposed to speak,
“Or keep thy peace, remembering I came by,
“One face ’mongst several, wishing thee rather well!”
“I saw thee trailing by the sea at eve,
“When twilight shaded alleys, chilled the roads,
“Called every man to table for his bread,
“Had children out to play their devilish games:
“Craps, jacks, and leap frog, laughing loud.
“Thou wert gazing at the pallid sickle moon;
“Thy back was turned; I waved, thou saw’st me not.
“A quarter hour past to no avail,
“At which I cast off hopes amicable,
“At parley, having not – ah, luck! – thy ear,
“Let fall forthwith my head, and told a prayer:
“A prayer I told for Josephine! A blink,
“And thou wert gone to strew thy roses red,
“I, to my work, importunate of chance,
“Sporadic sales my standard – on my life!
“What wert thou thinking, wistful, by thyself?
“What wert thou thinking, with thy elfin mind,
“Might I ask thus boldly, guileless, knowing thee?”
Prim, pensive Josephine, stared at this man,
Gave scrutiny: suspicion in her eyes,
That arched like somber ravens, cautiously,
From which dark depths, a glimmer beamed.
Her head, she lowered to the left, demure,
Befitting those green years she kept pristine,
Still timid, stubborn, never to relent
The spirit in her, ay, to inculcate,
Expressed in learned words, placed learnedly,
Enshrouded aught by meager mortal flesh.
And this she sayeth: “Oftentimes I stray,
“Possessed by urges inexplicable, by dream,
“Rife fantasies enhanced by varied hues
“Of skies and waves and steeples bathed in gold,
“Thus influenced, my footsteps did I swerve,
“Engaging intellect with fresh delight.
“It was no row, caused me to shake a leg –
“Flee sullenly across the boulevards –
“Win openly the night, which yet encroached
“Upon the dusky shore, all seaweed-strewn.
“I had not vexed myself or taken blows,
“Although the heart is restless on its own,
“And longs to migrate blindly here and there:
“Finds a brace of cozy azure scenes,
“A dance of popular proportions, quick and gay,
“Peace, strength, tranquility, and gorgeousness,
“O far from wretched boredom! Far from toil!
“There, haply, did I stay to bathe my face
“In front of savage, salty sprays up-risen,
“Effacing each several worry I’d maintained,
“Effectually as tea soothes o’er the throat,
“Or lather purifies, or fragrance thrills.
“There did I take a tithe of happiness,
“As fiery orange scattered through the clouds,
“Transpierced the heavens, where storm gray seagulls swooped,
“Stern-sighted, harsh, and calling sociably,
“Each to the next, in intonations grand.
“Until, that is, I caught a potent chill,
“From oozing droplets, breezes sinister,
“The hour’s melancholic breathings gripping more,
“Still more than ere it had – departure wise –
“I hesitated not, to leave in haste.
“This being said: I thank thy patience,
“And bless thy brow paternal for its pains:
“Quite free from grim enigma was my case!
The vendor stared with round and gleaming eyes,
Politely, words of kindness on his lips,
That would have lauded had they formed
All those fair qualities, this green girl had:
Mellifluent and fluid, smart besides,
And each of them authentic, in her heart,
Her brow of ivory smooth, and that pure soul
Enswathed securely in an outer form,
That happy soul, unknown to misery!
Smiled, did Josephine, and reverently,
Acknowledging considerate report
Of her stray actions, since she trailed,
Surveillance being far from her concern,
Did not offend her, bearing nor a guilt.
This flame enkindled act reciprocal,
Compelling up her dear friend’s older lips,
At which he laughed him dry and gratingly,
And stroked his chest with fingers skeletal,
Once, twice and thrice, his breath to soothe.
“Good luck! May thou think’st well and eat and sup,
“Find company, thy days to entertain,
“Seek ample light, thy sober health to keep,
“Read books to thy contentment, deep delight!
“Assure thyself, as well, of value true,
“Not e’er to be deceived by sayings false,
“Base flattery, deception, ruse, or guile
“That well a shady man is wont to use,
“His dreams to garner thus, replacing yours!
“Enjoy thy golden moments for thyself,
“An those occasions precious be quite spoiled,
“With brigands confrontational and thieves,
“A sore wound on thy face, and cuts that bleed:
“Some several hawks are there, and thou, a reed!”
The simple girl took time to ruminate
O’er these mild words amicable to boot:
To think, a maid might have her line cut short,
Infringed upon, or thwarted, by brute force!
Her tender head did nod, her voice did sigh
A sound akin to sorrow from her throat:
Nor frightful lamentation did it want!
For artful exultation was it made!
“I thank thee, feeling better, thus informed
“Of outer controversy, O most grim!
“Avoidance being ultimately the rule,
“The creed we live upon, so not to die
“As dogs upon the road, pushed rudely forth,
“Or fruitful objects grabbed abusively,
“To juice, and ring, and squeeze to sorry death!
“Regards to God with glad and common breath,
“And might thou earn a fortune from thy wares,
“Deserving much from life, who’s given much,
“In faith, and love, and honesty what’s more;
“Adieu Monsieur – I leave – think well of me!”
Across the village square the young girl strode,
Defying crowds and traffic, lost in dream:
Brave were her steps, but lost in dream was she,
Ephemeral as Seasons, thought-entrenched,
Beguiled perhaps by Graces and their song,
Led on by harp strings tremulous, drums or pipes,
A whisper from the wind, a Zephyr, lo!
The sun of noon shone o’er the marketplace,
In seat mayoral, vaulted high, and royal,
Partaking long of smoky incenses,
From fish splayed out on seering, blackened grills,
On wood and furling fennel, herbs and skewers,
Pan sizzling, and well-stoked furnaces:
To see its busy kingdom sumptuous,
To look upon the errands of a race
Most predisposed to habits civilized,
Existing congregate betwixt the sea,
And rolling mountains bathed in mickle force,
Their games and meetings, roads and ways,
To beam o’er deftly as the hours course,
Till thoughts have slowed to slumber, noises cease,
The supper’s cleared and bedtime prayers are said:
Ah, sweet routine! How fervently resumed!
Lively, fresh, and sweet the young girl walked,
A Dryad rows of towering trees betwixt,
As winds blew softly, flutes of wind divine,
Unseen and gentle, coursing round her hair,
Instilling in her throat a faint-breathed sigh,
That came not twice, but thrice, as joggers passed,
And gambling children passed in ecstasy,
Close, loving couples strolled a minute by,
Conversing, whispering words, and disappeared,
As close as friends might get with nor a wall
Or cold partition separating joy,
Sprung up as warmly as a startled dove
Amid the thick and waving reeds, and toward the sky,
Whilst Father Sun looks e’er and luminously,
O mood unconquerable, of fair delight!
O rolling, silver wheels protracting way!
Thought Josephine, that not a part of this,
Whole, grand perfection of the moiling scene,
From whitest rose embedded by the road,
To champagne glasses filled by rosy drink,
The clank of cutlery, the whipping flags,
Each detail figured preciously, forsooth,
Should e’er be wasted: not for all the glee
A starker life provides, in shades of red,
Despite its legions dressed exotically,
More sad, and grim, and coarse, where pockets groan,
Some elements of living being false,
Fit for pale blokes led falsely, pulling strings,
In rooms of dim and dubious company:
Not here, for ardent talk was in the air,
And vivid kisses punctuated speech,
The baker chatted o’er his piping bread,
Enjoyment, dancing, laughter, prompted time
To dart forth vigorously, till bells were rung,
The evening plates were laid, and Luna glowed
Above the arching hills attractively,
Which much pleased Josephine, who loved the moon
In all its pallid, modest glory sat,
Recalling older days and hours mystical.
Ah, chipper, happy girl, proud in her prime!
Legs quick with purpose on their merry way,
A pretty flush of crimson on thy face,
That else projected plainly, wants restrained,
How hard thou gazed across the marketplace,
A kindred spirit, loitering, to descry!
Could it have been, foresightful Eros, heated warm,
Resigned himself, impatient, as thou walked?
Could he have turned a wanton foot most errantly,
And linked with some imposture in his haste,
To plead some sorry illness later, serpent-tongued,
Clandestine, guileful, all his oaths forgot?
Not prone to hording accusations pointlessly,
Since cream that’s boiled ebullient tends to burn,
Safe-guarding cooler fortune, keeping peace,
Pale, saintly Josephine, used her keenest sight,
So that her gorgeous aspects ocular,
Retaining that best blue of northern fiords,
Bespeaking innocence, directed true,
Discovered what they fain desired to greet!

False heart! Jo cried, whilst raising up a hand,
Quite near to fainting, still impelled to walk
Toward some familiar face – how grand it was!
Full sun-like, fair from brow to chin, aglow
With all the sanguine features due to youth,
Instilling in the heart of love, pure joy,
Since Psyche sees not Eros silently,
But tells out loud her passion, passing glad,
As much as Venus greets her gorgeous Mars,
From bed once stolen bold – or Isolde, keen
On setting issues straight with sweating Tristan,
Fills both his ears with secretive advice,
Youthful Josephine wakes and moves to talk a while,
Not shy, not bashful for their strong rapport,
That crystallizes in her chest, her Will,
Transferred to mind and then to action prone,
Grabs thoughtfully a hand – does not retract –
Pierre, whose hands were trained and firm enough
To crack a lobster into bits, who worked
As honestly as Peter did of lore,
That is, of Israel, but grinning grandly,
Considerate as ay, a brother is,
Who takes his kin’s concerns to mitigate,
Addresses his sweet friend, in honeyed tones,
Impressing ’gainst her cheek a kiss that bloomed,
And deeper in effect than gestures plain.
If this were talent, was its value sound,
Extracting such a blush from Josephine,
Her laughing face became lush cardinal-red,
Or holly berry-red, an awkward tint,
So could she scant conceal what she esteemed,
Surveyed it up and down, and breathed a sigh:
“I’ve found thee, now! Pierre, I’ve found thee sure!
“I judged a wind had blown thee far from hence,
“Where friendship waits, but down an alleyway,
“O wert thou lost, or leagued with someone else,
“And cold became my feet, for shame, senor!
“I shivered like an Eskimo for fright!
“For lack of thee, should I have spent the night
“In blind reflection o’er thy truancy,
“Absence most cruel – afraid, I doubted faith –
“But seeing thou art real, and tall, and true,
“Our machinations kept, let’s speed us off!
“A day so wond’rous doth not pair with sloth!”
Her dark companion, built sturdy as a stone,
His skin of Cyprus, obvious, and rich,
Made better by exposure to the sun,
In increments, and gleaming like a fish,
Perked up his ear to listen as he might,
Appreciating even this rushed set of words,
Said promptly: “Foolish chit, my mind retains
“The plans pre-fashioned in our intimacy,
“Requiring that we meet – ’tis well, ’tis well,
“Impetuous as ever, Josephine!
“You think that I am senile, overworked,
“Or baffled by instructions feminine,
“A dimwit, or a mule with no finesse,
“Wild, vagrant, wayward – doth thou know’st me much!
“My eyes are black, obsidian, but oh!
“They seem to know an apple from a crab,
“An oak tree from a bush – thou art a friend –
“A great and precious friend of mine, for each
“Fair moment spent in decorous exchange,
“The pretty birds we made of plainer talk,
“Excursions out, we did repeat, now, more:
“Suspicious Jo, no dunce am I, thou see’st?
“Remembrance courses blue throughout my veins,
“Makes mindful, thought, and brings thy words to mind.
“Shall we walk, therefore, and proceed side by side?”
“Advancing gleans us merit, stalling, none,
“Before the minutes die unprofited,
“Day gleans a bunch of oysters for our time,
“To render up their pearls, if they be fit,”
Responded Josephine, who shook her head,
Exasperated less, excited more,
Restraining passion slow with baited breath,
Lest all her sentences be misconstrued,
Her words, considered less than meaningful.
The afternoon continued thus, precisely on,
Without impediment, full beautifully,
So free from obligation mirth could shout,
Boundless and voluble, eking from the time
That essence from which goodness can be stored,
Like liquor or perfume, in measured beat,
Soon-pleasing and delectable, the spirit
Weeding balm as much as fleshly wound,
To drip forever o’er the thirsty soul,
On those few wants we daily satiate!
The sea seemed bluer than the bluest gem,
Its sapphire surface shimmering, at ease,
The trees were greener than emerald bolts of silk,
Imported from the east, luxurious –
Did they shake and rustle splendidly –
Proved consequential to the fickle month
That mingled shade with searing light,
Its chiaroscuro, well-known, prim, and perfect plots.
Men clad in tees of white step deftly in,
Emitting piquant scents of spice or bloom,
Complex or clean, could charm a butterfly:
To chat an hour or two on politics,
Tight daisy-chains of economic policy,
Artistic expositions, sports, and games,
The families they adored, and oft despised,
These topics being valid, worthy statements said,
As busy women purchased buns and cakes,
Sipped tea, choice sugars one by one to add,
The latest gossip passing through their lips,
Flightsome and flowing ruthlessly till dusk,
Short-lived as ay, a maybug near its end,
When time devours life and russet garb,
Its anatomy minute, a trifling shell,
So is the corpus clear of gossip fled!
A hoard of stuffs, Jo wanted, much beguiled
By scarves, and trinkets for her velvet wrists,
A vat of candied oranges and limes,
Would soothe exquisitely the palate fine,
Gold chains and watches, lamps and dolls,
Young Josephine, of course, in infancy,
Had entertained among her household’s wares
For comfort, toward her bosom pressed, secure,
Until the hour had come for toddies and a tale.
Forsooth, her eyes both kindled, bright as lamps,
It was, her brow arched upward curiously,
An exclamation on her lips that kept a smile
Presented, loth! with such a vivid panoply,
Or merchandise, or art, a sport to buy,
Some items made of fantasy, some cheap,
A loitering soul might find on any turn,
Admiring franchise and economy,
Until the hand of Pierre fell on her back.
O kindred friend! Sweet, tender company!
To wake her quietly from dreaming more,
Life being more than just an idle dream,
And ask her conscience if she deigned to change
This helpless pastime: drink or sport or dance
Around the happy square, behind closed doors
Of local coffee bars, the old routine,
Indulging friendship in proximity.
The sun had not traversed the swathe of sky
Allotted to its wanderings which it daily took,
Or tired, reclined upon the limpid edge
Of watery horizons, there to gently sink,
But Josephine was weary: in her gaze
Reproachful, bleak implications sought to list
The one or several trials that rendered dull
Her erstwhile winsome look of maidenhood;
So leaned she on the flank of staunch Pierre,
Mournful and languid, yawning vacantly,
Until he shook her arm. So was she brought
To firm acknowledgement of fleeting time,
Her limbs mere stems of roses, biddable,
And predisposed to turn them toward delight,
Some valued forms of brotherhood and glee,
Like as to fill her mouth with dew as song:
All upward grown, she was, and tremulous!
“Faint is the voice thou use’st on my ear,
“And deviant expression makes me ask
“If thou art not a tad bit fanciful;
“So is it for thy work, thy way’s forgot,
“Compelling thee to split thy mental groove?
“A serpent’s got thy gut, a cat thy tongue?
“Long I to know in faithful innocence,
“Enough thy deepest thoughts to haply gage.
“Too much, thou speaketh here with wandering eye!
“Too much, until thou hast no alibi!
“Though thy limbs are warm, I think thee cold,
“And cannot think, Pierre, to entertain
“A person as furtive or as frivolous,
“As frightful, cunning or deleterious,
“As thou, O fairest mask of manhood – loth!
“But if I dream in fallacy, forgive
“My sins thereat, and let me love thee true,
“Without a single trace of bitterness
“Between us; permit us better room to breathe;
“Or else, I’ll cease to be and let thee grieve.”

The tender sweetheart Josephine did stop
To rub her shoulder up ’gainst Pierre’s broad arm,
Her lips caught in a frail half-smirk, and dry,
To receive their rich reward, perhaps, content,
If kisses were what Josephine did need,
So silently! So soft and quietly!
Though little would she say along these lines,
Lest she be met with scorn or else disdain,
Cry for unyielding laughter, ridicule,
Her heart within her throat, and dignity
Flung at her marching feet implicitly,
To languish there betimes or go to rot:
A broken orb, a bowl that’s cracked, a clod.
Better than be called a loose-tongued whore to date,
‘Twas pride she wore, and caution at her prow,
And level-headed smartness; Pierre she blamed
However, for being less than competent
In saying only what was relevant,
For skimming the boundless sea of sentiment
For her to sip insipid dregs – ’twas all
He had for her repletion – not enough!
The things she heard were just too plain for joy,
Since she preferred good tricks of intellect,
Smooth compliments and little dissidence,
Twin earrings for her ears of metaphor:
“Thou art an angel, and sweet, do I adore!”
Pierre was no bland coward, made haste to speak,
Permitting Jo to seek his chest for happiness,
Meanwhile, a harmless sparkle in his eye
That told of friendship – nothing bestial there,
Heart being but a gentleman, no foe!

“Breathe easier, my darling, do not fret,
“For thou are beautiful and pure and rare.
“I would not rush thee – not for all the world!
“Or would I be a brute and ghastly churl.
“If thou art keen, then listen to the sky,
“The birds as they chirp daringly and loud,
“The cafe music – stop and sing to me –
“But not of silence or self-restrained deceit!
“For these are tasteless themes a furlong off,
“And win no apple at the end – know that!
“My heart and soul as like a perfect lute,
“A pie that all my readiness doth flute,
“For thy benefit – And would I give thee more
“Than my solitary self, still more than flesh;
“But if thou dost not care for it, aye me!
“Raise thy cruel condemning hand and banish me!”
Implored Pierre to Josephine, incensed,
And throbbing in his throat and bosom-breast,
A violin inherently, a flute,
A reed, a pipe, a saxophone, a bass,
Compelling purest sound from his clenching gut,
For the sake of laughing, brilliant Josephine:
This lusty outpouring for Josephine!
“I cannot say thou art not winsome, lad,
“Or heartfelt in thy dialogue. It pleases me
“Thou hast given sundry hours to steadfast love:
“That is, the love that’s shared by flagrant friends;
“The kind that can be split, a honey cake,
“A cookie made in ample time, enhanced
“By nutmeg, allspice, cinnamon, romance,
“And thou fitt’st me well – I’m warm and satiable –
“Thou hast no need to fear my witch-like wrath,
“For being not a witch, I’ll pay thy time
“With loyalty; I’ll keep thee with fidelity.
“I enjoin thee now to take my hand and walk
“Until our legs are tired, and then some more,
“Like Hebe and her Heracles, in flesh,
“Not made of chilly stone or dead and done,
“Not yet – the sun is mighty, high and proud,
“And we are in our prime, two roses red,
“A pair of dandelion seeds a-float,
“As righteous in our form as living light,
“In nature, one with tree and precipice,
“Embellished with the mildest shades of France.
“We’re a couple of gems, we are, my pretty friend,
“And lunch doth call to us, and hunger sharp;
“We need to blunt its edge, or else fall down
“Like feeble birds not worthy of our means.”
Pierre did wink on saying this, then grinned;
His eyes seemed priceless pearls, though they were dry,
Stared at his female friend with reticence,
Fixated, fond, and fastening their beams
Upon her glossy hair, that cutely teemed
With specks of light and mottled fairy dust:
Quite a feast for this good man, who bent his head
To inhale the berry scent of her heavy locks:
“Now, this is gold, and not another word,”
He thought within himself: nor scorn nor pain
Could quell the tender feelings lodged
In his heaving chest – profound, much as the sea –
Although he was no lover, nor a fiend.

So these two friends spent most the day in talk
And idleness above a table spread
With common fare: bread, wine and roasted meat,
God-blessed in their repose innocuous,
Among plates diverse of conch and marbled ham,
Green Provençal salads and pasty tapenade,
Hors d’oeuvres crisp, rich, fine, and minuscule,
Portending clever plates of fish and steak,
Unto perfection cooked, and clean, with no mistake.
Jo noticed every detail of her friend:
His affinity for fashion: first, his waist
That was not cinched or gross, but sculpted sure.
His shade of skin she scrutinized; his hands
She gaged in the secret winking of an eye,
Measuring aught his might with all the decency
Of a friendly nurse above her patient’s cot,
Seeking comfort there, quite lost in fantasy,
Disdaining intimacy all the while but glad
For the sterling company of friendship free,
Because her mind was happy with what her eye
Beheld amidst the bustling hubbub bright,
And her heart rejoiced her friend was fast and fair.
Her hand was warmed by fresh baked bread anon,
So living was harmonious and kind.
Pierre, for one, ate heartily with sauce
A steak, some olives, onions and Gruyère,
With relish excellent, and leaning back,
So his head was burgeoned by a lifting breeze:
Perhaps ’twas Venus, keen to breathe her word
Accompanied by zephyrs, on her lute,
Or Juno, jealous of her husband, soft
For once and gracious in her silent ken,
Safekeeping Peter where his form did rest,
Enswathed by loving airs and temperatures
That varied, whirling with the vaporous sea
Where ships did sail them fast and glorious,
Manned plentifully, like little temples stout,
Or yachts with prickly masts as white as cream,
Sturdy inventions – like Pierre himself –
Handy, neat, impressive, and a boon to all,
Who lusty passion for the sea doth fill,
Or cunning work, or golden sanctity,
From head to toe, a vibrant strapping find.
From afar, the sun reflected gorgeous light
Upon the marketplace and curvesome shore,
Unabashed for self-made beauty, like a disc
Of precious gold, shot deep into Earth’s fold,
From which a myriad flock of joys came forth:
Nocturnal dances and loud revelry,
Small bars that gave abundance with tapped beer,
The fragrance of hand-tucked gardens many-hued,
And children sleeping, fed on antique lore,
Whose breath escapes like incense, fragrantly,
Whose cheeks turn pink and burn vivaciously.
Josephine took her garments swiftly off,
Donned a slip that shimmered, though it all was black,
Hopped into bed, breathed all her prayers out loud,
For her mother, father, and stalwart bosom friend:
For these were precious in her heart and mind,
And ample time did she allot for reverences.
Soon she was taken into dreamland, warm
And ready for some hours of sweet repose,
Her feet tucked in, her head surmounted well
By many myriad tresses, heavenly.
Pierre, now, but a shade, did linger still
In the soothest coves of her psychology,
One with her Psyche, tall and mountainous,
To tantalize her thinkings congregate,
Inserting dreams she never dreamed before.
She shivered just a while, without a word,
Inhaling air in increments, sedate,
A bird upon her bed, or kitten barred
By the silver moonlight flooding smoothly in,
Traversing shadow like a pilgrim soul
On secret feet. The girl got up betimes
In her unshared room, a lively working brain,
Like a coffer must be wound, or moving doll.
She had to sleep and eat a morsel, step,
Surpass mild drowsiness and run to work.
Ah, reality! She doubted that her chef
Would be a perfect paradigm of patience
Since he was wont to holler, growl, and curse
Upon the slightest conflict or dispute,
Where there were several – bless that blazing bear!

But woe and woe a-day! When Jo arrived
In the midst of daily kitchen intercourse,
Although an extrovert, she kept her tongue
As a pair of demons tiger-like exchanged
A slew of insults to and fro, incensed
By either heat or rivalry, foul-mouthed,
Gesticulating up a sorry storm
Which simply couldn’t fade to peace,
Since these were angry-hearted blokes
Who sprang to action quickly as they diced:
Each thinking the other a meat or vegetable,
Perchance, an animal or sinning cad.
Sharply did they hound themselves for sport
And other men besides, who justly scowled.
They frowned, but lost time frowning: pacifists
Who had their own work – every one – to boot,
So set to chopping, musing, singing, slicing,
As quickly as they could, like modern lightening.
The darkest chaps aroused and bickering
In the midst of calmer industry – these two –
Relented their wild play eventually,
Absconding with their forms, yet unabashed,
Within the freezer where they simmered down,
Collecting parsley, snipping off gray sage.
‘Twas with these two worked steadfast Josephine,
And every bit as swift and skilled and sure,
Hiding differences of telling gender deep
Within the ironed folds of habit’s garb,
Forever modest, true, sincere and smart.
Where they cleaned, she cleaned, importing rag-like towels;
Where they chopped, she cut with good velocity;
Their steps were audible upon the floor,
Though hers, ephemeral, outnumbered theirs.
Mischance, though, on this day ran rampantly,
And on her white shod toes, one prep cook stepped;
He stepped on one foot playfully, a-grin,
And did not even think to take it back,
But winked and nudged poor sweating Josephine,
Who felt enticed to fever, mawkishly.
A strand of hair fell from her clean-edged part,
Shading an eye that sadly shimmered, almost black,
Morose and maudlin, like a silent pool.
The woman merely shook her head and balked,
Avoiding contact, wary as a maid
Who in the wilderness upsets a snake,
Then soft recoils, avoiding poison thus.
It crossed her mind, this goodly cook, that men
As well as snakes are unpredictable,
Have fangs and muscles terrible, dread scales,
Compelling their vile hands to property
Which is not fairy theirs, not given them,
A flower on a knoll, a sweet delight,
A kiss extracted but unwillingly
From ravished lips, a pair of pouting treats
That plead disfavor brief, to no avail.
Where snakes shall fling their glowy mouths agape,
And flick their tongues, and ripple back and forth,
Demonstrative of prowess that must lunge,
Winning thus its piece of meat, its pastry skin;
So men are, often, and so a strong man is,
Like Hades afore the rape of Proserpine,
Into his icy den of no return,
Or satyrs and their nymphs, who metamorph
By course of virtue into trees a-flower;
Things being mightily unequal – passing cruel.
The ceiling lights shone gently on Jo’s hair,
Her clean-edged part, and all that strawy gloss,
That brow which furrowed since she came to work
For another man’s delinquency, his step,
His laughing mien, his bestial tendencies,
Which did not stop but carried on some more.
Sad Josephine, who wanted but to work
Free from caprices tried by shady men.

Two steps away from the steely tabletop,
Near the freezer where meat and sundry produce keeps,
Around the hour of noon, when all’s astir
In the house, and busyness, the primary rule,
The rude Sicilian Don Giovanni paced,
Darting his sultry gaze toward simple Josephine,
And would not take it off – so slick was he –
Preferring precious guile to decency,
All eyes – two globe-like eyes and a flicking tongue –
Keen on grabbing his juicy fruit and eating it:
A peach! A peach for me! he thought and sighed,
Nice flesh without the pesky pit, and warm,
Blemish-free as well, for my sweet and deep delight,
Fain would I swallow, all my cares to soothe,
Life being but a pile of cares and sweat
Rebounding from the crevices of toil:
Fair rain efface this hardship! Come and come!
Pour o’er my cheeks, and drench them, kissing me!
Chest-swollen like a bluebird spouting angst
Upon the cloistered air, where proud men bark,
His marble eyes aglow with petty greed,
The fellow whistled thrice to Josephine;
He raised his chin and whistled lustfully
So Jo could hear it, as she did her chores.
Her chores did she perform – lo! bowing down,
Instilling fuel into the grandeur of some cad,
Completely unawares and innocent,
More interested in carrots than a curse.
On hearing the shrillest noise she ever heard
According to her recollection, piteously,
She straightened up her back to see the man.
She rose with her slim form, to see him clear,
Asked if there was something to be done in fact,
Vegetables to be cleaned en masse, or swiftly diced,
If he needed broom or soap or recipe;
But he stalled and would not say single a word,
One foot in front, and one behind, on fire.
He felt but a doggish influx of desire,
Tasting much like berry wine or chocolate,
Champagne, boiled eggs, or thickly buttered bread,
Ephemeral and cloying most his wit
To bringing action to its precious crux.
His fingers, he fashioned as a bitter joke
Into pincers – pincers! as if he were a crab
Bestriding some dead fish on the bare sea floor,
Pinching at the slighted haunch of Josephine,
And teasing her in the aching ear – rejoicing,
Calling her numerous saucy things, so that she blushed
From ear to ear, and blandishing her brow,
Now pale fish white, and tinct with outraged sheen,
O fawn afflicted, when every back is turned!
O bleeding rose that no one sees, and bruised!
She did not fight, did gentle Josephine,
Nor did she yield to further malfeasance,
But sobbed a minute, running toward the door
And through it, to the hallway, anxiously
Lest someone see her in her frantic shame,
Or make too much ado from secret woe.
There did she sit, brooding o’er the heart of men,
Who into tigers turn for reasons slight,
Within a second, wantonly, and wild,
As if their blood were fire or hot lime –
Their wants, unquenchable and ponderous –
To be satisfied by weeping innocence
Nor diminished till grim sickness takes their bones,
And makes cheap meat of flesh unfashionably.
From the other side, those men who’d fought like fiends
That morning, made yapping sounds, licentiously,
Indulged in banter and frivolity like fools,
Tossing tomatoes one at the other, which they bit,
Snarling and joking, playing like Billy goats,
More unashamed than rabid mountain trolls,
Negligent briefly of their work – a snobbish pair –
And aloof since they were arrogant. What pain?
What pain was there for laughing men who played?
What more to life than work and vanity,
When vigor lights life’s fuse, and bread’s at home,
There’s chattel in gross plenitude and song?
For their movements trembled Josephine aghast,
And tucked her arms about herself like wings,
Paler than linen, hidden ‘neath her tilted cap,
Confused and harmed by Don Giovanni’s touch.
Her red face streamed with water from her eyes,
Distraught by tears and tears and glinting tears.
Fain would she dry beneath the sun awhile,
Laid flat upon the beach, a brittle conch,
Call dear Pierre to lead her from distress
Perhaps, quell anguish thus and leave her tears
Behind with Giovanni and his friend Gaston,
Who’d probably wear them: like diamonds, gems, or pearls,
Tattoo these ravished tears upon their necks,
Dip their fingers in them, fill their stolen bowl.
This might be said, a man doth not forget
That which has pleased his Will and suited whim,
Bathed his throat and nourished all his sultry dreams,
But keeps a dram for memory; he keeps his crumb,
To chew on lustily, and spit upon.

When Josephine returned with frightened step,
Feeling shorter than the human eyes would gage,
Since fate had punched her flat – this stark mischance –
The crab man and his fingernails to boot,
Who had sought her out as soldiers seek their spoils,
Delinquents, too, being spoiled, and virulent,
Rife in her memory, accosting her.
Though she straightly turned her face for modesty,
The man, Gaston, addressed her hastily,
Snapping his fingers, puckering both his lips
To say how much he fancied her, the chit,
And said he’d wear her on his leather pants,
If she were so inclined – then turned again
To finish his morning’s boring list of chores,
But monotony – that drudge – makes fast hands fly.
Gaston blew Jo – poor girl! – a kiss that smacked
Which made a few heads turn round curiously,
For which Jo blushed and blushed, a pink balloon,
Astonished and aggravated, used – she gasped!
Ran at the brink of one for the entrance-door,
Expecting there to meet her mannered friend,
Pierre, the line cook, by a flock of boats.
Sheer need impelled her use her telephone,
Which she blessed and blessed to God of All Creation
For assuaging her newest woes prospectively:
“Here, Pierre, here,” the saddened lady slowly wept,
In a tone Pierre deciphered, being smart,
And privy to his darling’s hurts already,
A gentleman who cared and more than cared
For the slightest ills of tender Josephine.
“What matter’s this? My God, hast thou been hurt?
“I’ve had no lunch – this fuss upsets my heart,
“And little do I need of food – I come
“To check on thy well-being,” Pierre implied.
And faith, he was there before poor Jo could sleep,
His sympathetic eyes aflame and fathoms deep,
Unblinking, piercing, fanning like a swan’s,
As pretty as an elfin overlord’s, as sharp,
Godlike in stature, but warmer – much more warm!
The sun was in his hair, the sun of Helios,
The heat of which enhanced his perfect scent,
Hinting of roses, soap and chervil leaves,
Serving to comfort the weeping head of Josephine,
Who heeded to his step; whose ears pricked up;
Rejoiced that she no longer was alone,
But had a friend on whom to lean, relieved
Those tigers had not followed her – those swine!
At first, she ducked her face behind her hands,
As there were too much light in the other’s gaze,
Fawn-like, bearing two sore poppy-eyes that dripped,
Black smears on their circumference, and dew,
Suffering from her hidden bruise – pride-beaten –
So that the bruise seemed at her rasping throat,
Mark of a wretched man of wretched ways,
Unkind, unmannerly, and prone therefore to gloat.
Had she known of Proserpine, might she hold a seed
Of pomegranate, thereon to reflect
Since women’s woes are sadly similar,
Turn over in her palm, refashion fate,
Start over, saintly Peter there to help,
Distilling from this seed a foreign sweetness
To conquer the hated stench of crooked conquest,
Glaze over infamy, and lozenge hurt.
Not having this – not even this red seed,
Dirt-cheap as nice things often are outdoors –
She took the ear of tall Pierre instead,
Which was similarly endowed with springlike quality,
Caressed it, called it names, and softly crooned,
Enkindled in her spirit by this man,
Who against her desperate body had not sinned.
“You’re as soggy as a cabbage, Josephine,
“And methinks thou hast spent thy time in darkness – why?
“Thou wert chipper when I left, alert, and gay,
“But now hast thou a purple face, I see,
“And pity much, being admirer and friend,”
This good man stated soberly to Jo,
Wherefore she cracked a grin and kept it there.

On telling him of her sorry plight; confessing
Her pains and worries lavishly, though slow,
For the wretched heart within her breast beat quick,
And wrung bright beads of sweat from her parchment face,
Jo swooned, and coughed, regretting ruined hours.
Pierre became magnificent – understood it all –
Gathered in his arms his viley ravished friend,
Whispering words of vindication – loth! and love,
He newly felt due to the other’s need,
For which his heart did grow, quite ripe with love,
A cushion for the time and its event.
Avowing to rectify that debt incurred
By a kitchen cad, a pig from Sicily.
He kissed his Jo upon the face and fled –
He fled with her, having the feet of Mercury –
Into that other place where grew resentment
In the close back-room, whereat two shadows played.
The brethren deftly played already, both,
Tossing a yellow carrot back and forth,
Meaning to cut it finely on the board,
But caught sight of doom – retracted seeing it –
Serpentine sparkles in their eyes alight,
Which made them unbecoming – specterly.
Pierre boomed out greetings, strong and meaningful,
The resonance of which was admirable,
And frightened Giovanni into springing forth,
A knife in hand, amongst the garlic cloves,
A box of parsley and cracked peppercorns,
Spice in his step and arrogance infinite.
Gaston mimicked him, waving his mean and sharpened blade,
Dark-skinned and zesty as drunk sailors are,
Rowdy by nature, murderous when enticed.
Josephine sent up a frightful wail thereon,
Drawing the attention of waiting company,
Whereas Pierre was busy with his hands – he strained –
Having caught Giovanni in his vice-like grip,
Swearing oaths to pop him like a grape and more
And better things: to turn him into roux,
And pound his flesh, like plain dough, honestly.
Giovanni shrieked in pain: he hollered loud:
Ten separate kitchen cooks leaped forth to help,
Pulling the brace of men apart assiduously
As if they were a tree and spitting weed,
One of whom was right – the brazen other wrong.
“This rapist tried to murder me,” explained Pierre,
“He almost drew my bluer blood for naught,
“This gropist, knave, and pinching swine. Ask Jo
“If her side doth not sorely hurt for his misdeed!
“And say if I am not sincere for this,
“For coming here – a grievance to a right.”
Ecstatic Josephine confirmed his voice,
Adding shaking sighs and arduous insults too,
Assured of justice, nodding thus her head,
Which her lustrous flaxen tresses duly followed,
Shivering to and fro, adding import beauteous.

So Josephine exulted, smiling wondrously,
Assuming once again her place, a maid,
Sans Giovanni or Gaston – those fiendish beasts –
Who regulation promptly fired for acts
Unworthy of a fair establishment.
Pierre and Josephine ’came tender loves,
Shared comfort’s rooms in time, and pledged their lives
Each to the other, nor e’er be reassessed:
But like a grape vine and a gourd they grow,
To perfect ripeness, free of malady.

Fantasy

There is an island somewhere,
Where life and joy abounds:
I think of it, a scholar,
A poet too – I muse –
But all of this is fancy,
Quite far from me, remote,
While truth earns not a dollar,
But birds and reptiles gloat.
How I should love to see
The jewel-green turtles, moths,
The seagulls on the crystal sand,
The lizards and the sloths!
I sit here though, and fashion
Some words in black and white;
I cannot rightly make them live
Or animate the night,
A measure for each breath I breathe –
Elsewhere, bright things reside –
Now, I might strictly live –
Collect my thoughts, abide.
Lo! When these penned words turn
To dust, despite the pain
Of poets, passionate and plain,
Squids still have ink; birds, song.

Red Wine

I do enjoy fine ruby wine,
My heart has heat, I glow,
And sharing it doth sometimes please,
And other times: less so.
The old man has a dirty pate,
The young buck beats his chest,
The banker’s boy is too sedate,
The clown has not a vest:
So do I nod my head, a rose,
Admit that dew is nice,
But know I’m free from head to toe,
When passion turns to ice.

Two Steps Away

A man most peaceful, pleasant, prude,
Takes time to feel both sun and shade,
Love in the park, the joy of words,
The warmth of tea, the taste of bread.
He lives his life and might not see
That other man two steps away
Prefers his women hot and cold,
Indulges friends and scoffs at foes:
Suspicious, unclean, crass, and damned.
Just so, a lily lives awhile
Beside a stringent coiling vine,
The first one, bright, the second, vile,
That live apart and do not twine.
If they coincide, however, woe betide!
The better one might come to grief,
Defeated by some foul caprice
Engendered by a wanton thief.
Might sunlight bathe the hero’s hair
And winds caress him late at eve;
Afflict that other debonair
Who makes all blessed creatures grieve.

Good Apple, Awkward Lines

How potently your aspect spoke, how well,
How lovely and how eloquent, how sweet,
That would I swoon, caught in a lover’s spell,
Whom dreaming takes when thought-filled hours are fleet!
I saw the smoothness of your brow, the breadth,
So have I trembled at your skin of snow,
Closed both my eyes, dispelled awhile their light,
To better see your image sketched divine
Within my mind, at break of dawn, at night.
Satisfied, thereby, with this new wine,
The longings all my body did possess,
Good apple! I drink thy goodness: this confess!

Old George

The long-necked denizen
Of an isle called Galapagos
Drags his shell around the sand,
Matures marvelously and moans.

Old George, complacent friend,
How long dost thou sit and stare!
How far is the evening star
Beside the milk-white moon!

Hoarder of lengthy years,
Survivor, proprietor,
A CEO of brittle eggs,
Your island is a pile;

And I wonder at your merchandise,
Or is all this is paradise,
If days are sunny, if it rains,
If your hundred-fifty years suffice.

Divine proportions – present –
A craggy shell, a king,
A king oft dressed in moss,
But thinking love is rich – how so?

Marsh

I find myself upon the sand
When no real sand is there,
Aflame with grief and grim offence,
Whose heart is bitten like a plum;

I feel as upturned as a tree,
And would there were a storm;
At least the dirt would wash away
With the blackened leaves I shed.

Betrayal, injustice, deception, heart!
The world has fiercely rent my wings,
And pain comes sooner than flight does now,
Mouette, mouette, O snowy friend!

Where is my sweetheart? I should address
To make a marshmallow moon pie after dark,
Instead of melting in the rain a-fright?
Night devours every word. Friend, I am lost.

Dejeuner

The snow fell softly, I read, I slept,
The morning came on tender feet
Of rabbit or clever fox – also prepared
To leap and prance across the land.
Ah, time for lunch again! and I gaze down,
Having a slight and anxious pain; I sigh.
Proserpina, child, what world is this?
The skies are gray as pigeon down,
The roads are dusty, the lamps are dull,
My ears are filled with moaning wind:
Moan on and on, disconsolate!
There are things to do I fear, before
Our evening hymnals, bless the saints!
’Tis time for lunch, I brought no tort,
Nor tart, nor salad greens, but still I hope
For a quiet luncheon in the square,
In the Carrefour, where trees are lank and bare.

Poem

The sunlight lets our eyes to see,
The winds guide us to walk,
Mere bees prompt us to industry,
And birds shall make us talk,

Our heart is warm, our blood is warm,
Ah, we were warm in Spring!
And laughed as summer fruit-flies swarmed,
And youth danced in a ring,

Like wild Mustangs, the rest of us,
Demanding freedom, glee,
Whose steps reflect the poetry
Of mountain, lake, and sea,

Apt to alter with long, wuthering years,
Having seen a thing or two:
The birth of sons, the death of kings,
Fine tools and bows of yeo,

Vicissitudes of heath and wealth,
High fashion, higher verse,
Bright thinkers who their fortunes weld
To populate the universe.

A rhythm doth indeed exist
That tempers what we do,
And with our hearts – it shall persist –
Full, fruitful seasons through.

Have you seen the beating butterfly,
That flies both high and low?
My, God! That we’re a curious folk
Whose thoughts have wings – just so!

Timeless and Eternal, Our Finest Poetry

Inserting sense in everything,
To feel with every sense and pure
From bulbous summer berries to tranquil eves
Adorned by fires here and there,
Effulgent, earnest, eager, apt,
Willing to employ acumen at every step,
To take a trifle, turn it to verse,
Or carve its beauty into stone:
This be the gift of written lore.
Let living things be vital, now,
More precious when their fires have ceased,
Guarding gold and gems in memory,
For later joys and later feast.
Thus is it, Pierrot, my mythic friend,
That present hands, tomorrows shake,
On the mirror o’ the midnight moon!
On the drums, shall resonate in later days!

Vivre

The languages of Latin America
Carry on so finely, with their dance,
Vivacious being the word, voluptuous,
Very pleasing to the ear and mind;

I listen to Spanish music – spicy manna –
What velocity! It races past,
Richly, O so richly! One teaspoon’s not enough
To measure this brewed coffee – really!

Whereas I dream of countries African,
Dark, velvet-skinned, pregnant mothers with swaying hips,
The pyramids of Egypt, shimmering chains
Of gold and beaten brass, Savannah grass,

How piquant, mystery of foreign things!
Fain would my heart fly round and round,
Stir the waves of Lake Victoria,
Vivre pour le moment – O beau naufrage!

Muscle

The man was not bad-looking
And had a dapper mien,
A complexion white as Winter snow,
Though his eyes possessed a gleam,

He had a bearing – sound – a way
That simply was not bad,
But when he listened, what he took
Was rendered frail and sad:

So frail and sad was this bright girl,
And broken was her smile,
Though the gentleman grinned long and hard;
He laughed for well a mile!

The Great Tongue Beast

An odd man, possessed of tastes bizarre,
Wanted summer berries ripe,
Ah, well-a-day! He wanted more
Than the poor vine could provide,

To pop upon his greedy tongue
And burst upon his lip,
Though all the pretty berries bled:
Enjoying what he did.

O monstrous man who masticates
Where wanton pleasures grow,
I have it that you masturbate
After every midnight show!

O Great Tongued Beast of legend,
Of legendary name,
I know you’d fain be young again,
But never would be tame.

Spare the smallest berries, Sir,
Lest all the plots grow bare,
And not a season left for love –
For mothers love them mehr.

Monday Morning

I waited, I’m waiting always,
There is not a day I do not wait,
For a moment of bliss, a greeting,
A novel face, an empty slate.
How ravaged the tree looks as it rains,
As the people plod to and fro,
That lonely and that skeletal!
I cannot fix it with a poem
Or give it vestry. It has none, quite simply.
I also feel, sometimes, quite stark and bare,
Like a barren knoll where no birds chaunt,
Like an emptied church without a vault,
Approximately the same frail bruised berry
Which the vulpine hours assault.
No matter, though, ’tis no grave thing
To philosophize all alone,
For poets and pretty lovers duly sing:
Are happy and not wrong.

ACTG: Acting and Playing

Dawn breaks across the sky, the play begins,
The busy bee must hurry to work again,
Eggs boil and children grin:
As free-thinking individuals, we frolic,
Assist each other at work and home,
Live comfortably in Nature, cautiously
Eat lunch, and chat with Joe or Tom,
Performers – aren’t we – all of us?
The sun looks down at us, his blazing eye
Perceives our toils and grandest victorious,
The wakeful moon witnesses several heated homes,
Ah, Winter! Is this blankness not thy stage,
From whence a plethora of manuscripts
Escape the boundless sky – bidding us all to keep so dry,
Or wet, or sharp, or active, here and there?
Does not the universe follow where we trod,
Compelling us to act by rote, divine prompter?
There is not much difference between a formula and wine,
Our lives are science, paths wind on,
Who is to say we do not act? Stairs, please,
And bright, plush curtains, a cast and crew,
A bit of Darwin, the Lord, on high:
And that is what we knew!

The Apples

The cow stands in the pasture, he ruminates,
The frost has not yet come, then come it late,
My hands point up for joy, this joyous day!
I’ll climb a ladder by the apple tree,
Since I’m a girl, do it genetically,
Assuming God intended us, these rungs to climb,
Whether straight or spiraled: there the fruit!
How red and round, this autumn fruit,
All hung aloft – it yields itself –
To its very last ounce and morsel sweet,
A fantasy disclosing. Well I think,
It shall not bark at me if I pierce the peel
Or share it with a friend – indeed!
This gift I take, in closing, for I can,
For I have a ladder and an earnest hand.

Cat Scratches by the School Yard

Espying a high stone with wall with scratches,
By the doorframe, deeply etched,
I swoon, and almost imagine, terrified,
That a pair of rogues remain by the simple school,
Lurking around the fruit stand, eager for a luscious taste,
Salivating and masticating, two muscled monsters,
Thinking of inflicting wanton injury, so,
Ample Pomona, where wert thou?
Recalling the murder of a beauteous African,
The wretched ravishment of a pleasant proletariat,
I shed some tears: dew for the ripening fruit!
In the year of our Lord 2003, a soul was kidnapped,
Tortured, shrouded, raped, and sodomized,
Past a door, a city door, where traces there were none.
Why are there scratches here? Remembrance, prayer,
Contemplation o’er books of many colors bright;
But for the bright black girl whose flame was quenched
And her colors, denied and ruined: dirt!
A mound of dirt and scratches by the turning door!
The air reeks of past chauvinism, and I hate this wine.
What are we females? Dogs and cats, O decaying friend?
When men are bitter for our better brains, girls have this end.

Modern Morals

On frivolity, one has one’s ham,
The first thing in the morning – then,
There are pleasures light and lourds,
Which one might like to share,

A little quarrel – scorn,
And venom from all sides,
An affair of utmost discretion, pride,
Manifests itself more like vanity.

Then, for societies have a list,
Grown with sunlight abandonment,
The sexes must be gratified,
From day to day, and every day,

With the help of make-up, lipsticks,
Imitation people, vacantly.
But life is trying! No one knows
How much refuse, really, one can claim.

Do people smoke? Do men use grass?
They do, of course, and fight for it!
Antagonists, sometimes, rapists, fiends,
He’s got narcotics! Marry him.

Ah, modern morality, manias!
The world retains its loveliness,
The seasons come with blossoms,
But a field sees strife, drinks blood.

Too Many Blizzards

O soggy shoes, scruffy disasters,
The hooves of horses seem finer things!
I dream of where rocks do not break them,
On Avalon, in Paradise.

Too freezing wind, harsh monster,
Do you think I am a millionaire?
I wear what has been bought for me:
And still my cheeks turn red!

E’en now, there’s room to dream,
On winding paths through the barren park,
In the library, in hotel lobbies,
My lamp is on – obligingly –

But flowers are better balm – sirrah!
And I do think on milder fronts,
More fruitful days and drier feet,
True end to Winter tyranny!

My heart beats on, a drum,
Composing verse for memory,
Disdains the blizzard and its chains,
Expecting to unfold, a leaf, and tenderly.

Too Many lizards

He stomps and leaves a mark,
Goes up in cigar smoke, grunts,
And thinks he is a pleasing Sir,
But simply is not so!

He grows not down but charcoal
On the apex of his chin,
Thinks of honeyed fruit and candy canes,
For which his eyes grow wide,

His morning razor – inspiration!
The clouds are gobs of foam;
Beneath, his favorite buck café,
Where servers go half nude.

Cigars and cigarettes, his life,
Wherewith to measure passing time,
Seeing as he’s the One – the only One –
And all the rest is Ash!

There are too many lizard men,
I feel; then laugh aloud
To see ink splotched on my hands again.
Its quiet issue is not loud.

Leave a Note

It is she that sings, so bend your head, monsieur!
Down on one knee, for this beauty’s sake!
She hits the high note – hold your fist,
And forget about aggression, jealous hound!
Hide your bile-green eyes; hide them well and long;
Or else seem the monster that you are,
Two times and three. Thief of ruby apples!
Drown in her excellence, drown in it,
Writes her odes and notes, and do not curse;
For everything about her is superlative:
So let it carry you away, young pilgrim,
So let her saintly brilliance light your day.
She is bittersweet, and hot and cold,
Sincere and good, inside and out,
And like red wine, grows better old.
There – she’s there – thy celestial paradigm –
For her voice is priceless, fast and sure,
Quite on the note, and ever sharp,
True as sterling silver, rich as gold;
Be not a Billy-goat, milad, or sour,
When this kind maiden roams, bright, like a flower!

Self-Constraint

How prettily the sparrow sings!
How gorgeous are the flowers now!
Marvels unfold before my very eyes,
But I must show disdain!

The fountain flings up threads of grace,
Whilst lovers chat below,
While laughter doth go unrestrained,
But silence is the word!

I trail about at evening, slow,
Bent-backed and quite morose,
Alive as far as pink things go,
A flower, with no wine.

Good Morning, Friend

I arrive on 68th Street again,
Shiver in the chilly air,
Regard the florist whose wares are fresh,
And the Indian fruit vendor, reliably there.
A warm-hearted friend will be there, perhaps,
Drinking coffee by the gingko tree;
He shall bring Esmeralda and small talk,
Encouraging words – I love him so!
The morning’s somewhat vacant though,
I’ve risen but can barely rise,
The fluttering pigeon wings make my eyes spin,
And I don’t think I will fly with them.
Monsieur, qu’est-ce qui se passe, alors? I shout,
Clutching my coat around me, querulously.
My eyes bat like daisies, and my brow’s a raven.
I behold my friend, amazed, but do not love him.

Paganini’s Star

Have you seen the genius play? He’s perfect,
And perfectly poetic, to put it precisely;
His elbow moves in spirals seamlessly,
An easy thing to be, suffice.
Paganini’s star is in a pentagram,
I remarked, just once, but thought I dreamed,
Reassessed the stance whilst dreaming – knew
His movements followed this straight star,
Bright gentleman! You see, this apple-red carpet
Is a fruitful field of genius, lit by this livid star,
This five-pronged star of mystery.
Is he the Devil? Why yes, Madam, egregiously!

The Slow Bread of Christianity, the Serrated Knife

Listening to “Stella Splendens”, dreaming on Montserrat,
A Spanish village, whose columnar walls intrigue,
I rub my eyes, that fain would look on loveliness,
Sweet for the glory of that slow and stony rise.
Bells and bells chime quite in unison, adept,
And my heart’s transported elsewhere, full of joy:
What mythic splendor doth enswathe the Virgin!
What golden shrouds wrap round the bleating lamb!
The sacred scrolls, tea-dark, fermented lore,
Attach themselves to all my wonderment,
And so do I love these measures more and more,
Age-old like turtles; good as sour bread;
That march across full epochs, well and fair!
Ah, that ancient chimes sound best to me,
Replete with faith, and ripe to be partitioned,
The same way as one cuts a boule of bread.
The grain was real, for faith, the forms were real,
Each sheath of grain an antique character:
From whence the power and the hearts aflame,
The chants, strong as the sea, and candle shows,
That faithful notes have faithful comradeship!
Holy Maria’s following drinks melodies,
The pious eat these mounting notes like sacred leaves,
Circumspection encloses these within a shell –
In fact – a book of lore, the Llibre Vermell,
The Llibre Vermell of gracious Montserrat.
The beats, words, declamations, worshippers,
Are held up to the lengthy trail of years,
So that I hear them now, my faith is fed,
The songs fade out, then, one by one,
And before I take me to this star again,
To succumb to ancient prayer, with half-closed eyes,
I’ll watch a serrated knife saw through my bread;
I shall eat it like a hound, while panting verse.

The Jousting Star

What is the conflict? My hungry lady’s lips!
My lady has been crying, sore at heart,
The devil’s got her handkerchief, he sips
The dew from off her cheeks and calls it art;
I am unready for the field, a sleepy lad,
A new leaf and an atom, weak of knee;
But God doth give me courage, verily!
The perils I must face, though, let them be!
For I have seen my Lady, pure as raging fire,
I’ve touched her pearly hands and called them silk,
She’s lit my nights with wonderment most rare,
So rampant are my thoughts! Have I drunk milk!
A star, I give it back, my elbow raised,
Ensuring she is safe, and sage, and praised.

Saltarello

If we had such good dances, it would be
A joy incomparable! A maid needs light,
The heat of love to guide her, partners too,
A flaming dress, a rhythm, mickle room
To tap her newest shoes and flit around,
Transformed, briefly, into a fairy: news,
She does not want her sandwich till past eight.
Saltare is the order of the night,
The stars shine brightly as love’s eyes,
If Italian girls are fair, then bless our sight,
With multiplicity; fill the wishing well!
She taps her Willingness with ten-shod toes,
Bows, drags, and sweeps in merry throes,
Whilst her lover flexes like a lion-male,
Deigns to cut her meat, and acts him proud.
He roars as he talks aloud, a resonant Roy,
Whose throat reflects the sound of drums.
O mystic night, might prowess fill thee faithfully!
O maiden! Might thy swift shoes both dance admirably!

Vermillion

Why doth this snag our eyes, O hue of hues?
’Tis for the shade of coral maids prefer,
’Tis paint upon a mystic page of vellum,
’Tis an ancient word anointing memory,
Sea horses love it, girls love it to,
For which they paint their cheeks, complicity.
A bird likes vermeil berries for its beak,
Professors for their gorgeous winter cloaks,
An actor’s scarf is deep vermillion – he has it made.
What gives heat in Winter, or Summer, craft,
What hands have turned red like it, working hard?
Behold, therefore, the power of vermillion,
That makes our magpie eyes shine bright in awe!

Have You Seen The Carnivore?

He likes to have it regal, just for fun,
For fun it is – demented butterfly!
The sounds of orgies and of blood spurts
Allow him perpetual holiday. Dance round the pole,
Dance round it, be impaled by it, say not a word,
Blow wreaths of pale smoke, smell the scalding joy,
Tell not a word of it to mother: gasp!
There is a sad libation on the shifting sand,
There is a wine that is not made of grapes,
There are maidens, clubs, and thugs, and rapes!
Fall down in spirals, ecstasy, despise the saints,
Munch every passing hour on nakedness,
Be the rotting potato fiend of our climate, sow,
Stain snow with scarlet – summer too.
The slick-chopped carnivore devours red meat,
Cooked previously in red lights and bilious berry juice:
Have you seen the stalwart cad and his leather case?
See his orifices chomping! His jealous eyes!
He doesn’t wish to be reined in! Look!
He conceives he is a diamond, but vomits coal.

Hairy Hands

Do I dream, or do my eyes deceive me now,
When all was perfect, well, and fair for us,
But now thy hand is lifted o’er my crown,
And in this dismal place, there falls a hush,
So that I cry instead, and hide my face for fear.
I cast my face around but daren’t look at thee;
The fury I perceive consumes my year.
What started nice has lost its ecstasy.
The One I love, his hands are hot and coarse,
He loves his apples, grabs them heartily,
But for his pleasures must I feel remorse,
Concede to them, be thrown quite off key.
If there by any potion, heat to quell,
Then must I somehow get it, or be still.

Five Dogs in a Pentagram

Five sinewy, snorting, playing dogs,
Trampled round the greeny grass as friends,
Close by a tree where flowers were,
A sundial, and a fanning bush:
Five dogs were there, whose flanks did heave.
They were not white, but more like grey,
The color of smoke that burgeons in the cold,
Gay beasts! Crushed berries with their paws,
And dug the clover from the dirt tenaciously.
They took their time consorting in the sun.
This lot comprised a single pentagram,
Not six of them or four. They leapt!
Above the bench, beyond the garden wall,
Into the twilight, swift as the Winter wind,
Off to find some female company, a yard of dress.
O star of Venus! Where wert thou, laughing?

Gamut and Scale

Happy is he, who sings a proper scale,
Both high and low the artist sings!
Where the lettered man writes better mail,
The brightest birds bring brightest rings;

The long-maned lion roars along,
And rumbles for his blazing pride,
Whereas the tortoise lives quite long,
Who sports his age from side to side;

Which monkey climbs the highest – grace,
For sake of getting aught to eat,
While brilliant maids smile in their place,
Adoring heeled shoes for their feet.

O in the world, there’s vanity!
The vainest creatures get most far,
Or shine in their proclivity
To look, now act, just like a star.

To measure up, earns modest mirth,
The rest is prudence – with the same –
Outstripping things of common worth
Doth outdo what is bland and tame.

How we do love the reddest rose!
How color vies with speed and strength!
That all the seasons, sweets disclose,
Perennial in their looks and length!

Mel Eats Mela

Did I remark that he, this Mel, was violent?
Did I say his hands were bloody red?
Did I think to tell that he had apples,
For his wicked mouth and in his bed?
I’ve seen grim Mel with his female friend,
And thought there was a fire, faith,
If not belonging aught to love – a rose –
Then more pertaining to disgrace;
It flamed until stark quietude
Did hover over all their woes,
Enswathing Mela in a shroud
Of black; for so depressed was she!
He ate the sweetness of her youth,
He dulled her colors, strew his ash,
Devoured was she, from head to foot,
Alas! That all Mel gave was soot!
Thou art the Regina, poor damsel,
The keeper of high virtues blind,
The iris and the ball of fruit:
But all thou thinkest on, is Mel!

The Lady

O gentle lady of the beaming sun,
Kind daughter of the moon in argent dress,
Brown-haired and tender heiress, eldrich One!
Thou hast no rival here in gentleness;
The creatures of the earth do flock thee round,
All lending to thy aura happily;
Like Hebe seeemst thou, Diana’s nymph,
The apple of the Earth, a priestess gowned
Who sings her prayers in key,
Then flees, light-footed, through the forest dim.
Thou hast a father and remembereth him;

To whom thou speakest, probably, and soft,
To whom your praises go and skillful rhymes,
Thy mother knows thy face and wants thee oft
For the morning oven work; the zephyr chimes;
When these things are done, dost simply, thou,
Heave cross the springy meadow, toward the hill,
Ready and rightly eager to address with love
The mythic monolith in whispers low,
For the bird proffers his bill,
And the lady smelleth of the ample stove:
They cast their charms about this teeming grove,

O sparrow in his modest dress, small monk!
Who secrets keepeth from the brigand jay,
Thy marbled eye hath seen her! Lady-lark,
Bedecked in smooth apparel, rich and gay!
How lucky is the clover, haply tread,
By the arched sole, walking, of her fairy foot!
She’s nothing but a parcel, scant of weight,
Who shakes the blond locks of her flaxen head,
Which smell like portioned fruit,
Though hath she never, ever had a date!
The wholesomest of maidens wait and wait!

The wild wind blows about her blushful face,
Leaves there, a taste, a hint of wayward ice,
But cannot stay; it shivers aught to race;
But still the Lady dreams and thinks it nice.
Amusements gleaned at home and spoken words
Do staidly, make a man quite glad to sit;
But outside, twilight gives its mystery
In cricket chants and remonstrance of birds,
Earth everywhere is writ,
For passing minutes trail new history,
And tales are told, by friends, complicitly.

Persephone had neither clue nor care
When Hades came to grab her for his urge,
Nor did white Leda, ravished, know the lair
Of that proud Rex who did, a swan, emerge;
When quietness filled farm and crevice bare,
When solitude deployed its echoes far and wide,
And as the bee was taking one last draft of dew,
Our Lady cried, O instance bleak and rare!
A wound hath stained her side,
From whence a trickle came, a lurid glare:
She bled much as a broken peach or pear.

Ah, chastity! That cannot keep a straighter face
Than that of grinning death, that chills and seeps
Through grass and clover, slowly, past the maze
Of roots and thistles, where the willow weeps;
A man hath taken thee without a price!
Most cruelly hath he conquered and deployed
The sort of seed he likes wherewith to tame
The unprotected filly in a trice,
O heathen overjoyed!
Worst fiend in crime, who doth make maidens lame,
Might Hell’s high doors be opened for his shame!

Denied her right to live and e’en to love
Beyond the fickle Season, sorely rent,
The Lady’s breasts, once Virginal as snow,
Have stilled, have stilled, and no one doth repent!
Sweet thrush of evening, up and sigh again,
For some pale maid hath lost her breath,
No tuneful words are there to use it now,
And both her hands – given o’er to laughing men!
Now holds the damsel, death,
And vanquished virgins, pity! are not proud.
Elsewhere, dogs bark, whilst prayers are said aloud.

Tra and Fra

I saw them laughing in the field,
The elder, thick, the other, short,
They did not stop but played their game
Of stoning rabbits just for sport.

They threw a flat pelt back and forth,
As twilight bid the lads come in,
For fun breeds mirth that tastes like wine,
And pleasure seldom feels like sin.

Poor rabbits! What cruel comportment! Loth!
The two had broken all their heads,
Denial – none – but righteousness –
That makes things trip and limp and bleed.

Grey Goose Snow

A cold front came in yesterday,
For which I thanked the warmth of church,
For which I shivered on the silent road,
Beside my friends, who laughed and laughed.
Ah, that Christian ember never dies!
We ate, clinked glasses, made small talk,
Knowing little of the rest of it – the rage –
The desperation of bad feelings, desperately,
Rankling depression, and gunshot wounds,
Extinguished candles – a lady died –
Obtusely addicted to suicide,
After having shot her dog – the dastard!
No snow falls but an emptiness
Hangs over the noontide hour, portentious;
A Porsche passes and a minivan,
Goose-gray snow lies in a heaping pile,
Alas! ’Tis Yorik. He can’t have lunch,
As his fur’s been bloodied by a blazing broad,
Victim, as it were, of missing happiness.

Hang High

Temptation is my lady’s lily hand,
Her body, warm as bread, her honey lips,
For Eve was made for us – our motley band –
From her silken head unto her fertile hips.
Oh, dare we take a harmless peek, today?
Then, will she give us heaps of perfect love?
Will she smell just like a budding rose of May,
Or chortle like an upward turtledove?
No thorn, this Lady flower – dastardry;
Pure lack of etiquette in striking her!
Then amplified, for manhood’s ecstasy,
Since snakes for meek things sometimes stir.
There is a tree, a witchy tree, hangs six,
But this fragrant lady feels the River Styx.

Lily Lake

’Tis Winter; the skating rink is full,
The people beam with joy,
And there is livid color still,
For every girl and boy,

Whose sentiments breed kind and white,
Upon that lily lake;
For New York gives a cheerful night
For simple love’s sweet sake.

Fine friends are talking, frivolous,
E’en as shops bar their doors,
But always bright and glorious
Is the place friendship adores!

The lake’s a flower, fashionably,
Replete with stamens too,
A book that shows a mystic key,
Scrawled over by each passing shoe.

Birthday

The room is cold, so cold!
I’m not an hour old,
But indeed, I see the color red,
Or that which drenches all my head,
The sound of hearts, of hearts!
I need the knitted boots,
I crave a drop of milk ma mere.
The air is chill and strange,
And I’m not an hour old!

Lack of Means

I cannot stand these threadbare clothes,
But still, my heart is warm,
And loves thee still through winter snows,
Though elements do harm,

My mind’s an egg, shall hatch quite soon,
A method and a plot,
Allowing us ways to the moon,
Derived from what we’ve got;

From volition, ladders up,
A lad doth learn to climb,
As scrawny as a seahorse, so,
Endowed in every limb,

For both of us ought to entwine,
In fertile pastures fair,
Now under water, lacking wine,
Now gay and rich – what mehr?

The Dog and The Morning Star

The first people hurried outside to work, there was a fog,
The elm tree bark was dewy, dark, and slick,
And cars rolled down the road, in their manner serpentine,
With their businessmen of python prowess craving pie.
Fancy that a dog howled, O! senseless thing!
Whether it were for dismal temperatures or trespass,
A frantic and unwelcome thing, a hungry thing,
A moistened thing with matted fur, a cad;
There was not a thorn within its paw or shard,
Its ears were both untorn – what grief?
The morning star did tantalize its tongue
To clipping the sweet time short, in wedges
Prodigious and digestible. It had a bib
And baby footsteps, rough footpad! Through mists
It ran like giant Cerberus, a barking fiend,
Whereas the children all caught colds and came undone,
Not caring about drooling dogs that chase bright stars.

Chanel No. 5

Elusive and mysterious are most fine things,
Like iridescence of pearls, or metal luster,
Spicy scents – that pique mature interests –
Chanel No. 5, which makes our fancy swim;
Rising to the surface of our consciousness; it stipulates;
It guides us toward the fulfillment of desire,
Whether or not a fox or bear has already been there,
For it weighs its own worth, gram by gram,
Rather like liquid gold or a dappled dream horse.
But right after that? A female’s footsteps
Lead us directly down a corridor, fleetingly,
And if a bear follows her, it has already been there,
Only five and fifty times, and ten times more.
It’s name is saxophone Sam, who eats watercress and ham,
Throughout the week and even on Sundays – for the sake of health.
He knows not a jot about husbandry, but weds well,
Coupling himself with perfect perfume, imperfectly.
Ah, chases, broads, and conquests! The nation’s been there.

Ladder to Paradise

My God has folding doors he hides behind,
A lengthy lamppost in the sky,
Fraught round by stars, most white and fine,
With all his bright battalions nigh.

His words are mighty, mountainous,
His vows are deep, much as the sea,
And all his thoughts are ponderous,
That fashioned butterfly and bee,

Who oversees every rill and lake,
Allowing things to come to pass,
For bright and blessed Nature’s sake;
Though men have ships and hold them fast.

They hold them fast, these stalwart men,
With anchors, pegs, and coiling rope,
The good men and the Christian men,
The doughty men who learn to cope.

Dear God! I hope perfection’s heights
Hath made us strong enough to hold
Our ladders through abysmal nights,
To catch the moon which hangeth bold.

I think there is a Paradise
Which smileth over everything,
When safety’s granted in a trice,
And fondest lovers have their ring.

Thou Makest Me Melt

The sun hath given thee a halo, pleases me,
Wherewith thou art all golden, olive-skinned,
O! vision gratis, hath not any fee,
To holy icons, close, and much akin.
For thy young heat, my heart doth melt,
Along with both my eyes and parchment lips,
And aching love hath taken me by stealth,
Which bathes my head and animates my hips;
My days are sweeter, passionate, and mild,
As they have had their nectar more and more,
Found better bread, and licked it like a child,
With admiration, lo! ’Tis from thy store!
My sentiments have softened me, I bleed,
’Tis alchemy I feel, which grows its seed.

O! Tammy Lin

At fifteen years, a child has toys,
Gleans education every day,
Which gives to girls and proper boys,
Their days of worth and pastimes gay.

She might not love to love, Tam Lin,
Her hours are rich and ladylike,
Who must not let a stray seed in:
But sisters can be most unlike!

Cruel rivalry of siblings brews
A potion poisonous for breasts,
Which have no milk, but virgin dew,
And have no sultry wants but tests;

Whereat drugs were administered
By the elder to the younger girl,
Since jealousy’d waxed the banisters,
And malice bore a vengeful curl.

Ay, she was harrowed, Tammy Lin,
Undressed and beaten, sodomized;
For her sister had to rule and win,
To win her man, she victimized.

She used to play the keenest game
Of ball, and was the brightest star,
A virgin bird, a blossom tame,
Was not a weed, sang here and far;

Both here and far, the wounded girl,
Nor ever to get up again,
Killed thorough by her sister’s churl,
An egg that’s broken in its ken.

O! decades later! pride of snow!
If wilder years have ravaged thee,
Took all thy breath and laid thee low,
I give thy name to memory.

A Bee, a Flower

It rained, but there was brightness,
Where a handsome man did sit;
He had a pastry in his hand,
A sitting statement bathed in light.
The baked dough he unraveled burned
Right through my heart like weaponry;
But he was not a wasp – this bee.
His pastry was a flower sumptuous,
He smelled and touched delectably.
Would I were this flower, crumb,
This method, in disguise, this lode
And object of sun-filled desire,
And not a fool of middling modesty,
Nor this fine pastry’s foil! Now,
This bee breathed, resting, on his seat,
But ready to depart – what prospects then?

Bob is Mad

Bob holds a strip of paper in his hand.
He is mad as a magician wearing metal,
And glad as leprechauns are glad
Approaching pots of gold. Bob is mad
As dare devils breathe madness climbing moutains,
Hoping for a four-leaf clover,
One that pops out from this splotch of ink,
Buoys him through boisterous seas like a raft.
I am mad to love Bob who is mad.

A Moth toward Lamplight

It is a dun nocturnal moth
Who spreads its wings like treason

At the brilliant glow of a lamp
That is too good for its powdery patch.

It crucifies itself
On a crucifix of light

Thinking it will be rescued
From the wreck of city streets,

A fool of fortune faint
That might just simply swoon,

Dunce addicted to oranges
And O! so sultry light.

Enswathed in a web of errors,
Scorched by beauty it cannot get,

Pinned also by prickly pain,
Wrathful and tiny and blind,

It tumbles down in spirals
’Tis joy that killed it, sure.

Lo! We Made Pie

Comrades, we make green pie this week,
And every week we make the same,
Setting our flags in the brittle flaky crust
Who had a stake in the whole lot – pastry.
Cook it with congratulations. Simmer it.
Divide it fairly with pitchforks and a spade,
Donating the finest bits to God,
The environment and modern faith.
The dry earth’s thirst we slaketh here,
Pouring down wine and apportioning pie,
Never supercilious, almost sacred,
Dragging along the music of our climate.
On pressed heels, shod in December, with cider weather.

Parting

When you and I do cease to meet,
Neglecting autumn orchard there to pick,
A side effect of work and woe,
I’ll wish upon thee late at night,

As if you were a star on high,
And I a puppet here below,
Whining full of reprimands,
Idolizing you in footpad increments.

If currents gush from there, my orbs,
You shall not notice it, and play,
Whereas this soul shall praise you
Hooting owl upon an olive branch.

Statement of Fact

You are not somber, no, you couldn’t be,
And yet there’s sharpness in your speech,
As if you think I am a leech,
Who licks up crumb and sucks her tea.

Cruel tiger! Do not lash at me
If instinct makes you mad and cruel,
For I’d not fight you in a duel,
Your tearful plain Eurydice,

Be nice, for so nice is your throat,
That does not eat me – or it does –
Condemning trespass of my toes,
And this frail heart that must emote.

Then spit me up. I am a pear,
A gay adornment for your hair,
Quite happy that you’re debonair,
But since you hailed me, you should care.

Clover Bloom

Thy bead’s a clover bloom
With petals of loose hair,
I muse o’er in my room,
Then simply stare.

Thy chest I wish upon
For more than lock but love,
Though I cannot put it on,
TO coo there like a dove.

All clover blooms now tease,
Because they are so gay,
That represent my lover,
For when he goes, they stay.

Small Joys

The ice inside my coffee,
The beauty in my eye,
Are joys that nature gives me,
If times be wet or dry.

I open up my window,
On roads and winding paths,
And household gardens row by row,
Quaint homes of birds and baths.

Small joys do daily please me,
As much as jasmine tea,
As much as that blue butterfly
Of mind that flies to thee.

Ride This Beast

My heart’s a barking dog,
That barketh up your tree,
And singeth like a frog,
Of true blue ecstasy,

Which cannot be quite proper,
Since I remain in place,
Whereas you run for supper
To Egypt or to Thrace.

Could it be that I’m a sinner,
Being impotent, dumb, and slow?
But I trust your head is kinder,
Shall telleth me not to go.

My faults are beasts and burdens!
They give me naught of glee!
And not another word in,
But more you seem to me.

Speak, Love, and Mesmerize Me

He pleases everyone when he doth speak,
No matter what the topic of concern,
Bestriding what he says as much as a leek
Inside an eggy tart some look to earn.
He is not vain, my friend, he is not dull,
But injunctions from his mouth do damn a dame
With sharpness that doth cut her better Will,
And leave it thwarted, bloody, broke and lame.
A sympathetic man of wiser lore,
Say I, with trembling lips of lucent tea,
Who’ve seen the apple but denied the core.
If only he’d impress where he doth mame,
I’d smile and kiss the ground on which he came.

Smile, Laugh, Pout, Swear

What is this mouth of ghostly evening for?
Enunciating verse or singing psalms.

Why are these pale lips pink or plum with jam?
They partake of bliss and deep damask delight.

Why do they tremble? Acorn dreams of angst,
That they might lose their acorn one fine day,

Queer world and all the moiling things therein!
I think he has a cap and nut-smooth face,

This acorn, turning me in circles, flipping thoughts
As if they were a stack of platter flapjacks.

A genius is this acorn, wins my art,
My breath and carefully folded compliments,

It stores them, memorizing, perhaps leaves them,
In the ditch where spare dry dross falls down,

Stale water pouring over the putrid remnants,
Allowing me to cough my latent spite.

As wonder woman, I smile for victory,
Wear wily lipstick only for a while,

Am glad to hop on your slick ship
To make mint stacks that reach the clouds.

Why lie? I smile, laugh, pout, and swear,
For many reasons, bloody heat and love.

My words are phantom, simple bleeding shades,
My lips are warm, but these travesties are cold.

Wayward, Savage Head

Wherefore your honeysuckle beard
Growing round your flesh and bone of wood?
Marshmallows are not sweeter,
And figs do not so please.

You add dear saffron to our soup
Of hearty bubbling bouillabaisse,
A lad, a ladle, brainstorming friend,
This makes expensive industry.

You walk like a spinning top, you walk
Like a rampant growing vine in the wilderness,
Ivy or poison sumac sting,
But sweet, wild strawberry sweet.

Espying your wayward, savage head
Makes me giddy enough to shout and grin
Although you shake your savage head,
Retract and do not let me in.

Heart of a Child

Eager to be off without an egg breakfast
Or cold chocolate milk from the humming fridge,

I ask your heart of apple, why so quick?
The world’s an oyster bar, a candy store.

Peel your golosinas, peel them slow,
Melt every precious day with purple passion,

Cover the earth with clarity, be extra wild
Like a wolf who remembers its prime, primordial past

Lending back to it your savage song, a star.
I sing also, saying you’ve the heart of a tender child,

And long fox ears, and aspirations high
As hills erecting modest majesty.

Dear laddie, mind your health and brilliant soul,
Dive deftly toward the future, wear long pants,

This languid lady praises all your blood,
Your brain and thoughts assisting purpose – so.

The Repast

Vegetable buns on rice paper shared
On a table set with a lazy Susan,
Cheap artificial lights lighting the hallway,
But this is food, this is not drink,
I shall drink your converse with warm sherry
Turning liquor to life-giving water thereby,
Dipping my beak-like mouth into miss-O! soup,
Trying desperately to find the protein squares
And coughing aspirations with every slow spoonful.

I’m a Dead Dandelion

I idle round wide-eyed,
As if I wear a collar.
It is no Valentine, this collar,
But I wear it though it is not gold.

Impressed once, now I feel quite pressed
Of all my juices and my joy,
A plastered dandelion head,
Repentant and no longer proud.

Former comfort fizzles out,
Explodes like lightening everywhere,
Sending sparks through my wavy purple locks,
A dandelion am I that’s dead and done.

You can wish on me at last
For other things besides poor me,
Gusting hatred at my screwed up face,
Liking girls but not the poet Al.

He Has an Egg

He has an egg on a plate
That does not hatch,
From whence a tiny tapping sounds,

An idea or some discovery
That shall manage to win the world,
One day, when he is clear and honest.

’Tis made on his face of porcelain,
Or on his hairy chest,
Then pulled from his ear with careful pride,

And it is interesting to see.
It might hatch into Tinkerbelle,
Or house gold within its flimsy veil,

But it comes from Rover verily,
It is his ladder and his land,
More eggs, and we shall have a tree.

Good Morning

Good morning, greetings,
From across the field,
We have not had a cup or meal,
But every creature outside sings!

This blurry vision frustrates me,
As do these parched, dry lips,
Although the bee at the blossom sips,
And not a problem has – ay me!

You are honey, your cheeks are fine,
Therefore, I give you this powdery treat,
To hold and not to eat,
For you and it are sweet to find.

’Tis a moth, a snowy moth,
Who is dead without despair,
Who can these veils no longer wear,
And has lived perhaps a month.

Night Trip

O Satan has me by the hair,
To lead me flying everywhere,

Delighting in my misery
Who hath conjured this from ecstasy,

Through white and wildern nights,
To quake at desperate sights,

Instead of staying by the fire
Of insolent human desire.

He doth give me nothing else to quaff
But the blood and bones of a hairy sloth,

Tears at my shoulders, gripping me,
Whilst shrieking long and loud off key,

In triumph for his fantasy,
Despite human fatality.

My eyes do blister in the wind,
But ’tis by memory I am pinned,

Of romance, love, learning, and light,
So damned is this infernal night!

Sonnet to the Son

One day, a little seven wilt thou have,
Good work and product of a lad’s repose,
When thou wilt court a woman and behave
Till age overtakes the broadness of thy nose.
Keepest thy rose in check till thou art sure
Of being pleased by whom thou fairly lovest,
Having given her keys to both thy Will and door,
Admitting this relation as the truest.
Then, thou shalt amend each grief with flowers,
Bestow a plethora of poppies on her lap,
Whom thou didst seek to love in fragrant bowers,
Fraught round by birds and sun and livid sap.
On Sunday, any one day, wilt thou spark
The seed that sevens some immortal lark.

Lie or Lye

I do not know that one child lied,
And do not know one cleaned his face,
But that child’s face was lately dried,
And sure it is that one child lied;

He washed and washed, the second child,
Benignly and repentantly,
But others said that he was wild
And stoned his cranium till six!

Perhaps liars are all infidels,
Like rocks to petty penny cake,
The difference being the nuptials,
And revelry were for infidels.

The old and young do lie and lye,
Whatever way that this occurs;
The traffic drive of years come by,
And still men hate or die demure.

Midnight Blue Explosion

Ah, blue, blue night upon my lips,
Midnight of rosebuds sprouting sweetness,
Not a thorn and not a shower
But the ghostly passage of many ships
On the steady flow of the Hudson River.
I taste his nectar overjoyed
That there is comprehension now and fine attention,
A good word sewed into the petal of every flower,
I think at the time, will blossom prolifically,
In mickle time and with much faithful fanfare.
I’m stunned when the blue glass crackles upon my chest,
Expulsing every word I’ve ever stated
Or written with flourishing fountain pen,
By way of bitter blood and gross misunderstanding.
Dew drops might bead upon my dark eye rim
Before reality’s laid out for me to dry the dross:
The garden grew nothingness surrounded by nothing,
No enchanted plants were there, but haste and levity,
Bringing that former mindscape down to zero.

I Picked a Perfect Flower

It did not take a minute,
But neither passersby nor traffic prevented me
From picking a perfect flower,
And toting it to my tree;

I led it to a corner
Embedded in an emerald nook,
So I could watch it blossom
With long reciprocated look.

It was no affair of moment,
The bloom I wanted liberally,
As it were a glowing nub of lily,
Or an orchid glowing vibrantly;

So I patted it and thanked it,
Neglecting it had standard legs,
Regretting those entwining vines,
That were its much demoted arms.
The roof is very steep,
The clouds step over,
There is a rope and key,
Doves in the tower,

I lift my straining hands,
Where blue threads run,
Think once on light, this God,
Who is our sun,

Though also do I frown,
A gargoyle, loth,
Reflecting on my friend,
With bitter roth.

This Self I See

I do not care about brawn,
For what is muscle? Meat,
Sinews to work upon,
Creating sweat and heat,

Delighting in good lessons,
There is so much to learn!
And friendly conversations,
And filling my gold urn,

My drink and will and jive,
Glad sociability,
My business that shall thrive
Beyond proclivity.

I’m slick and sharp in York,
To one and all who wonder,
Am faithful to my work,
From love, split not asunder.

What more need I today?
I long to laugh at ease,
Nor ever bring dismay
To a woman on her knees;

So let my horses race,
Belonging to the world:
I look and see just grace,
A man whose thoughts are curled.

This Empty House

There is a house with varnished wooden floors,
A vase for flowers that are not ever there,
Surrounded by stark vines and tufts of heather,
Where wind creeps lowly, serpentine;
The furnishings have sheets shrouding their wealth,
Toned down this voluptuous volubility
Of silent song that does not exist anymore.
No balloons nor birthday cakes have been here,
This icing being hid in eyes of emptiness,
Unknown to all, a sterling circus play,
Rather tarnished and looking foul to boot.
A dress hands in the closet by itself,
A lonely apparition monochrome for moths,
Moth-eaten and anxious apparel, frayed and black.
What mind has been here? What regal pomp
Of people dancing through the night? What words?
Which buds were tousled in their merry romp?
But nothing answers, no people sojourn here.
Wilt thou tarry here with me in canvass clothes
And springy sneakers, gay and wry?
I shall paint my nails and polish up my toes,
A willing adventurer in vagrancy.

The King, the Crown

O bring him horses! He needs horses!
He has a load of work to do,
And land to travel hastily,
Happy and honest o’er the winding road.

The king might even chance to smile
To a fond fair-minded audience,
Or take my hand – and what a feat!
Neat would I bow to his glorious grace!

He must bread, I would slice that bread,
With my fingers, if I had no needed knife,
To keep him hale and deft and strong
For many ample years to come.

Green grass buoys his scintillating feet
That else would wander weary if he walks,
Whereas the breathing air stirs up his hair
Into peaks and wells of gorgeous blond trimming.

Lastly a crown do men espy
Upon his curious cap of flagrant locks:
An apex of nobility, fain would I climb
To reach his mentality, a humming bee.

Our Eyes Are Mosaics

Our eyes have one color, and what they see is limited
Beyond our ken of space: there are seashells and broken glass,
Grains of chaotic sand that defy conformity,
Crystals that tend to form or weep to pieces,
Diamonds and gemstones preposterous.
There are villains and red necks, people who do not eat,
And people that do, with butter knives and buxom dames,
Wine-loving Frenchmen and jasmine tea drinkers,
Across far forests, lands, oceans, and seas;
There are people who mock and people who are not allowed to talk,
Children who sit in corners crying, retching thin air,
Their bodies become empty vessels of abbreviated thought.
Our eyes are mosaics made of myriad different parts,
Though they see not much of many things,
Retract when they don’t want to see, like soap dishes, and crack.

For That My Eyes Are Dull

Once ’twas my eyes had brightest living sense
Above a nose that simply seemed to breathe,
And they would watch five things from here to hence,
With no real reason anyhow to seethe.
They were like brandy, weren’t they? Olives, gold?
Deserving love’s attention and its time,
Too soon perhaps becoming dull and old,
In days, nor bolstered by supporting rhyme.
Stale ponds or rivers are they presently,
Having lost some rigorous essential sheen,
That molder in their ditches silently,
Forgetting why they’d ever flit or preen.
So cruel hast thou been in thy judgmental ways,
That I am left black-eyed and in amaze.

Absence

And gladly would I wait,
And duly would I cry,
Till love returns to me,
And tears are dry,

Sewing for friendship, scarves,
Of pansy purple hue,
Or brick red underclothes,
The winter through,

While praying to my God
And also to thy name,
In church where I do sing
Eternal fame.

Let Me Share

I do not fancy this negro above me
With his black bull’s neck and glaring eyes,
Who says in my face at some hour late,
“I want to eat your pussy”. O blessed Chirst!
He thinks he has some bleating lamb or ham,
Smirks like a villain, and lunges forward,
Despite being in front of a church – churl!
I bet he’d like his wedge of mincemeat pie
With whipped Chantilly cream and candies violets,
But I deny him happiness. I incredulously
Arch my eyebrows at his exposition,
Musing on how miraculous his lions loins were,
Stirring my solitary cup of swirl yogurt with a plastic spoon
Amidst a battery of thick bus terminal columns. Ah, men!
Men who are as crass as cabbage wear virgin gold
And suck on mother’s milk, rife as dandelions,
Grown hoggish and fat on porn culture catering.
Where, ah, where is Paradise, fat Sir?
In a random woman’s bra or deep in vice?
After my head shake he retreats,
His joyous, jocular eyes of levity roving on and on.

Whatever Is Best For You

My dear, you swore you wanted fish,
So I have given you fresh fish,
And long-stemmed roses, daffodils,
Preserving your best interests for old time’s sake,
Common dignity including your fair share of recognition,
And not just my all-potent star.
Do whatever is best for you,
Whereas I do it too, your man, lover and friend.
There is no necklace you do not deserve, no crumb,
No evening excursion on the opal sea strand,
Fraught round by hazes and gossamer mists,
I wish all blessing on you and all kinds of pleasures,
No matter where you go or what you think,
For you’re obviously a woman of quality, not a customer,
A diamond diva and not a scullion – that means,
That which it infinitely means.

Mirror, Mirror

Meditating reflectively at his own face,
The centurion opens his door-like eyes each morning,
Concerning himself first about itches and razor blades,
Soy or milked coffee and coming to work
On time to get the ball rolling, rolling for industry,
Cars spewing their smoke interminably outside.
He walks the line of excellence, life is his journey,
He does not want to stray or fall,
The hair on his hands and chest being his ultimate shield,
Against mawkish sentimental tyranny he cannot stand.
Somewhere, there is a friend he just met trying to walk
In a field of wide open corn blossoms, staggering,
For she is a horse who has inadvertently jumped the fence
In trying to find her reckless heart of gold.
What a wild and twisted time she has!
She also sees herself in the same mirror, benign,
Brown-eyed and unprepared to sever it from her visage,
So she transports it with her in her chest,
Muttering something about oats,
And shoulder-high corn stalks with silky loins,
That whisper personably about getting pussy at midnight.
She wants her round Robert cocktail though,
Since it is familiar, rainbow-colored and fun.
The centurion sits at his desk like a smoking gun.

Stir This Soup

We are going vegetarian
Though tigers two Siberian,
Celebrating summer at Equinox,

In a kitchen on a table
Smelling a bowl of mixed fruit,
As the evening sun slits sidewalks.

There’s a heap of onions,
Of soiled leeks and lemongrass,
A bouquet garni brought in,

Turnips, nice turnips,
Potatoes unpeeled, some thyme,
And we have loose spare nickels

For the occasional canvasser
Or door-to-door salesman
Saying they know the next best thing.

I hold the wooden spoon,
You also hold the spoon,
Take turns speaking and stirring,

We stir the limpid soup,
For it bespeaks liberty,
Amorously and confidentially,

A recipe in emptiness,
Soon to be emptiness again,
But love – this is something.

Embrace Me Somewhat Longer

There is a comforting feeling in unity,
Though oft disrespectful and scowled upon,
It can smell like seasonal flowers
Or the worst of wasteful garbage.

I think I have seen you before, once,
Some time ago, or was it yesterday?
You mesmerize me with your anthems.

O mockingbird! O price of cockatoos!
O phantom, hale, lustful, sprinter hare!
Embrace me somewhat longer,

Say sensuously that I can step on your shoes,
Go out and do anything with you,
Twirl your hair to bridge our super galactic schism,

But embrace me now and then,
Do not let go of this rigging,
Or I shall slip and slide atrociously,

Fall off the boat and swallow.
My beating heart, my working mind,
Bless you, tell you, to tenaciously follow.

Say I am a spying suela,
Though, and if naught else works,
I’ll sneeze into my shirt and sally off again.

I Want to Stitch

I have this itch to stitch,
No, do not woggle making war!
I am not a cannon
Or a barren canyon crevice,
But I’d like to fashion clothes forsooth!
It would be a personal pleasure
Measuring your scaly skin
Dry with winter rash and love songs,
Sticking this needle into the woven fold,
Or else into my meaty thigh.
I do not blush to say this,
Having purse and purpose also,
For I act upon good will and innovation.
O, comrade, let me stitch,
Since I have this honest itch,
And telling you does not degrade me
As much as flat refusal does.

City Hall Square

The city fountain plays at day,
Where mothers walk with strollers,
But I do walk with book and pen,
My footsteps getting older,

Thinking of water in my mouth
For life and healthful living,
Sweet sounds of words from foreign throat,
Rich gifts that keep on giving,

With purple French and purple pride,
Beset with woes and wandering,
Alert and playful, what you are,
I think, no time then squandering.

The rain pours down, the sun comes up,
I pace for daily leisure,
But put your smile into my cup,
Fain would I this for pleasure.

Share This Water

Sharing water to make stew eventually,
Erecting a fountain from a stale puddle,
From copper, deriving gold to wear,
Making silver music from resonant tin drums,
Etiquette pulled out of anarchy at night
When no one is looking, this enterprise,
Is the half and half of business coffee mugs,
It is the silent music of subtle stardom.
It would be nice to fancify molecular bonding
And make it thicker with Durham flour and liquor,
Various cuts and slices to please the round moon,
But according to you, water is more peaceful
Than the tumultuous bubbling of thickening stew.

Throb on Heart

Take up this vile of life, this flask,
This crystal cup as you would a coffee drink,
Deny that I have words or that I can think,
And simply smash it on the gray stone ground.
My smile is actually for photographs. It’s light,
And melts upon your lips like honey drops.
You tell me, however, you no longer have a cough.
Throb, my arrogant heart, you whip me wisely,
Informing me that cats have nine – not me!
Dance, dance upon that phosphorescent line
Which excludeth the staple shadow of me
From the stalk of that white corn.
Throb on my heart, if, indeed, thou hast another part.
I do not give in to bawling treason.

The Man of Midnight Madness

Methinks he had a ram’s horns on his head,
This negro bloke who drooled above
My pot of flavor swirl yogurt. Late lechers
Give my thriving ivy the urban creeps,
With their phallic shears, knives, spoons, and guns,
Who never hear the Matins bell. There is this Hell.
The man of midnight madness introduces seed
Or weed or want to a night of white celebration,
Delving perniciously into illicit dream,
His fantasies bespoken and even biodegradable.
It is not my head that he grabs, but the idea,
The sensation of sniffing girls upon the road,
Possessing random wandering porn. I despise his ship
Of putrid wastrel flesh,
Think he should introduce himself to an alligator or lion.
It is not the age of midnight madness! Our lips are gold.

A King upon a Horse

All day he seems a king,
A king upon a horse,
So money did he bring,
In streaming course,

He had a face of steel,
Where I would plant a kiss,
The sigh and downward kneel,
Nothing amiss,

But he was high and proud
In perfect panoply,
Who would not have me loud
Or near his key.

Pink Soap for Us

I do not sell my flesh,
So therefore keep this stash,
Of soap bars faith to cleanse,
The earth, my bod, these hands.

If I Were a Wisp of Outer Space

If I were a wisp of outer space to walk
Soundless and seamless through the city air,
Across the curvesome county woods, with whipping hair,
Then would I take the key of time and break its lock!

With ebon eyes of emptiness I’d starkly gaze
Past dogs and dames and naughty little men,
Get up to grab a fox or tantalize a strutting hen,
Or follow winsome people in this light, desperate craze,

Stepping over poppy fields and brooks,
Big-footed, dark and savage-hearted me,
Achieving by these feats a newer ecstasy
Than ever was guided by written lore in books,

Until, fatigued, I choose to settle down
Beside a nun’s sleeping form to wantonly reflect,
Not chastised by God anymore, or derelict,
But wearing tresses and a starry crown.

The Meanness of Things as They Stand:

A Collection of Verse Writ by Alice M. Baskous on the Deaths of Many and Sundry Innocent Victims at The Hands of Fiends, Miscreants, Rapists, and Cutthroats with Neither Reason Nor Purpose

One rises in the morning fresh,
Prepared to win one’s daily cash,
Read vivid tales or write a book,
With letters hanging on the hook,
White, clean, and pure, well-liked besides,
Much needed belts to fit old hides:
There are things we want and ever more,
From chic boutique, from corner store.
Routine, routine is what we have,
By which to earn our bread and stave
Off hunger, learn to work and weave,
But also, must needs haply give,
Man being born with honest pride,
Allotted strength, thoughts working wide,
A million projects to deploy,
Concerning balms or rich alloy,
Distracting past times from rude vice,
Still keeping aspects fond and nice,
Since all must work and learn and write,
Lest brilliance be obscured by night,
As well I know of good and bad,
The bleating lamb and villains mad,
Plain dishes relished, cracked ones thrown,
Two gates of lore: ivory and bone,
Kind spirits calling virtues nigh,
And those who steal, and those who lie,
The babe that cries for milk at morn,
Good dames who weld their stockings torn;
For in life, poets love to love,
Politely open nature’s trove,
Whereas observing leads to woe
Quite oft, for people in the know,
There being bloody spectacle
Beyond the boom-strewn windowsill,
That thrives in silence, free from hope,
Where lustful devils deign to grope,
A foot on earth, and one below,
In Hecate, with blazing eyes that glow,
A basement there, a chamber strange,
Chill dripping eaves upon a grange,
From whence hard tools of hate are drawn,
That feed the fires of fetid brawn,
An arm to twist, a foot, a leg,
Black coat sleeves swinging on a peg.
Ah gross misfortune! Plight and pain!
On tender blossoms, iron rain
Cascading down without an end,
Sad sorry stories, duly penned:
That scoundrels prowling in the wood
Could take a virgin’s steaming blood,
Or working men might deck some street,
Flat fallen, fainting, beaten meat
Of one or several cads at large,
Denied his plot: now shroud, now dirge!
A while ago, I set to think
About how birds alight to drink,
Too quick for gripping hand or knife,
Spry, high and free from common strife;
Then pondered if with their volition,
Clawed humbly, by verse adorned,
Terse tales of misery might fly
To live again, so never die,
Extracted from this mind, these hands,
That, faith, have raked dread weedy sands,
Presuming soon to win thereby
A slow-cooked form of crusted pie,
If words be roof and edge and wall,
Ensconcing apple drifts of fall:
Cold catches of forgotten souls,
Remembered thus, in parchment bowls,
Write carefully, worked, worded round,
To pique opinion with sparse sound,
From Spring to Summer, rhyming plain,
And prying Winter in the main,
Redressing ills that never rest,
God, verily! Or in Man’s chest
A coal is there supplanting heart,
No source of joy, but chilly art!

The Early Death of Tammy Homolka

It was that in Saint Catherines,
The Garden City, as it is,
Where parks and rivers entertain
A people pretty in the main,
Three-story mills spout waterfalls,
And kind folk populate the malls,
Port Dalhausie shines out its beam,
Ships through canal ways simply teem;
A city fair and moderate,
Graced by high church fronts intricate,
Cafes that bustle in the rain,
Young girls who pout in prim disdain;
There lived a modern family,
Sometime broke bread and drank green tea,
To whom soft locks gave character,
Pale flaxen locks the hue of beer,
White, snow white skin, and musculature,
Having influence in nature
By which dreams passionate did split,
Two ways, for daughters there were two,
Alike in looks, and much admired,
By family and friends who choired
Rife praises for a pair so sweet,
Soft, delicate, witty and neat.
But oft a curtained window keeps
A score of secrets as Joy weeps,
Brittle sets of bears and dolls,
Though Tammy loved to play with balls,
Avid, nor lacking energy
To practice sports from one to three,
Appreciative of wholesome things,
Tall, growing trees and greeny rings,
Like firm Atalanta or Hebe,
Fleet-footed in her ecstasy,
Nor sin was there despite her age,
Since thinking well had made her sage,
Virginal and haply unapproached.
No hands of man had yet encroached
Upon her beauty chaste and sure,
Bursting with health, but still demure.

Ah, differently did these two act,
As suns hate moonlight for a fact!
Karla, the elder, had a show
That needed neither dress nor bow,
Which boredom deemed exceptional,
A prize act for the chamber wall,
Or two, or more; still had she love,
Bitter and risky for love’s choice.
A couple therefore shared one voice,
Performed unseemly feats, ate meat,
Stripped down in cold and summer heat,
Preferring beer and wine to juice,
Rampant and dangerous on the loose,
Therefore wassailing, not alone,
Fierce famished in both flesh and bone.
The eyes of these raged ever brightly,
Who took their saucy love out nightly.
Select delights they called for came,
Since men want cash – and who’s to blame?
Fulfilling room and bordello,
Hotels where maidens are yellow,
Succinctly put, an eerie sum
Of deeds amidst stale whiffs of rum,
These creatures felt no urge to stop,
To clean their lives, or stoop to mop.
Allure of pleasures captured time,
Engaging them in pantomime,
Where meaning was not definite,
But mingled vague with sweat and spit,
Past times for red lips palpitant,
And hides that moved itinerant.

The ocean can outshine the pool,
Or be a raging fiend, and rule
Above the subtle, shifting sand,
A spool of hair, a fragile hand;
So were these lovers loud and wild,
Whereas the sister slept her mild,
Enswathed by downy quilts and sheets,
Not listening to more racy beats
Than her own breathing through the night,
Away from bites and bitter fright.
Misfortune lingers in a leaf
Sometimes, where greed is like a thief,
Rips it away from happy stem,
And wears it as its diadem,
A leaflet gossamer and green,
So God protect the simple teen!
Alas, the man, a violent fool,
Gold-haired but prone to frott and drool,
Already had his sights all set
On the young star and her burette,
Began to whisper of his lust
In the ear of Karla, given trust,
Still every day to grow and grow,
O instincts foul that hotly glow!
If lemon incest lit his days
With prospects – how his mind did craze,
Once stars adorned the silken sky,
Burned him, but made his Karla cry.
E’en when the moon poured down its light
From its lofty, cherished, regal height,
Calm, innocent, and milky, Paul,
Rambunctious Paul was held in thrall,
Deciding that his interests lay
In Tammy’s room, he did obey,
Strong, dripping, and transported, gay,
To grow his mawkish rose of May.
Karla, envious, coughed softly
Into her pillow thoughtfully,
Whilst Paul absconded toward the yard,
As stealthy as a spotted pard,
Squinting his eyes and trembling,
An ashen branch resembling.
Surreptitious and strained was he,
Tense from his neck down to his knee,
But knew only to spy and spy
On sleepy Tam, Spring’s butterfly.

Her clothes slipped to the chilly floor,
Then Paul’s beating heart did soar.
She walked o’er chastely to the bed,
Not seeing Paul, who loved her head,
Her nakedness and scanty frame –
Though lust, she did not lust the same.
If on his brow was beaded guilt,
Repentance, on which faith is built,
It petered out before he left,
Following quick motions deft,
Made to appease and gratify
The heated thoughts that passed him by,
Raw feelings, scarlet shaded mists,
So real he could have bled his wrists!
He stared and stared but could not kiss,
O fortune! Anguish rife and angst!
O lusty life, forever wrongs!
Afore that window, grim Paul stood
Reciting vows into his hood,
Nor days nor months would e’er erase.
Desire was written on his face.
Loving a nude and frisky meal
As normal folk eat fish with zeal,
He might chuckle and lick his chops,
Quell nervousness with several hops,
Adore pink apple cheeks and hips,
Whilst puckering his manly lips;
All this he’s prone to carry out,
A spider by the water spout,
Though who’s to tell a demon nay,
When lustfulness must have its way?
The villain groans a while, then flees,
He flees, jingling his pocket keys.

The older sister bit her lip,
She ground her teeth and banged her hip,
Revolted that her love had strayed,
A filthy, errant lust obeyed,
Compelling her to sit and weep.
She did not want to hear a peep!
Condemning her green sister’s mouth
Seemed fitting; Karla wanted drought;
Abhorring memory of milk,
Since Tam was of a separate ilk,
She spat and cursed and coarsely groaned,
Not apt to please the man she owned.
By increments, aught savory,
A dream approached her verily,
For which her eyes were set alight:
Revenge burned ash there, very bright!
Paul staggered back to her content,
The blush of youth upon his face,
Anointing it attractively,
For pleasure more than anything,
Guilty deception! Seeming false!
His eyes were large unearthly balls,
Having attended to his prey,
Young Tammy Lyn, both sweet and gay.
“Ah, well and well, you acted fine,
“But now must you expect to dine?
“When your eyes are smoking embers,
“And your incensed brain remembers
“That morsel, trifle, bagatelle,
“That scrawny witch from virgin Hell?
“Some unity you’ve given me!
“All’s wrecked as far as I can see!”
Screamed Karla from her anguished throat,
Stifled her voice, and turned to gloat,
Bemused by prospects love had forged –
Fascination replete, engorged.
Suspecting better holidays
After jaunts through alleyways,
A bit of fun, a crowded bed,
Deep richness to delight her head,
The jealous sister lay in wait,
Devising Tammy Lyn’s first date.
Legend states she brought valium
For her virgin-kin’s requiem;
Admixed this with spaghetti sauce,
Advanced, to strip her Albatross.
Her fragrant clothes left one by one
A figure pale, which liked the sun;
But for a while, when she was blind,
Her kinsmen took her from behind,
Sucked every mortal inch of her,
As if her tender skin were sugar,
A peel of orange, such violence!
No cry though was there, but silence.

Advent of Christmas sparkled fierce,
Among bright promises of kirsch,
Eggnog and holly, cinnamon,
Girls dressed for glee, and dancing men,
Because the world must work and play,
Sip from its honey, seize the day:
Oh, hoards of things to do and hear,
Above one’s steak and frothy beer!
Karla frolicked delightfully,
Not realizing flagrant fault.
If error, it was in weakness;
She did not feel her vengeance less,
So told her Paul he had a job,
Her sister’s maidenhead to rob.
Each of them drank, snacked, and brooded,
On how they’d have the Other looted,
Malleable and prime and pretty,
A damnable kitten witty,
For a man’s Christmas present made:
Young Tammy saw her last Au bade.
Her sister vowed to trap her flesh
With a volume of drinks unleashed:
Eggnog and rum with Halcion,
Added sin, to induce action.
First trusting Tammy quaffed her glass,
Like any other happy lass,
Unsuspecting, her joyous mouth,
Though all that day was grim, was roth.
Her chest constricted frightfully,
Whereas her cheek bloomed mystically,
Transforming to a scarlet swathe,
Beside her lips and still warm nape,
Like a strawberry in color,
A burn, a lesion, new pallor!
The couple set in on this dish,
Since it had been their Christmas wish,
Remorseless, in a naughty way,
Confident Tammy Lyn would pay.
Vile sickness, though, within her broke,
Doomed innocence to sourly choke.
Poor creature tired by vomiting,
She died with no one listening!
She writhed and faded on the floor,
Behind a closed wooden door,
Cut short, deflowered, jostled, still;
For hearts, as snow, are often chill,
Impinging on weak, wretched life,
Espousing pleasures, breeding strife.
Ah, will the villains never learn,
Who prematurely stuff their urn
With bones and tresses meant to live?
Late snows fall soft, as through a sieve.
Red berries on their hanging bough
Recall a sprig of nothings, now,
Nor speak of squandered blood, nor pain,
Preferring insolent disdain.

Future times bring vanished concerns
To light again; the scalding burns;
Since homes are made for bread and wine,
The folded wings of Columbine,
Sweet, warm repose, togetherness,
Not plagues of ravaging distress,
Or sex affronts despicable,
Or hidden knife, or poisoned table.
Winter, I’d fain admonish thee
For your white and flurry ecstasy!
Each lacy flake ignites a wish
Made toward amendment for that dish,
That saucy one downed years ago,
Prior to many drifts of careless snow,
Comprised of bona-fide spring lamb,
Slaughtered – that bore the name of Tam.
Deus det in Latin, proverb
Told after dinner, like an herb
Possessing stringent bitterness,
In other words: God give us peace!
How might these words pour honestly,
From souls preaching simplicity,
Suspicion asks the falling snow?
Where did Tammy Lyn Homolka go?
Are we meant to see her holly-blood,
In traffic lights, burst from a spud?
The season’s whiteness matches her,
White skin, soft tampons, rabbit fur,
Inciting me to write my mind,
Condemn a killer’s life, in kind.
A score of years does not suffice,
To sweep away that sacrifice,
As if gold were dust, or common gin:
Pure winter brings old musings in.
A poet’s hand could not forget,
There was a fire somewhere, a debt;
So did I chance to write a tale,
Of a damsel and poisoned ale.

Learning about Olives

Regretting circumstances vile,
(Recovery takes quite a while),
Have I read of a sorry thing.
A poem, fancied I to bring,
Lamenting ay a bitter woe
Fell, passed, and stretched, not long ago,
Pertaining to a massacre,
Committed by a wrathful cur,
Who studied in Connecticut
Erstwhile, before his cord was cut
By self-same hand, from anxious ache.
That blood shed there could fill a lake,
O piteous, wrong, and terrible
Deed, malicious and not dutiful!
Foul play performed against a folk
Before dun curls of winter smoke
Could comfort for a child comprise,
Who deeply under chill dirt lies!
One speaks of Adam Lanza now,
Whose clothes were black as any crow,
A right nervous man and spindly.
God, deign not to take him kindly!
For through the livid winter air,
He sauntered forth with not a care,
Intending ill toward other men,
And killing children, two times ten.
Seven other persons did he slay,
Before blasting his life away,
With firearms, gross firearms,
A Glock and rifle, devil charms,
Extinguishing his mother first.
A bullet in her face did burst.
Ah, always, always, does a boy
Malicious treat love like a toy,
Accepting first a merry meal,
Then tearing meat with fresher zeal.
A lad who went to Sandyhook
Elementary, who clutched his book
As leaving it were perfect pain,
His entrance there did sadly gain:
Twenty this year, a rack of bone,
All set to grill his home alone,
Red-lipped and lanky as an imp
Who sallied forth without a limp,
Was Adam Lanza, tall and grim.
He killed and killed upon a whim.

His mother, Nancy, loved him much,
Stayed home also, to tell him such,
Kept house and made the supper too,
Praised oft her son, who quickly grew,
Attaining an odd age rampant
Whence he acted like a dissident.
Aspiring to teach him how to shoot,
This mother fair and mild to boot,
Shut him inside her vehicle,
Content to hold and keep him so!
Innocuous bullets in the sun
Assuaged the man; the range was fun;
One on one of them firing,
Loud shots like olives spiraling,
From hands into the salad bowl.
Adam devised a better goal,
Seeming as just to him as spice
Thrown down and sprayed on all things nice;
An end, perhaps, he turned around
Within his head, without a sound.
The target of this dread boy’s dream
Made both his eyes, then, haply beam,
Transforming smaller things to grand,
Mournful and tyrant ships to land.
His Nancy did not once suspect
Her son had plans so circumspect,
Since he had been a bonny, bright
And tender lad, first in her sight.

Ah motherhood, which bears its breast
To love, his filial head to rest
Upon its bulging swathe of flesh,
Whilst heart-chords meld in dreamy mesh!
It looks with fondness well and long,
At the glad product of its song,
Coos like a dove, and flutters light
In spirit through each winter night,
Fed good and richly day by day,
So long as the son has his way.
Union is summer’s apex joy,
Shouts million blessings on the boy,
Something a maid can’t do without,
Since coldness makes her twin lips pout.
In faith, the mother brews her tea,
And tries to sing in perfect key,
Measuring out her life in spoons,
Succoring soundly all her wounds.
Wilting leaves are not prophetic,
Hark, as times need anesthetic;
Alas for golden honesty!
Butterfly-lore can’t tame the bee!

Uplifting his young tyrant head,
Gnat-Adam wants his Nancy dead.
So what can kinship supplicate,
If evil deigns to set a date?
Can salt and pepper altercate,
If chaster hands are clearly void,
As thin as sticks and unalloyed?
The cock crows, it rustles its mane,
Triggers its claws, almost insane,
A-paening and a-dining soon,
On kids and sisters of the moon,
That must indeed depravity
Grow secret in some cavity.
At home, thanks to a leniency
Of morals, guns abundantly
Had piled beneath the mother’s nose,
Who thought on walks and washing clothes.
A butterfly upon a log,
Quite ignorant there was a bog,
Was Nancy Lanza, since expired.
Her son had killed and was not tired,
But having shot the mother’s face,
Prepared itself for more disgrace,
Insouciant and devious,
Not knowing hindrance or duress.
He sallied forth full-armed on foot,
To rend a room, tear and blast and loot.
What wonder, since his house of sod
Kept aye a pretty stirring rod:
Slick rifles meant for gunmanship,
Since bleeding angels at the hip.

The darkest, vilest, most abhorred
Offspring of man, found out his board,
Wending his tragic way to school,
Where his mother’d worked. Passing cruel,
His olive visage did not sweat,
But aimed to win a grosser debt,
As he reflected rancorously
On his mother’s past felicity.
Dressed head to toe in somber shade,
The bitter Adam briefly played:
He played the reaper, drew a cry
From many several children nigh,
Because the guard had let him in,
The teacher’s son, who cracked his grin.
Nightmarish was this harlequin,
Chill like a plastic mannequin,
Who walked toward heck unswervingly,
Possessed or proud-browed – seemingly,
O’er knoll and frigid winter plain,
To raise his arms and kill again.
Bird-man become or carnivore,
His prey would waken nevermore,
For ever lying still and cold,
Dull carrion, once tinted gold,
To wicked misdeeds fallen foul,
To hidden yearnings on the prowl.

So thus it came to pass, one day,
A young boy had his pole of May,
Slaying thence more than twenty foes,
And giving himself chilly toes,
Covered from head to foot in shame,
And eradicating the blame.
Misdeeds must never be forgot,
Lest fortune more bloodbaths a lot.

The Footless Girl

Often one consents to saying
It’s alright to fancy playing,
With kittens, mice and singing birds,
Or fish the hue of lemon curds,
Do business without gravity,
Or bathe the mind in fantasy.
Indulgence, it goes on and on,
And entertains both night and dawn,
Asserts itself above one’s bread,
Adorns too every thick-walled head.
It manifests itself in game,
In past times banal, crass, and lame,
Although the world just nods its head:
It nods, whilst wicked wants are fed,
By wine, by women, far from God,
Corruption rife above the sod,
Congeals in places tucked and close,
And virtue falters, comatose.
Heaven knows sorely, one doth think,
Whose wise wisdom doth never sink,
So all is fair and all is good,
Since blood has strained the martyr’s wood!
We pass our time complacently,
Or blossom full in ecstasy,
Whereas I know, one’s eyes stay blind,
To the grim griefs of humankind,
Preferring aught to have its peace,
Though the shorn Lamb has no fleece.
Fair victims cry upon the ground,
In desperation wracked of sound,
A thousand horrors taking place,
Requiring each time a different face,
Alas! That freedom builds a line,
To feed the furnace of desire,
With cruelty, lust, infernal fire.
The brain is apt to tighten ploys,
Stacked for the sake of men, of boys,
Tall creatures, quite perfidious,
Whose ways are deleterious,
Denying needs higher than those,
That grow the Spring’s most faithless rose.

For instance, one might cite the tale,
Involving two men now in jail,
Placed there for misdemeanors foul,
Committed last year on the prowl.
The story has it Louis Ruiz
And Jimmy Massey, who to please
Themselves, took murder for a sport.
A maiden’s foot did they abort
To suit their craven appetite,
In a private house, and out of sight,
Since they had cozened and seduced
A brace of teen girls on the loose,
Thinking to laugh and have their way:
To rape the girls and have them pay.
Thus ’twas, in autumn of that year,
Two rapists celebrated fear,
Enacting deeds devoid of pity,
Deep in Oklahoma city.
Ruiz led both maidens by the hand,
Straight toward a trial of blood and sand;
A pretty pair of partridges
Who’s have to suffer damages.
Nineteen-year-old Caroline,
Ruiz squeezed like a concertina,
Beating Beauty on the chest,
Attending to both leg and breast.
He took a cord, he tied her fast,
Too strong to fight, much like a mast,
A rod, a stone of import cold.
It happened, girls are bought and sold,
For the delight and spoilage vile,
Of men who sodomize and prowl.
The culmination of his pride:
That Carlina Sanders died,
Could not be thwarted. Flagrant sex,
Had tender maidens by their necks,
Limp meat thereon, which cried and nagged.
Miss Sanders, Caroline was bagged,
Stuffed in a duffel bag and tossed,
Whom lust incarnate did accost,
A body missing one sad foot,
That Jimmy’d sawed off, craving loot.
This wretched story, writ of lore,
Left C.S. By a grocery store,
Her solitary mouth agape,
Although that friend had found escape
By a hair’s breath through the window.
Bald Ruiz took off his saw in tow.
Mankind and bestiality
Assure female mortality,
Some buck alive, some seraph dead,
After the lamb had bled and bled.

Fair testimony certified
That Ruiz, still horny, gross, and snide,
As mockingbirds adorn their nests
With varied things: his tale divests,
Thanks to a hotel fling in May.
His lover said the telephone,
Did not display the man alone,
Clearly maintained a video,
Of past happenings, pleased him so,
Which he had doted over, engorged,
Each time thoughts of his misdeed surged.
Iniquities of men that gloat,
Delight before they tip their boat,
Providing vittles savory,
Instead of due anxiety,
Sometimes, much richness, like red wine,
Thrown in the face of Columbine,
Or quaffed, a sultry anodyne,
According to the whims of men.
Enacted time and time again,
Those images betrayed him then,
Pertaining to the pained demise,
Of Sanders who had gentle eyes:
Two brilliant orbs, white like the snow,
Short-lived as herbs or mistletoe.

A Damsel with a Dulcimer, a Pastor and His Porn

Herald a fall of turning leaves,
America which daily grieves:
So multicolored, different,
A living, writhing dissident,
Whose towers are all glorious,
Though men be often gorious!
America, its pastimes glad,
And boldly played, though often sad:
Hast thou forgotten Columbine,
That maid as sweet as Clementine?
Methinks she’s buried in the Earth,
For merchandise we could unearth,
A pile of porn, a load of corn!
A bloody blood bath’s travesty!
When young girls should be decked in blooms,
Not desecrated in red rooms,
Or forced to bow down to the man,
Or bless the porn spree he began,
Being independent and smart:
Inherent works of godly art.
I pray for thee, who art deceased,
Still living, set with school and lease.
A damsel with a dulcimer,
I saw ago, was not with her,
When she required mighty aid
Against man’s hand – this story had.

There was a pastor named John White,
It was, who worked in Michigan:
One man who ruled a sultry ring
Since naked, was advertising,
Which led him to coward’s actions,
Alone too – there were no factions
Telling a beastly man to behave,
Lest women’s rights be left to rave.
In Isabelle County, verily,
The pastor had his cup of tea,
Employed for his congregation,
Though his sin was masturbation.
Christ Community Fellowship,
A porno flick, a sweet rose hip:
These were his motives, fair and square.
Rebekah Gay had blond crimped hair.
It can be said that mundane life
Compels the John to cheat his wife,
Demanding, then, delectable
Spicy games to fit his stable;
And such a man was old John White.
He said he’d had enough of fight,
After that clash at Battle Creek
Whence a bright girl was stabbed to leak,
O grace! Nineteen-eighty-one!
An ogre there had gads of fun;
Or harping back to that one time
He’d put to death a climbing vine,
In Kalamazoo; where, in sin,
He choked a girl. They let him in.
Despite his murderous account,
Luck established him a better fount,
To fill his pockets with pure gold:
The gold of white lambs in their fold!

And so, the merry pastor preached.
Attention, also, he beseeched
From one belle neighbor he would wed,
But doted on her child instead.
This gleaming lass, Rebekah Gay,
Had a toddler; thus John did pray!
He prayed for their prosperity,
Each day, each week, in ecstasy,
Composing sermons on man’s seed,
Though where he got them – flagrant greed!
Intending rather, to commit
A crime of passion lacking wit:
Ah, incense and misericord!
John’s incense was his private horde.
He cut through trailer trucks to get
His portion of Gay’s deus det,
A blond lock he could feed upon,
Or sleep with ’till the break of dawn.
Because his realm of fantasy
Was sponsored by a porno spree,
‘Twas easy as a piece of cake
To delve into his neighbor’s lake,
Hook fine words of condescension;
No need, they said, for prevention,
Seeing as no guilt was showing,
On the face pale morn was mowing.
John sermonized and deigned to talk,
Took Danny Brothers for a walk,
Stared at the daughter, ogled well,
Relapsed, however, into Hell.
Who knew that cold hypocrisy
Could kill a woman’s sanctity,
Or squander all her precious fate:
A piece for John to masticate!

Common it is for folk to call
A pastor from his dais tall,
Good food to him and loving smiles,
Walk side by side for lengthy miles.
The reverend man is saintliest,
And all his words are amethyst,
His eyes are keen, his ways are good,
But when he keeps things ’neath his hood?
Rebekah looked like bedroom joy:
So much for Pastor John’s starched ploy!
She satisfied his fantasies,
Which really were depravities –
Kept this bloke wide-eyed late at night,
And thrilled to have a girl to fight.
Most evil man, most evil deed,
Such plain-faced Pastor wild with seed,
Sight-blighted sinner in a veil –
Well, literate – but he was male,
Of the genre hurtful to us all,
Blood-soaked in sin, quite held in thrall.
Fancy his churlish name was John,
Unlike a preacher, faith, a don;
And sweet Rebekah disappeared,
Alone at night, with no one near,
Except for that God-blasted man,
Clept her to death within her van,
A trailer in a trailer park.
She could not hear the morning lark,
Since the fellow hammered out her brain,
Being pornographically insane.
Trust wolves among the hapless flocks,
Endanger helpless girls in smocks –
This is the way of indolence,
And loses our significance
On that battlefield of good and ill
Where beasts and devils get their fill.

So they lit many candles then,
While I am writing with my pen,
Lamenting day and night the loss
Of young Miss Gay whom John did toss,
First ravishing and bludgeoning –
Next in his cell and smoldering.
Blue were her eyes though: not this hue
Of yellow whiteness two by two,
Not made of wax but living stuff,
Nor blind by force nor treated rough.
A girl is not a candle tall
Incumbent with a deathly pall,
Nor light when mortal life’s been snuffed;
But Lord, Gay doth not have enough!
No light is in that wretched place
Where worms devour beauty’s face,
Riddling her faithfully with holes
As joy keeps house with wanton moles.
Alas for that cad’s candle black
Of gules and sable, that doth whack,
Erects itself atrociously
In chaster parts of sanctity.
Necrophilia – what the heck
Have women got around their neck?
The crucible of triple X?
Is this fate what is coming next?
Remember, folks, the book of Gay
That’s left unwritten, March and May,
Until hot August and October.
Chill lechers steal the words from her
Who had a child and left in haste
This world, John White’s palm on her face.

Thus subsequent, I ask you all,
Why did this Pastor seek to mall?
Why ate he fish and devil’s cake,
Dear Freud, like some dirt-cheap mandrake?
There was a damsel once, alive,
Who sang as bees sing in their hive,
More well off by a dulcimer
And playing with great show and stir,
Than victim of her Pastor’s filth,
Or porno which he watched in stealth,
Wherefore the price: I say more garb,
Or be impaled upon his barb,
A prickly point – a male is sharp
Oblivious to Hell or harp.
The sharpness stings across the years
So long as women suffer fears,
Subjected to lust, greed, despair,
And wasps and scoundrels in their hair.
Sancta Maria di Jesus,
I tell thee rapists wander loose,
Looking for pie and getting it;
Whereat angelic hordes might spit,
Transcendent though they be and kind.
Miss Gay, we’ve got thee on our mind.
A poet writes it, who is mad
For worldly ways – lust – lessons sad!

Men are Dear, Men are Deer

A letter I have learned to write,
By light of day and deep at night,
To cook a meal and make my bed,
Expelling bad thoughts from my head.
Dear Sir or Yours or Cordially,
Is common format verily,
When there’s a point man has to make
Or greet his friend from Hubbard Lake,
A method and a means to say
That he hath loved a girl since May,
Read Christian verse or Vedic lore,
Conducted business, bought a store:
In essence, I do tell thee friend,
There is no fire in what we send.
As well, the food I dare concoct
Shall not leave people burnt or pocked,
Or poisoned in the stomach sack,
Although I might not have the knack;
And when I make my bed at night,
I covet not a scene of fright
From pornos or sad horror flicks
Exhibiting dead men on picks.
Opinion, mine, that men are dear
And cherished is the kindred ear.

What is this racket, what the mess,
Of keeping humans in duress,
Who haven’t sinned and do not need
Subservience to baser greed?
O Lord, games teach us how to shoot
A man right through his face and boot,
Exciting gads of intellects
With broken bones and bleeding pecs,
To love the grim, gross, well-groomed waste,
Of enemies who’ve been defaced,
Until their lusts are satisfied
With prizes of raw human hide.
So gruesome is the Roman year,
Torn into parts, and doused with fear,
Mere detestation’s not the word
I’d use for men who’d slay a herd
Of fellows since they’re all inured,
Sins being fouler pulling fad
Out from a bag of best-I-had,
Especially when death’s the end,
Wherefore this rhythm must I send.
The world I love tells me quite plain
There’s sex and gore on every brain,
Calls ladies chattel. Men are deer,
Dear men departed – are not here.

The Lai of Gilberto Valle

In New York and not long ago,
There was much gossip on some Joe
Who held a badge aforetimes proud,
Although his mind was far from sound.
A married man who Mickey Mouse
Resembled, dad about the house,
Was the culprit caught – a cannibal,
Appearing publically this fall,
In newspapers and magazines,
For having planned to kill us lean –
Yea, rape and tease and cook alive,
One female item from his hive.
Poor hapless co-worker of his!
His hateful mind did sizzle, fizz,
Relieved somewhat by gluttony:
Hot foreign food and Playboy honey,
The whole of which did serve to feed
The greasy nut of schemer’s greed.
Imagine all the fallen leaves
As being female – but who grieves?
His daily duo looked fantastic,
Involving pickles green as Vlastic;
That is, two friends: a butcher, one,
Amped for the rape of his wed hon,
Both having chatted as they would
About their prey of choice of wood,
Soon would they use for lust and food,
To suit their hard bulimic mood.

Kathleen Mangan was a teacher,
Who via software was quite sure
Her husband had been visiting
Shock pornsites, and he had a ring,
Comprised of men who wanted gore
And rape and murder of their whore:
Not one but many – hundred count,
The blood from which could fill a fount.
The gorgeous blond wife of the fiend
Waxed sad and sadder – might have keened
For grossities on her devised
By Valle, whom she then despised.
What, rape her, slit her throat and mute
Her mouth, gagged like a prostitute?
Partition her, the female goat
Who wouldn’t be let to emote,
So all her blood could gush to dregs
Like wine that’s harvested in kegs?
She didn’t know the butcher friend
With whom her life would simply end,
Tied to the ground and racked with pain.
She ran and ran in kind disdain.

Today the planet chops girls down,
Oppressing them around the town
With horrors sharp and rough and crude,
While they’re at play or gone to school.
Say aught of modern media,
On forums, Chickepedia,
The mags that laminate our souls,
And men who’d reap pink blood in bowls –
The end is most invariably
Whatever people want to be,
Rhyming with C and low on G.
Vowed: rights are rights and talk is talk,
Providing men don’t up and stalk.
That diamond corner there is loud,
And men are harsh and men are proud,
Where dust is swept with hachéd feet,
Which makes a rawish breakfast treat.
Corn cereal is not enough
Unless it’s serial – that’s tough
For women nowadays who work –
The fact of which drives them berserk –
As well as those who don’t so much.
Alas for them with men who touch!
Blessed be folk gone in elegance
Who live their lives with reverence,
In opposition to the red,
The violent, gross, and vile of head:
Our white brides and our gentlemen
Who will not let the bad stuff in,
The poets preaching wrong from right,
The preachers writing late at night,
The parties that are faithfully
Against the boggy hells that be;
And blessed is good Kathleen’s hair,
Which doth flow on despite despair.
Recordare, then, is what we say,
Transporting flames of Truth alway.

Alone and wary of his wife,
Gilberto honed his wretched knife,
So to speak – a blazing theater
For the women who would meet her,
Fast in an oven built for them
After the cad had torn their hem.
’Twas the name of a cannibal,
G. Valle, manic for this stall,
This system devious as sin –
Just so – the plottings of his pin.
Seventy pounds and more of meat
For chauvinists to bake and eat
Is the gist of what the news shew
About a cad and rapist too.
Strange saucy cravings for a groom
Who grew inside fruit-of-the-loom,
Absurdly and licentiously!
Monsieur has got a secret key,
Hardware, machismo, blossom tea,
The elements that break a bride
When husband dear on her doth ride.
These outlines of most ill rapine
Did not unlatch from Gilbert’s vine;
They did not roll or manifest,
But stalking brought Gill to the test
In court where he was sentenced nice
For having carried on with vice.
Incarcerated till his death
Is what the judge presiding saieth.
Deriving therefore never wealth
Is Gilbert V. who drooled in stealth.
His wife and daughter yet remain,
Recovering from recent bane.
Be banished, nightmares insolent!
These brutal bonds were never meant
Of marriage to a carnivore,
From whence coarse salt did lately pour.

How long, sweet friends, how blasted long
Shall it be till we are friends among?
Grabbing a cookbook opens joy,
And may be used by girl and boy:
An artistry that spills no blood
Of human mortal or his brood.
If cooks use saws to cut the cake
That’s baked to cause some woman ache,
Unsafe are our transcendent souls,
Despised and doomed to paper bowls,
Is what this girl who types implies –
Aware no price can suit her thighs
Or mend the hurts inflicted on
The race of female by male brawn.
Green Eggs and Ham, Gilberto says
Is his favorite read. It stirs his seed.
For hogs of chauvinistic reach
I do your finer ears beseech,
Informing all and sundry that
Manhattan men must clean their hat,
And not excluding dresser socks
Skim quirky floors past midnight locks!
The world was made for better bread,
In time, we’ll know: who’d fain be led
By willingness of cogent mind,
Instead of baser dross we find.
The fires of hatred can’t have place
So long as we trust God’s dear face,
The fathers who did once recline
Upon the land of Columbine,
The truth of virtue, ripened fruit –
New wisdom’s produce taken root!
Now come ye women, think on it,
Ye men who’ll plant them bit by bit!
The prison doors now deftly close
On Gilbert Valle in his throes.

The spice of life is not outworn
As greed, desire, hate or porn,
And better sense comes homeward soon
When men say grace at stroke of noon.
This written – I who penned this think
’Tis fitting to fight oil with ink,
And do but mildly take chagrin
For all the Truth I can’t fit in.
A poet makes apology;
Since I’m earnest, do not blame me.

The Passion of Jesus Who Carried Our Cross

God bless the man who chose to bow his head
Upon the way of passion, taking sin,
So that new snow be made with blood drops red,
When Romans took their nails and drove them in!
He is the son of God who bore the Lamb,
And trailed the cross upon the parching ground,
Alone, so we’d not have to do the same,
Engendering love notes where there was no sound;
A carpenter and avid countryman,
An orator for many humble men,
Whose pain did grow on high from one to ten,
Formidable – was lax and languid then.
O Jesus Christ who had a heart of gold,
Because of thee, we are not drove or sold!

Ditty

He does not stray, this man,
Who has my heart to win,
Or else is there to ban,
Too treacherous in sin;

He says the sweetest words,
To glorify my ear,
Defining the rest as churls,
Who cannot quite come near;

So do I love this Lord,
With all the joys of love,
And never squander bored,
What all these joys behoove.

Ditty

Interlude that calls to me,
As pure as snow thou art,
And excellent in chastity,
Amazing, part by part,

I do not see thee every day,
Though wish on thee these things:
A following as fresh as May
And true as golden rings;

Devout and pious reverend bro,
Your faith’s too good for me,
Which animates you head to toe,
Confers on me this glee.

It is I

I’m a member of the Kingdom Animalia
On the third rock from the sun,
Distributing green paraphernalia
For my environmentalist work at one,

Battling for health and clean practices
With networking of many,
Gazing at insects through interstices
Of walkways myriad and sundry,

No to fracking we say, and long live the earth,
Though sometimes would I travel elsewhere,
To places lush with no dry dearth,
Making new landscaping fair,

On comets and planets and streamlined ships,
Benefitted by nuclear fission,
Even set to ply my novice lips,
Drawing one and twenty a decision.

A Lion

A lion holds me by the eye
For so his highness pleaseth me,
When all my soul is fast and dry,
Desiring new sagacity;

And he doth roar like no one else,
Stood straight upon four fickle paws,
Then wanders off with feline stealth,
To see where farmer raven caws.

Yea, holds me by his gaze alone,
Since closer bonds would surely break
My bonny flesh and brittle bone,
For faith and love and mercy’s sake!

Prayer to the One in August 2013

Men praise His life who is the One,
That gave us life beneath the sun,

And fruit to o’erload bush and bough,
And wood by which to carve a prow!

For he doth look on ceaselessly,
Upon our days of ecstasy,

All-knowing, privy to our ways,
Enshrouded by his lustrous rays:

Sat high, where stays his precious throne,
In garments which are seamless sewn;

Agnes redemit oves! Sanctus sanctus!
Then sure – in terra pax ominibus!

Last thing to bed retiring,
At break of dawn aspiring,

A deep-felt prayer with boundless love,
Our varied ways on Earth behoove.

Olive Eyes

I cannot gage the depths of these,
Dark olive eyes by day!
But haven’t gazed on finer gems,
In Marrakesh or Istanbul;

’Tis peace they radiate, for sure,
Since that man who doth these possess,
Has faithless flaws no more, nor vanities,
But prize me, these? Not in the least!

I’m blue and must my heart condemn,
For seeking what it shall not find:
A bluer heart of kindred make,
To make my sapphire spirit sing.

Que tal? I am no criminal,
Nor do I lie on purpose, Sir,
So why have these fruit never pity?
So why must I these thoughts confess?

I. MCP

Throughout the year he gives me all his song,
Red rose, red rose of summer and of snow,
E’en though he thinks with either prick or prong,
Ate amply my youth and did not know;
Three kisses do I give him after Mass.
Heracles, he’s spirited, though rough,
Evinces more emotion than a bass,
Rather less than a loving father – fair enough!
Each keeps to each sometimes, yea, merrily,
Although he’s prone, not me, to outward lash,
That all his troubles are my own, verily,
Hot hands, as well, that rend to boot and bash.
Entertaining me is stalwart, true and fair,
Right different than dying red my hair!

II. MCP

High on a hill amidst a crested fog,
Enabled are my senses, that I joy,
E’en though my threadbare feet are in a sog,
Numb, tired, dampened – I am such a toy!
Vines grow above my bath-fresh head so high
In rows that creep ambitiously toward cloud,
Enchanting both my eyes from being dry,
Some blossoming in frothy flowers proud.
Myth covers this whole scene, enclosing me,
Years old, though I’ve just come, a maid,
Shod scantily in canvass, could it be?
Horrendous thing that some strange brigand strayed
O’er sand and rock, as spry as rippling oil,
Enjoying now my foot – made black as soil!

III. MCP

Carnations did he wear upon his breast,
High noon approached, and then the sun’s descent,
Enjoyments came that needn’t be confessed,
Attaining both our loves with pure and perfect scent;
Then wanderlust had my beau by the leaning loins,
And revelry and sex and wanton things,
That tempted him with tits, hooch, legs, and groins,
The hottest of all piquant seasonings.
He was first love bug, then a player foul,
Enticed away from home time after time,
Cruel critic of my heart, bod, ways, and soul,
Loud, speaking swear words, spare of rhyme.
Undressed were all his joys for three years straight,
Boar of my bedroom, always come in late.

IV. MCP : ELAY

Enlightenment came through the Renaissance,
Provided education to both men
And maidens; nowadays, shenanigans,
Reduces girls and rapes them – Friendship 10.
Forever doth she sleep, my scientist,
O Graces three! O Muses sweet and nine!
Usurping aught her place with wickedness,
Ray Canus goes to jail, must later dine!
Four farthings, education now, dirt cheap,
Omega 3 girl-shakes this loony fortifies,
Unless the Furies take him. Women weep.
Real hearts do contemplate what sex denies.
What, give a heartless man some land and time?
Good rowdy broads? infinity and wine?

V. MCP

Tired, fat, emotive, this mad hubby sat,
Revealing all his ten, large, hairy toes;
Year in, year out, he kept his nerves sedate
With broads and beer and Bailys in his lows.
Indeed, so soon as wedded love died down,
A heaping tithe of better interests rose,
Engendered in his face, which wore a frown,
So he could belch and jerk off when he chose.
Just this, ’twas not enough, but mucho more,
Obsessed the man who could not his head keep,
Believing he had right to property and chore,
On into his wife’s job – made that girl weep.
Until he won, was he a lunatic,
To keep his wife at home with word and stick.

VI. MCP

How violently he fumes! Just like a child,
Excited by his greed – she, not his wife;
Enacting jealousy, the man goes wild,
Xavier, honey, he now wields a knife.
Cute when a babe in arms, but not the man!
Upset as Satan, Romeo doth howl
That Juliet must stay or kick the can,
Submit with forced and disapproved avowal.
Men murder – dear, sweet God! This lamb,
Young like Lenora, bleats and bleats and bleats,
Face toward that foe who was her longest flame,
Alive, alive, but it is she he beats!
Carved, cut and ravaged is this pretty blond,
E’en though of life, she was quite fond.

VII. MCP

This time, the jealous man casts off his cloak,
He cannot hide, no more doth he stay back;
E’en though there’s much to lose, the man doth smoke,
Religiously, for that his nerves aren’t slack!
Each hour brings him closer to his goal,
Belligerent and lachrymose is he,
Engrossed by death, his eyes, two burning coals,
No mercy in them – purest perfidy.
Off with her head! For she has let me rot!
Off with her head! For girls were meant to lie!
Today he means to execute his plot,
Hangs high his girlfriend – that her feet are dry!
Envy doth burn his soul so deep within,
Real UV students cannot gage his sin.

VIII. MCP

Ravens, crows, and blackbirds cry today,
Into the morning sky – all students pass,
Toting those tools they need to earn their way;
Romona’s gone, though; out of sight this lass.
O goddesses of virgins, she was chaste!
Mild, quick and cunning was the late Miss Moore,
Out late, however, missing – where the haste?
No people came to visit. Bloody floor!
Against the wall, in plastic tightly wrapped,
Mad with the pain, in sorest agony,
Ope at her fingers, red and thickly sapped,
Ope at her mouth for two boys hot and goony,
Romona lay until they beat to death
Eurydice, so quiet underneath.

IX. MCP

Who doth despair? Who wild and whitely foams?
Italian woman’s absent now from school,
Nor e’er to come again, November moans,
Disconsolate, for fate had bred a ghoul.
O cruel Colossus, why burn ahead these blades?
Wise people don’t harass a former friend,
Onward with life! Remembrance always fades!
Perhaps the man was gross who dealt her end,
Excited by malicious thoughts, red-eyed,
Not hoping to escape, this murderer,
Expecting some sweet death by suicide,
X-on that cake of velvet – doth not stir.
Love’s often vengeful, strikes our angel down,
Leaves footprints on her floor and stains her gown.

X. MCP

Yell, scream and cry, when no one’s left to hear,
An Le, how unpropitious be this day!
Loved bride to be, o’ertaken, held in fear,
Even in the corridors of Yale – what way?
Raymond J. Clark did burn in hellish lust
And murdered for it, he, yet will be free,
Proud pervert who hath gotten ample trust
Erroneously, who will bright daylight see
Another day four and forty years from now,
Neanderthal of porn-fueled penchants canned,
Deleterious, distasteful, next unbound.
So law has designated him this land,
Unlike the lamb, who naked, hath no else,
No wedding-ring, no future – graves and chills!

XI. MCP

Now gone, now gone and ne’er to come again!
Eggnog and toast were haply set aside,
When one young woman dropped both book and pen,
Dying foul on one horrific carriage ride.
Eva and Adam were not so low disgraced,
Lulled by temptation – in New Delhi time –
Hell had twelve legs and blackened face,
Induced by lust that is not spoke in rhyme.
Real curried butterfly ate six stark fiends
Aside the road where weeds and bramble grow,
Peacocks and brigands hot for toasty viands
Evenings ’fore Christmas where there is no snow.
Dead daughters and their sweethearts do not dance:
Guts drawn like curry, Christmastide romance!

XII. MCP

Apple bottoms, apple bottoms, scarves,
Prime, merry weather, little girls must play,
Red lights tell cars to stop, they light lewd bars,
Ingenious scholars preach the holy way;
Counter to good things, come in bad, for shame,
One girl is stolen – apricocks and jam!
Cheap whores have made men rowdy without blame,
Keep growing, mushroom-thick – but not sweet Lamb!
The daughter, men did beat and rape and maim,
Hack-chopping off her feet licentiously,
Ignoring all her cries of woe and pain,
And loving this inspired depravity.
Vice holds the leg in place, the Lamb is slain,
Ever gorgeous, smart, and young, no prostitute!
Sly souls though, ravage girls and eat their fruit.

XIII. MCP

Perhaps a name’s too soon forgot once told,
Each voice is small, a little narrative,
And seasons change. Who knew that mine was cold?
Numb, bleeding, my poor bod was forced to give
Very awkward and distasteful things:
The smut and rudeness of malicious men!
So man hath pushed me down to steal my rings!
For what? For loot and booty, or my pen,
Or girl’s ambition, intercourse, chagrin.
Red is the twilight. Giant elephants!
But thou shouldst see them charging in,
Omnivorous, malignant, and without pants.
Youth’s wrecked for peanuts – O the beastly boy!
Sweet to them is what doth typically annoy.

XIV. MCP

Why not slap this man or slay him? He’s a dog,
A monkey and a miscreant, who shakes his stick,
He wags it sitting wide-splayed on his log,
So would I call him frog and bleed him sick!
He sits, he sits, and fondles, waxing proud,
Implants a toothsome grin upon his face,
With oily aspect, but he is not loud:
I’d have him crying mercy in disgrace.
Rubbing morning from my eyes, I don’t believe,
Emote and stare aghast at what they’ve seen,
Say not a word, but grab my things and leave.
This ebon ram could jerk off, rape a teen.
Why sit down swan-like, me, when he could pay,
To kill a cad, simply? ’Tis not the way.

XV. MCP

Answer, answer, aught the peacock’s call,
Send photographs to bathe his eyes all day,
Sex sinners, and compliments, you’ll have them all,
In time. Fan the peacock’s ego; it’s okay.
Tempt old salacious men to doff their dress,
Helped immeasurably by media and minds
Inked thoroughly by porn and Playboy’s best,
So they can kill their wives over lemon rinds.
Peacocks in the pantry, sexist joy,
Remember now to join them for a fling,
Inducing men to treat ye like a toy,
Denying on their finger, there’s this ring.
Egos of chauvinists grow vast and large:
X-emplary work, my dear. Where does he charge?

XVI. MCP

Be interesting and nice to company,
Undress whene’er I crave a tithe of porn,
Run not from my slap-it stick of ecstasy,
Nor go to anybody else’s home alone.
Make bread while spreading buttered bread
Against the kitchen sink as holy chore,
Right properly, to sanctify my head;
You go not here, meanwhile, or be a whore!
Slime apples have you baked for me, you cunt,
Hog wash and cabbage brine. I go online,
Only hie yourself from my encloistered den,
Cock-eating reticent, and you’ll be fine.
Kick babes, kick babes in woven little socks,
Stick to it, char-broiled bitches, O! sweet locks!

XVII. MCP

O mirthless place! O dirty, dismal shack!
Suburban hell hole no one’s ever seen,
Intended for a tenant – not a pack
Of female sex slaves starved quite lean!
Three ladies, white and black, emerge,
Raped to the leas, defiled, abused to spud,
Intelligence abducted for an urge
Orgiastic in Ohio State. Pale grace!
Could Paradise be taken for a nut
Assassin in his lust and boundless greed,
Subdued in chains and brought to smut?
Tricks are abased, but normal, decent girls?
Red tyrant rapists are worst of the crooked worst,
Orgasmic scum who oft complain of thirst!

XVIII. MCP

Perhaps I do not see the cow-eyed girl
I’m supposed to be in love with – she is dead,
Miss Saunders hath not shown a velvet curl,
Produced a smile in days or raised her head;
Precocious situation for a man
Induced to torture girls for his cartel,
Evil in mind, to glean steadfast obeisance,
Developed in a clan most criminal.
Pounding on Miss Saunders chest to mute
And slicing off her foot, recording it,
Intense – Ruis slew her like a prostitute,
Neglecting, his phone, to destroy it.
God grant that teachers working here and there
Get grander serving. Vices! Do we care?

IXX. MCP

Maybe Michael Mele was a lying man,
Endowed with defects and not qualities,
Licentious – odd collections he began –
Entry by photograph to ecstasy.
The player snapped his secret photographs:
Rear shots of broad bodacious dames,
Envied the race of female, dated, laughs,
Enveloped yet another whom he blames.
This lamb he blames at rising of the moon,
Altered by lust, and in a sultry craze,
Kills her lest she rescind her bogus boon,
Egged on that he hath two. Death stays.
Sex implicates the mind with errant might,
Sews newer clothes when girls fall in the fight!

XIX. MCP

Inviting guests for matrimony done,
Less doth he think upon his bride,
So doth he take his leave for his own fun,
To frequent newer locals, full of pride.
As husband, he is king and Christ and sound,
Rails at his consort an she turns away,
Strips her of ego, for to take around,
Pins her and pumps, not asking if he may.
Angry as ever, he doth outward romp,
Neglecting hearth and health and home,
Grown into strips clubs, there to stomp,
Lo! Buys a prostitute to fuck alone.
Engendered in his head are many ills,
Dead as the dust of roads his wife’s salt fills.

Hail Mary in a Moving Car

I tolled my beads this morning
By the Virgin in her niche,
Delighting in her dwelling
Where blooms and grasses pitch,

At the church – Fidelus Rex!
Of Catholics in New York,
I stood with dreaming face,
Though morning men would mock.

Bright blossoms of the Virgin,
Did populate my head,
Whereas the call behind me
Implied that I’d be dead,

A whistle for a cat
Denoting some rude dog,
That could have been a gun,
A pedophile, a frog.

Wow! I cursed his oranges,
Who chose to mock me so,
Replacing our Hail Mary
With one loud insult mo’.

Speed equals distance, time
Beneath the telling bar:
Signor – Marie’s no puta
To benefit your car!

My beads I tolled in rounds,
Enveloped in some pain
To which I don’t give vent.
Should men devour shame?
Letters to Paradise

I.

On Delicatesse

Dear and Precious Citizens of the World, Whom Thoughtful Reflections Might Interest,

O wild and most audacious notes to humanity! Could this pamphlet of letters have been inspired by reflections about New Delhi, the degradation of women, that most wanton monster, lust, that stares at the face of innocence green-eyed, and violence that demands a continual influx of black pudding and the watered milk of subordination? To tell the truth – and it does me much honor to lay my heart thus bare and confess a whole flood of repressed hopes and opinions that I have formulated over the course of a year or so, merely thinking about the wretched mishaps that befall the most hapless of people, the outbursts of male chauvinism that pepper humanity with the putrid stench of treason, the ups and downs of life in different places – I have shed not a few tears before and at the prospect of writing this humble and potentially ineffective oeuvre of Passion, Reason, and Grace. God bless the good endeavors of people who have only love in their hearts and in their minds, the benefits of progress; and as for the fouler lot of evil-doers and ill-wishers whose dismal doors – also of ill repute – do not cease to revolve but press viciously for the longevity and salubrity of their obscene rites, I cannot but repudiate their credences in turn and bogus dogmas, shuddering and lamenting the decimation of American morality, old traditions, and universal laws, to which the volatile oil of rebellion doth not care to adhere.

Having said this, I now cite an occurrence of rapine and sexual solemnity that took place in the month of December before Christmas had strewn its gifts for the sake of satiated longings and predilections across the world: so came this news on the wings of vindictiveness and indignity from the Indian subcontinent, a recital of affairs as they presently are, and most unlike a present, wrapped up in saffron and green, stamped by the feet of a nation, and dampened by birth blood and tears of grief. Alas! That help comes so late to some poor partitioners of a fate that is almost universal, for it’s so grand as to seem like a gigantic puppy left to its own resources or a drained plant! When taken case by case, however, one might say that each one involved a violin that played sweetly before it was cracked, or unadulterated gold that was cruelly or brashly exploited so that its value was disregarded and its utility made defunct.
I am the daughter of a most intellectually inspiring and considerate father, who would not have his dream egg shattered or disgraced for the world, and regard the death of that other daughter in New Delhi with a melancholy that other sympathizers have shared: for they have beaten their chests, torn at their hair, cried rivulets, and set up their painted signs as shields, demanding that the verdict to be resolved by a good and fair hanging of six culpable miscreants who are guilty to their very balls of perfidy at the highest degree. How should it be that a medical student gets intercepted about her business, accompanied by a young male companion who finds himself to be similarly abused, struck, maltreated, sneered at, and pushed from a bus, the driver of which, also accused and given over to be judged, turned on his clients fiendishly and to the sordid harm of both? How should her blood be shed and corpus violated days before the celebration of Christmas, when guileless hearts are filled with hope, gratitude, and simple ecstasy? How should she had her presents ripped away from her bosom, along with her opportunities and very breath that still bore the delicate fragrance of youth, that had nor persisted to be shared with another lover’s kiss but been torn out of an unhappy and unlucked throat to ribald chaunts and jeers?
This is the sort of cockerel that kills millions. This is the unctuous napalm that sparks conflagrations where once there had been a prevalence of virtue and serenity. This is the python of bad human psyche: makes excuses and congratulates itself on being brutishly strong and venous, that flexes its muscles and flings its tool around, hoping that no one will see it. At least the black-hearted villains were apprehended!
There is a bleeding temple in India, a sacred cave in which pious men and women deposit their prayers and aspirations to the higher authorities that hear them – which surely has felt tremors and groans of a sorely abused and violated sex. On my honor, I attest to it that I have seen its walls and steps that wend upwards; I call it feminine for its cavernous attributes and reputed hospitality; and I marvel at the ingression of a red monk’s robes, I almost equate, at this point in time, with menstruation: as if it had been showered in blood-drops and protestations already – already! There are unruptured poppies and ruptured ones – can the deities of the temple have seen? Could they have seen all of the desecrations of female sanctity that have ever occurred under the watchful eyes of suns and moons? Surely then must be separate winds for the pious and the unfaithful, the devout and the disreputable, the meek and the fierce, airs that carry their own anthems: for in our world there is an immensity of discord, and the meek are vanquished by the strong and the fierce, innocence is sucked dry by the hungry mouths of masturbating thugs, our birthrights are stolen, and the fires of hatred are ceaselessly stoked, always, in some form or another.
Is it even safe, I ask you, to wear jewelry in public, in the company of leering men? Is it sane and healthy to suppose that pretty brass is battered into rings for fragile and defenseless wrists; is it right to assume that since jewelry is alluring and beaten, then women are beaten as well, beyond the shadow of a doubt, inside of their homes and outside of them, until they are as violated and abused as a basket of crushed raspberries; is it legitimate to think that females are born with the gift of beauty, and that this particular gift should never be taken by force, exploited, stigmatized, or refuted, but often is, to say the least, and to the great degradation of many? I take my time to write here, inflamed by the righteousness of sincerity, that women are no such baubles, though they are well deserving of them; that they are not vessels made of alloys or metal, receptacles, stores that one might divest remorselessly at one’s pleasure; they should not, of course, for this is brutality! be picked up and worn unwillingly, be made to act contrary to their God-given volition, be trod upon like rugs or disparaged. O men and women of New Delhi and of the world! Are women such delicatessens, whose doors might be flung open at any time throughout the day and at night, to provide for the boundless appetites of the destructive male psyche, as if they were delicious sandwiches to be shared or fanned-out slices of meat?
Inside of women, dear people, there are working minds, that must function like clockwork; there are thoughts that do not need to be either disturbed or disrupted; there are lists of facts and plans and dreams; there is room for pious affection and for the propagation of joyous sentiment; and nothing else need exist, so why impinge upon these happy sources of love and craft and creativity? Her merits are rich and inherent, but every step of the way in the course of human history, men deny this! How rudely are women tossed into pots of misogyny sometimes, when their companions are not true companions, when there is not a perfect gentleman in sight, but aggressors and instigators of anti-feministic treason! O gross monster of male chauvinism, inebriate, insatiable, and vile, leave us alone! Leave us alone that women may prosper! I grow sad to see you cross your supposed feats of daring and of machistic bravado with our good tests, obligations, and studies, inundate our genius with deluges of unnecessary dross, step on out prospects, or cancel our goodness with smut, bile, and vilification; for this is not the way of civility. There is no man without goodness, dear Lord; and there is no woman without pride.
All of this was written in the Winter of the year of Grace 2013, after an incident of rapine, left blood on the ground, and melancholy in the hearts of the vindictive and pure; but in faith, these words are like dust now; they seem like impotent dust despite their call for Reason; for the wind came and claimed the life of a bonny young girl in her beauteous prime, already. What vengeance can once take when the walls of feminine virtue have already been penetrated, when they have been perfidiously abused, pissed upon, and crushed by the wanton, flexing muscles of male vice, when fire has overcome ice in a manner that was most embarrassing and cruel? Friends, I give you this letter, this line of reasoning, whilst knowing that in some corner of the world, all has been made dust, and loam, and ash, after the lamentable throes of female crucifixion! How uncomfortable and wretched it must have been, to have died upon the male phallus before, even before, the dawn of etiquette, that was seen afterwards in a display of candles. Although you are in India, bird-ashes and bird-dust, I sing for thee, sweet lady, adieu!

II.

Ce Que

To Parents and Friends of Developing Minds, All of Which Are Capable of Cogitation,

I thought that I would take this time to address an issue which concerns, surely, the greatest prizes that a family, a race, and a people can have; that is to say, the children; and the education of these children into the first steps of adulthood which they must certainly breech without prejudice and without fear. It is important to cite importance as being essential to the edification of one’s young; and by importance, one connotes the basic fields in which children must be let free to roam: that is to say, mathematics, sciences, literature, athletics, religion, and the arts, where they frequently try their hands in the full-fledged celebration of liberty and find the most apt colors of their heart; wherewith they set to experiment and to travel on the gloriously unfolded wings of the mind, to wherever they will, paced diversely and steadily.
In the morning, schedules begin with a suitable breakfast of good and nourishing foods, carefully and assiduously selected by the parents to enhance the learning experience of progeny; combinations that fit economy as well as the stipulations of diet; from which young people derive energy and the ability to carry on uninterruptedly without having to stop for the whiles of fatigue. Doting parents only wish for their children to be as witty and wily as the manner in which they are fed; they strive to place their offspring in only the most adequate and appreciable of clothes: encouraging their social assimilation, fending off the cold, decorating their most valuable eggs at costs known uniquely to them; they attempt parenthood to triumph, clutching at their breasts with pride, rather than to abuse privileges tyrannically or afflict their young and impressionable children with the urge to be overbearing.
Remembered is the distance that is traveled, complicity, wherefore secrets are kept at a minimum, or revealed consensually: ensuring the comfort, ease, and well-being of the concerned party without having to rend privacy to shreds or trample upon private property, such as diaries, love notes, or report cards – here, here! There is a manner and method by which to incubate our golden eggs, in the enclosed sanctity of out nests, taking into consideration the rights of the young person, for which he or she shall frequently stomp his foot and shout, seeing that every egg has a shell, and that a broken shell cannot effectively hold the egg that is inside of it – but all its worth spills to the floor and its unique qualities are ruined – so we concede to letting certain elements of a child’s existence go unscrutinized and do not hold this particular eggshell, rich in its particularity, up to the light; for that is lamentable action. Would we tell a young individual to choose art over science or medicine over music? To put his stamp collection away for its foolhardiness and consumption of time that could have been employed otherwise? To trade off swimming for chores at the spur of the moment? Bah! In employing the etiquette of compromise rather than leashes and chains, we adhere to a form of nobility in child rearing, we prove ourselves to be superior to instinct, and we outdo ourselves; knowing, perhaps, that present conduct redounds to future credit, and that children are apt mirrors of the virtues that we, as good parents, maintain, in the best of decency, and boasting, even, of diplomacy, in the physical and spiritual and physical warmth of one’s residence.
In French, the youngest of children might be compelled to say, having been taught some of the French language by his or her elders, graced by an early introduction to more educated adulthood, where communication is as cogent as it is entertaining, “J’aime ce que je veux; c’est ma vie, enfin!” since his lips are as full of words, demands, and either honest or occasionally dishonest musings, as they were, previously, of scrambled eggs; but I doubt if this phrase is really cooked to perfection or if it more generally rots; and the situation is, it is too bad if it does!
A propos of a young person’s gamut of unfulfilled desires, there is frankly a whole range, and a variety of untapped evils sometimes and on certain occasions go unnoticed, which leave all sorts of bystanders vulnerable and open; for there is nothing so forceful as the drive to fulfill a desire on which one has spent O so many nights and days in deep and volatile contemplation; there is nothing that fits so well the description of a box, whence there is a ribbon of definite color around that box, denoting different places, objects, or people – who have nothing to do with the said box and prefer to stay thus disassociated – a box from the depths of which all manner of calamitous and unholy things are pulled, disregardful of the sensibilities with which the world around us is replete, which might be injured, offended, and broken. Confidentially, there are jack-in-the-boxes – devices that make unsuspecting people grieve – when confidential desires in superabundance pour over catastrophically all round, subjecting our heads and bodies to hurt, our souls to depression, our spirits to disastrous disrespect; but that all of this be someone else’s holiday. The spoiled child grins, having always and ever been spoiled; but it is the lives of others he doth generally abuse, uncriticized!
Putting into question that instance of James Eagan Holmes in Aurora Colorado who attacked a Century 16 movie theater using firearms, who polished off twelve victims and injured fifty-eight more, who used prostituted and talked about them on the Internet, which is often misappropriated and abused for such boastful and misogynistic ends, one might hypothesize that he was a fanatic of himself, that he often indulged his carnal tastes, that he was basal, and excusive when it came to failing examinations. It is apparent, furthermore, that he painted the dawn, the very bosom of our universal dawn! with colors of his own tasteless engendering, by use of guns rather than pencils and paints, at the height of his chauvinistic stupidity: ah, sour wine, chaotic remedy, that causes massive numbers of civilians to whine and cry out for justice! Say that a bomb is an orange, which is by nature filled with fragrant oil; and that a man desires to peel and eat his orange, whether this be at the expense of others or not, for it’s up to him, who is the bearer; has he not been gluttonous in his appetite for oranges? Are such oranges reasonable to have? Referring to the old German versified tale of Frederick who was nasty and enraged, he got what he wanted, wielding sticks and shouting invectives, as if he were the son of Beelzebub; he put his victims in a sort of deleterious box, or namely, his enormity of ego, wherewith they were quashed; but in some cases, the passing years do nothing to abate or assuage his insurmountable cockerel.
The bitterbose Frederick can be found in characters such as Anders Beiring Breivik who wreaked havoc in Norway; Israel Keys in the United States, who opted to violate women as if lady-killing were a profession, a sadly perverted type, recently compelled to suicide in his cell, not being able to take, perhaps, the transition from voluptuousness to sparseness, a free fox no longer; or Michael Johnson of North Carolina, the murderer of young Phylicia Barnes, who was under the impression that he could keep a free-thinking, aspiring, gorgeous female individual, twenty years of age, “in a barn” so to speak – travesty of unrighteous male proprietorship! which also annihilated the colors of her fortune as soon as his hand came down, his enormous hand, portending the violent conquest of this sweet lady of dawn! These cases are pure, unadulterated, blasphemous, and degrading manifestations of cockerel.
It is timidly that I have selected the words “ce que” as if straight from a jar of unique and strangely utile transparency. Indeed, I have employed these words before, composing, for example, French for academia, habitually and with no special emphasis or attention, continue to do so, naturally, and with no specific thought in mind save the slow development of that passage in front of me.

III.

Saffron Red and India Green

Dear Proponents of Real Culinary Art,

A word to write on the prevalence of ignorant, cruel, and foul practices of unusual barbarity; as it occurred in India this December, before the celebration of Christmas; and might I add that six sultry men celebrated in a rather disturbing manner the Winter holiday with their hands full, their eyes animated with lust, and their mouths wide open: an event as easy as the consumption of hand-glazed fowl, smacking of orange, curry, and thyme. Alas, but the cock’s foot was raised again; it not only raised its infernal digits, but attacked, thinking the city bus a utile tool for its gourmand endeavors, which it made off with in one easy swipe: instigating a great and treacherous shake of salty tears and piquant lamentations that shall perhaps resound throughout eternity. Rape victims, like poultry, go straight into the gaping mouths of unrighteous men; they are leered at like the worst of prostitutes or strippers; and they’re subjected to jeering invectives, verbal wrongs, and physical atrocities, before being put to death or kicked away. ’Tis a messy, chaotic crime that men as well as women, but mostly men, take part in, with Epicurean élan: not caring whether they are wrong or right, but knowing only the stolen delights of the flesh; the humiliation of the offended party; the screaming, crying, and wailing that the severity of their lecherousness inspires; this perverse exultation of the senses, coupled with base and groinal behavior, committed with flagrant zest.
“Where is my curry? Have you not made my supper?” the salivating boy enquires to his mother, whose breasts are accommodating and ponderous. “Where is my graphic magazine?” asks the hormonal young man to himself, being so fervently in need of amusements the come as deliciously expensive as saffron; being so influenced by his budding tastes for exposed and exploited sexuality. Over there, over there! the people shout back; for it is the close and privy spice box of earth. He shall have both his shag and his curry; but potentially, at the expense of innocent Wanda, who entices his curiosity and winds up, unintentionally, as his gourmet dinner. It is too bad, really, that men are so assiduously catered to; for a good man needs no mortal compensation for his hard works; for it is the corrupt man who seeks appeasement elsewhere outside of the ken of his work, if he even has a profession, being a son of avarice, puerile, infantile, and like the decrepit son, sucking perpetually on coarse or sour milk, bottle after bottle – milk which is stolen, coerced, or polluted.
Blessed and fine be he who doth not ask for favors, who trudges onwards and doth not dally, who is satisfied with the bread of his own hearth, and who doth not spit on the growing grain of other individuals, respecting the their rights of possession and independence; for his clean lips breathe not a word of prevarication or licentiousness; and piety is his sacred inveterate spice. What are pots for but prayers of thanksgiving and corporeal nourishment? One tosses in, perhaps, a clove of garlic, but not a human life – no! not a ravished part of the body, but only ingredients which are infinitely more kosher, sirrah! The man has no further needs!
The chagrin of females and the provocation of their protectors provide the scheming hand-rogue with wretched gratification; he laughs at the desecration of privacy; he thrusts his head and his erected limb in for the sake of glory and show; and this formula of wanton manhood may have gory results, to say the least; as there is a field somewhere, bathed in scarlet blood and the darkest of shadows. So this is femininity! the rapist cries, his pelvis trembling with eagerness, and his eyes glowing as brightly as Satan’s, be he alone, or be he accompanied by friends who add to this steamy pot of degradation, stirring it with hastily slung slogans, dipping their hands and their tongues into it; from whence no woman returns, for she has been abolished!
Shall we teach our menfolk that it is right and proper to devour us; that their forks should always seek to wheedle, scheme, and prod; that womenfolk are mindless culinary creations, or foes to be vanquished? Let us take into consideration what actually comprises the pleasures of this earth, of which we are reminded by the color green, which takes up a respectable swathe of the Indian flag: there is honest work, love, and toil, the children one is obliged to feed, hopes for a brighter and richer future, the abdication of strife, the mitigation of disease, and the loveliness of gardens and pastures at home and around the country. One appreciates cuisine as much as one derives from it, fortitude. Plants are for the benefit on the eyes and the heart, for nostrils that breathe, for esthetic pleasure. Is it correct to treat a woman like a curried apple and bruise her up? Positively not; for such is not the way of godly light, and by no means constitutes, in civilizations, acceptable conduct! There are so many curious stains on this band of white, one might say, suspicious apparitions that do not pertain to deeds of utmost respect; they speak for themselves, if they come from blood, if they bubble out from real human gut; and if they shock and surprise, why then, there are sources on earth that have mean and messy products.
There is not a day where I do not wonder whether men, like the most frantic of carnivores, eat media, whether they do not suck on publications like lollypops, if they do not frot themselves after dining at venues and in the faces of other people: bulls who do not know where to direct their horns, or bears who do not know upon which tree to climb – lo! the elephant over there redirects his trunk, and it is not that we desire to worship it, or fall to our knees from either relentment or exhaustion; but we simply cannot get out of its way!
“Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus,” is the Latin expression Montaigne uses in his essay “Of Glory”; and how correct it is in wording and in import, that it is clear, men are meant to be guided by its wisdom; but if the opposite is correct, how wretched and foul is the conduct that produces itself, that gives detriment rather than peace! As an afterthought to the sad, dismal, and despicable event that occurred to a young female medical student far away, I can wonder, for her sake, and for the sake of my own curiosity – I, who have not the same penchants as men – about the time and the money that these six rapists spent: in bills, coins, and minutes, from adolescence and onward, if the argent was black, if their past times were vile, if their amusements were rich or moderate, and which of these contributed to the termination of the beautiful schoolgirl’s ambition. It perplexes me: which of the rotten apples canceled the good one. The bus that I espied from my chair where I habitually sit in the computer lab on the tenth floor in the Hunter North Building had an immense stripe on its side, as if it were a great striped beast or a credit card; and I fancy that the expense incurred thereon was priceless; I knew with certitude that a rising star had been snuffed out, completely gratis; whereat I did question the value and the worth of men at their leisure.
Who outstripped who in that foregone event in New Delhi, India, since on the bus there were six different souls against two others, the first of which were black, and the rest of the passengers, piteously benign and white; and in the universe, it is good that must perforce outstrip ill; but the world is so knowledgeable in wrongs, deceits, execrations, and villainous things at which the more decent remainder of us should blush, who turn our heads at wrong-doing in embracing, rather, virtue, that religious and ethical tenets of good over evil cannot hold fast, tables turn for the worse rather than for better; and for victims, there is pain and then, a great nothingness, the unresolved issues of whom are lost and denied by the hands of fate, which know, often, injustice? It is vexatious, and I can find no other word for it, that the most iniquitous among men consider themselves to be the most utterly justified, being on their own side of affairs always, and despising refutation; that they harbor shared credences that animate all their faults and scoff at virtue, whereby ill sentiments are stoked and multiplied; that they engorge their mouths, so to speak, with hateful delicacies that really need not be shared, simultaneously, as better and quieter individuals hold their tongues, conceding to other opinions, timorous of spreading their sound and whimsical seeds of thought, which are sometimes kept hidden – for O so very long a stretch of time! – until their neighbors or their descendants find them out to propound their philosophies, notions, and talents post-mortem. How should the mouths and the words of crass and wicked wraiths be the loudest, the broadest cast, and the highest; how should they share the real estate of information that we universally share in so many different ways, through books, in letters, via journals, and over the web, as if a big and greasy piece of beef were laid out plainly before them, and with no one there to jeopardize their blatantly extravagant meal? How now, have we evolved into a benign race of fruit eating vegetarians, whilst Criminalia digs into moist and succulent cuts of flesh? It may be so, dear and gentle Proserpinas of the world, and their most crafty and intelligent of brethren, it may be so: but it shall be a long time ’til the drums of vice are broken, that the bodies of serpents and not of women are partitioned, and the indulgent throats of male chauvinistic knit-wits are made to be kaput.

IV.

Les Sucettes D’Annie

To All and Sundry,

In these delectable creations of the human mind and unfortunateness of its occasionally wrong-doing spirit, called sucettes, or lollypops, which come in a ceaseless variety of flavors and sizes, though in sweetness, these gourmandises are equivalent, one sees a genre of true and egregious indulgence. It is not a confection of which I speak, since in these there is no clandestine ingredient of any disreputable quality, but only corn syrup, sucrose, and flavoring, through which we are reminded of diverse fruits, none of which amount to any one of the twelve cardinal sins; I am talking about amusements, rather, on an adult scale: namely, pedophilia, the paraphernalia that accompanies child abuse being the stick, the hands that are guilty of it, being those sticky and indulgent appendages that so frequently take unholy liberties, perceived, perhaps, by no one, that score their goal behind the scenes. I am a female who enjoys common habits such as reading and the composition of verse, who is eager to help others, as they should rightly assist me in any of the endeavors in which I might engage, who practices good hygiene, along with the majority of my fellow students here in the city of New York. It pleases me, mornings, to purchase a box of blackberries or raspberries, and eat the contents thereupon as slowly or as quickly as I deem reasonable, never thinking to project licentious desires or aspirations on these fruits of exquisite firmness and color; and I regard children pass, who often can use a prettily colored stick of candy, which goes at no great cost to their parents.
Whatever are les sucettes d’Annie, though? With what amount of jealous languor are these sucked unto the stem of creation? What pleasures, though the employment of these frivolous and penny-worth objects, are derived for considerate men and women who so think to pop these little treasures into their mouths, feel them on their tongues of uninhibited audacity, and share the fruits of dubious labor: splitting these as one doth a banana or a seeded grape, for wanton joy, for errant friendship, for the opportunity to be perverse, thrilled, or overbearing? These liberties and erroneous pursuits of happiness that cannot ever be right or shared by decent and caring souls, these candy-coated thieves of childhood innocence, these demolishers of trust, obscure a good child’s prospects, tarnishing also her inherent merit: putting her, let us say, Annie, in uncomfortable positions she does not care to effect, but concedes out of weakness, being helpless, and endures the discomfort and the humiliation of it all – sad perseverance! It is thus, that Cain steals the ability of Abel for the petty achievement of ends that are licentious and disturbing; he is allowed to roar like a lion, whereas little Abel is condemned to silence, obeisance, obsequious acting, and thwarted endeavor; he cannot but bow, actually, and sometimes without a manner or a way out of the crystallized labyrinth of sugary bittersweetness in which he is placed, with Annie! If Annie’s foot is grabbed whilst she is scaling the wall, who knows of it, my dear and intelligent readers; who can tell but he who has already seen her in the dank and inorganic basement of a older, larger, and infinitely more wicked person’s mind, subjected to his caresses, and chained to his every caprice.
There was a case of pedophilia instituted initially by one Steven Dyer, a nondescript looking middle-aged gentleman, charged with child abuse on two separate occasion with two separate boys he had befriended, who stationed himself in Vancouver and then was caught red-handed; and like any sad criminal with an addiction, he had paraphernalia, and was said to have watched children urinating, which is aberrational to say the least, which is badness. My mind snagged circumspectly on the word dye, as if it had been an omen; I said to myself that it was portentous; and I mused to myself whether he had kissed the children in his mouth or tasted urine before: if lemon were the flavor of incestuous dreams, if fetish was the driving force behind this pharmaceutical technician’s life, and if it were as sweet as summer raspberries for him to be so up to his neck in lascivious past times. The accursed pastor John White of Michigan flashed by in the recesses of my recollection; and it was clear to me that, having also been a pedophile of sorts, or at least a nymphomaniac, despite the requirements and scruples of his religious profession, which he frankly neglected, the word “flavor” was pertinent; he had evidently craved the milk of paradise, had killed for the consumption thereof, had partaken of the blood of his nubile and unsuspecting neighbor, Rebekah Gay, had in other words, his fine citrus marmalade, his jam of legs, the savory endearments of carnal matter which tantalize the lives of wayward men, who are not otherwise than gustatory.
Disfrutar is a Spanish verb meaning to enjoy or profit from; and I am perforce not mistaken in imputing this definition to the exploitation of the fruits of female ingenuity and righteousness; but this produce can also pertain to the flavors of the male; and it is no fallacy, saying that stolen pleasures derived from certain blatant joys of the flesh are the most notoriously scrumptious and fixating; though the abasement of children is the foulest of misdeeds: effected by those who practice betrayal, abuse, and tyranny. Their lips expect a particular sort of zest, that is not zest per se, and is not wholesome; but if a child sits of a vat of pickles, and if an adult finds stimulation in the act, then this is wrong, this is perfidious and unbelievably ignorant; and then, going a step further, when adults consciously set their minds to producing decrepit pornography failing at legitimacy, the sucette has no more wrapper; it has been divested and deprived. Similarly, the responsible parties have been stripped of the zest of honor, and have no paradisiac spice; but what they make is rotten and has no distinguishable value. Let these things of miscreance and hedonism be stomped into the ground and out of cognition; let them be displaced in our system of priorities and forgotten! For these sucettes, these delicacies, these fine and frivolous affronts come from a false and distasteful seed; their anise is not good, nor is their citrus. It is lamentable to have cherubim sit for us, and men of true honor need no pornography, anyway, nor any other pleasure outside of the spectrum of those stalwart concepts, decency and circumspection.

V.

A Loaf of Bread

Dear Bakers of Bread, and Whatever Door That Opens,
We are given a dough to manipulate into compliance with the vision that we have for it, where our intentions are to formulate a good and hearty loaf of bread; and it does not displease us to punch the gas out of its warm and fermenting mass, to fold it repeatedly, or to insert this new form, which we have duly sealed with the heel of our hands, into a tight wicker basket, which is amply caked with flour. Then we put a plastic sheet over it and wait for it anxiously to rise, which it does in the most sour and pungent of smells, soft, flexible, voluptuous, and ready for the oven. It delights us that the bright beige bread mass is sticky; and indeed, it can be no pleasure to us otherwise. How hot the oven is, set at five hundred degrees, hard and steely and imposing! How we do sweat to see the procedure through! Still in our ears are the tisking and the whisking of dough hooks snagging against the contents of the bowl and turning it round in unpitying circles, the sounds of which play against the backs of our brains, letting our hearts beat and our feet tap playfully against the stern cement ground thickly and hardily seminated with white bleached flour and flakes of bran.
The bread is so good today that we could spit. A, enigmatic, flickering smile turns on and off again upon our pretty mugs below the nose that is actually an upside-down heart, through which our brilliant pearly white teeth flash; and we are sure in our solidarity; and we are secure in our happiness; and we do not from that point forward care about the ten commandments of God, seeing as the most interesting events in life are dastardly, and that for one clique to perpetuate another must perish: either a whole group or an individual from among that flock, hapless and bleating. Brethren who have punched down this bread, draw upon the immortality of the ego for the best and most priceless of works of art, on canvass, or on vellum, who will blow upon a flesh tableau and be blown in tandem without remonstrance or fear. This is the Easter of our ascendancy; this is our basket of delights; this is our rain and our most potent terrain where our footsteps will ever go drubbing, whereas the others only paw around on padded feet, replete with apple-savory ambition. Let our prayers be on the tips of our tongues awhile, and let us savor the moment, till we shall have remembered it ceaselessly. There, we shoulder our burthen.
The water cooler is around the corner, and we fetch ourselves a drink in funnel-shaped cups, chat about the economy, and degrade our mothers by passing around pornographic magazines in our spare time. To think that Jack climbed the beanstalk without stopping to ruminate over the budding beans, or that Peter resided in Never Land without taking a few cream-complexioned hostages on Wednesday! There is time yet to slap our knees and engage in rapist palaver. To breathe flour every day is a gratifying thing, and if only it were made of flowers or grape vines, and maybe peanuts, then should we have an acre or more of stark and unfiltered bliss away from the roving of the common eye, and perhaps shower ourselves in the locker room laughing, with glistening bodies, like Dionysus. Look, is the bitch still there? Let’s go to look at her.
It so happens that we’re going to stroke our own abdomens as the object of all our attentions gazes up at us with her wild doe-eyes, our voluptuous, our flaccid bread, our packaged product, our means of entertainment and simultaneously escape, subjugated as she is by our heat and our warmth, though it might be that she might like Satan more once this light-hearted folly is over. Haha! Bells ring with each crack on the back this girl endures, till we have broken her arches as well as her bottom, sucked on her bosom, shoved her against the wall, lacerated her skin, and left her dreading the end of the cycle which we’ll carry out like a pack of geniuses getting high on adrenaline. The bread goes into the oven at five, so let us attend to it, and observe its condition till it gets there. Viola! There is just enough blood on the floor so that it looks like cherry juice, and that straw in the girl’s hair could be used as fuel for a barbeque. There are the spare ribs, right above the anus: heave and ho! If we’d only mixed a brace of these dough monsters to demonstrate to women who the real bakers are, the real chefs and cooks of imperialist humanity! Oh, we’d have it all! It’s our birthright to dip into merchandise from time to time with the cockerel we have, with the bounty we’ve been given, and that’s the slit up the bread’s spine, to prove that women can have more holes than three: I most enthusiastically avow. A hole in one! Celebrations are acts of serendipity; and partaken in this fellowship of the unholy spirit is brown bread with cool burgundy wine, on a table, on a scarlet runner, on luxuriously cushioned chairs, on the groin of the thighs where true life spirals up in tendrils.
There is not a fly around this bread, not a policeman. Even a policeman, however, I surmise, as an afterthought, being of a certain exotic character, mettle, and make, might adhere to our cause and engage himself in such flagrant acts of pagan libertinage; and indeed, wine is not wine unless it has come from lips as purple as the ones we have only recently compromised, which must have been, according to some primordial demonic structuring, born to whine. In the case that a stranger, an outsider, approaches our bread, we shall resort to further miscreance; we shall first discombobulate him out of his wits, and then take a cord and strangle him. I do not believe that there is a force in this world can make us abandon our Sunday repast – the finest we have had in a very long time – this gratification of the senses, this petit pause, this croquet-madame, this tossed salad bien pret-a-manger. Oh, were we not all born with a fork by which to prick damsels with and a spoon for an eye? Three cheers for pornography and long live the drunken feast!
Our friend’s knickers look as good as icing, and they seem to go along with this very special product that we have been endowed with the ability to make, aye, they are already in my mind if they are not in yours, but should they be, ever and eternally, as accessible as Cinderella’s glass slipper or Lady Gwenivere’s pen, for that the stronger sex gets hungry. Ravenous men, rapacious associates, ‘tis time to pick the lady up, whether or not she be willing, alas, the air is too muggy for a prairie blossom to grow effectively. If she bites you, bite her back; if she slaps you, then strike her as forcefully as you can on her bosom; if she says even a word in insult, then insulate her head in a blanket and force a rusty rod into her black rear end; for this be the way of sultry men in a precious environment where the possibilities are endless. Take a quaff of her jolie coiffure: an it be the fancy takes you to pull up weeds from dying dirt! A really good loaf has ears that pull back in a great, good flap; so that I am thinking to achieve the same stellar effect, we should also pull her ears back and breathe invectives into them, kiss them, and afterwards slice them, before inserting the corpus into the oven which Jonathan has dutifully preheated to five hundred degrees. I am waiting for culinary businesses to make a body sized Silpat, assuming that all the flesh has to come out intact rather than in pieces, in one giant smoking mound; and you all know that my pragmatism is redoubtable.
Tempus fugit, brethren, this thing is better than The Beatles, this thing is better than Pink Floyd: it’s killer Disney and Bambi does not live to tell the tale. I must say that I like pulled pork and black-eyed peas, I like bare naked flapjacks, I like wildflower honey, and I definitely like being here to taste it all, since the vilest of gastronomic feats can be lip-smacking delicious. There is no question about it, that all a man really needs to be happy is a bitch, a bib, and a bottle of sparkling beer to satisfy his needs from year to year, a place to set his boots and leave tracks all over the floor, and even in broad daylight, given that there is a reliable shelter in which maniacal plots can gestate till the world becomes upside down – you know? Homer mentioned an isle of Lotus eaters in his timeless epic about safe returns, and I suppose that we lyrical poets have built one with Penelope here, sweet darling! In you go! The wall is smiling for our sinful sake, but be so kind as to kiss our asses first, one by one, before perishing in a steaming pile of sweet meats, or your womb shall never be as fertile as it is on this joyous day, Miss Chastity. Please pass the salt after you are finished.
VI.

Dante’s Egg

Dear Citizens of the World, Who Generally to Computers Have Access,

What mind-boggling websites are plain to see and easily accessible for everyone who can grab a mouse and direct it to the most egregiously racy and corrupt of addresses! I am not so enthusiastic about the perverse side of human nature or instigating in myself similar mean thrills; and I’ve never needed more than a few foreign websites of touristic import for intellectual stimulation. What I eat I consume without wickedness and without shame. New York City is filled with perfectly clean gourmet markets and rows of perfectly luscious red apples. Such produce is enough for the proper succoring of children, it is delightful, it feels the mind quite well; and real apples are clean, wholesome, have not a worm, but plenty of vitamins and outstanding flavor.
There is a specific genre of snake, though, that goes after eggs with particular relish, and there’s a particular make of vagrant which hordes apples. He has not a soul or a heart per se, but that these are rigged with numerous accessory contraptions and devices for the stimulation of one’s sense of superiority and sexual domination; he has only to wiggle a mouse to get there; and then he has officially disembarked in an adventure to the inferno, where he leers at a delicious variety of images,, a choice selection of horrid and indulgent displays, masturbating and perforce machinating, developing a double personality, rubbing sans cesse an alternate persona into manifestation – from which there is sometimes no return. He laughs at seeing the sufferances of other people, wearing the face of Satan; he has no remorse, but excuses himself always; he greedily devours recorded acts of submission, which come in different intensities and forms, from dancing to groveling, to feed erections for which he relies on so many things, exploiting them in the process.
It is neither intelligence nor intellect which holds governance in this man’s brain; it is rather, unadulterated smut. The gates of the Coliseum open, and a circus of fantasy begins, centered around the attainment of filthy and frequently illicit pleasures, as if there were a sort of Roman holiday and incredibly atrocious gifts: boxes of bruised and dismembered feet, severed genitalia, adultery, and rapine, scenes and sounds of the most pernicious torture, whereat cold-blooded and sadistic reptiles open their mouths and glut. The longest tongues are able to slowly and richly savor the ripest of these forbidden fruits; and being excessively long, they seek joys in excess.
Furthermore, I have remarked, that men in adolescence and well into adulthood pine for their mother’s milk, willfully and vociferously, brushing all other things to the side, and denying responsibility where respect there is none; and infantile as such cravings are, that their remedies are commercialized is common fact. But since these remedies have nothing to do with the satisfaction of normal hunger and thirst, I feel, such urges must be pathological. Sick people give rise to sick seeds. I would not be surprised to learn that pornographic paraphernalia and gore sites directly or indirectly enrich the country’s criminal activity, since violent acts, and sexual acts, are portrayed as being superheroic. I shudder, understanding that reality in full-fledged starkness lies behind the screen: real lacerations, authentic breasts, burgeoning bruises, and broken legs – comprising a bold and doughty man’s stereotypical booty. Who has these golden nuggets in his basement though, but men who are ignorant as to the true meaning of gold? One is not obliged to share in his neighbor’s uncleanliness. No sharp-witted dreamer should ever be compelled to coddle rotten eggs.
In my school’s library, however, carefully brooding over true literature, which is always a joy to be cherished, I think of how nasty amateurs are, and how stumbling and makeshift are a crude man’s fantasies; I despise the concept of eating rotten eggs and juggling around bleeding red apples; since in my opinion, the country was not made for violence, obscenity, and chicanery, or the explicit artwork of chauvinists, or the muzzles of criminals on a short fuse.
I also know modesty to still be a virtue, that often, the best of packages prefer to be dressed, nor to be unwrapped; that it is no disgrace to be a virgin, but intelligence lives where one’s staunch piece of mind thrives. A craven man gloats over his hobbies with serpent eyes and a blatantly exposed and double-pronged tongue; whereas a reasonable man will say that this first has his head attached to his buttocks, his hands attached to the inner side of his thighs, his ability to love, to his armpit, which normally sees no light, and his feet to his mouth – dirty, as they are, for they have tread on dirt. There are heroic couplets, which the poet has; and there are herculean cunts, which knaves have, pornographers, and punks. Indeed, there is a dichotomy among men, betwixt those who seek to lend a helping hand is assistance, and who practice honesty as much as sportsmen practice ball or musicians, music; and those who revel in abasement, abuse, and suffering. If the primrose path of dalliance seems more appealing from one perspective, then all worthwhile values shall ride on that other, whose mold is sterling and who excels in industry. This being said, how are we to deliver our sensibilities from the first whose ways are lazy and comportment obscene, whose pernicious jam is smeared everywhere, on random bread, and which he follows with a hammer as his queer utensil of efficacy? Who, Mr. John Doe, cuts his bread with a hammer: what dunce, what ignoramus, what sex-craven drunkard, what pedophile, and what ghoul? There are crazy fiends who progress upward, according to their perverse judgment, I opine, by driving other people back, although I do not know any of these, personally, nor do I ever wish to seek a violent man’s acquaintance. I do not love sex addicts, and the violent-minded please me even less.
Blessed are the gifts of nature, the changing seasons, the myriad colors of wildflowers, thought-provoking poetry, the fertile plains and seeds of hard-working and innovative countries, where men and women practice self-respect; less so are the things which take away from these, by which our hearts and even our hands are sullied, sometimes, after having come into this world innocently, as white and benign as snow.

VII.

The Ruler

Dear Rational Beings Who Are Not Overly Judgmental,

If one cannot feel comfortable in one’s own skin, then little use it is to sit and do nothing, either unadorned or too made up to be comfortably seen, picking at one’s clothing, itching and scratching, tearing off one’s shoes and putting them back on again; for one whose face grimaces in anguish and writhes around in discomfiture can look neither natural nor appealing. Both men and women are entitled to ease themselves into the resemblance that best suits them, without having to tease themselves too much before the mirror or bend over backwards or go to ridiculous extremes in order to look their best. There is nothing as gratifying as sincerity in a smile, as real mirth in laughter, as modesty in a blush, as pride in comportment, or as cleanliness in luster; and strippers, prostitutes, and worshippers of artifice know but half of what it is to be truly beautiful and appreciative of the goodness which nature duly provides. A bosom that is filled with love is a veritable bosom, and whatever its size, shape, or texture, spirit is what animates it, along with a measured audaciousness of blood. Color can come from ardently felt passions as equally as sanguinity or youthfulness, if color is the quality that is aimed for; or if it’s hipness, then there are a variety of ways to find that groove. Now more than ever is it appropriate and even exciting for women to choose which style, which form, which fashion suits them best, not being confined to rigorously long skirts or petticoats, and no longer under the tyrannical hands of husbands who make all of the dough and very little compromise. Independence is a beautiful and famous quality for women to have, who are meant to shine interiorly and exteriorly.
Then may be a specific class, a particularly overbearing genre of man, that seeks to lead women around by the cuff or the collar, to which it seems normal to tie women up in strings, leaving no room for wit, or rhyme, or reason, depriving a female’s life of all its richness. This phenomenon of personality can be attributed to a man’s sense of righteousness, his vanity, his lust to wield power over a perceptibly weaker and more maudlin female, whom he might boss around or cast off. Tragedy often befalls women who believe in gallantry, for men do not always want to be held down by politeness or coerced into accepting differences. They do not call this lack of comprehension dull ignorance, nor might they expect to change for a very long while.
If it seems stringent to hold one’s paramour up to scrutiny as if she were a breed of chattel, rather than seeing her as being a free and independent companion and thinker, then even more so does it discomfit her and make her feel abashed or inferior. Lovers should celebrate the character of the companion they have selected, with whom they have an established relationship; and if this is not the case, then there is a possibility that one of the sides is being chauvinistic or inadvertently or intentionally domineering. It is the woman, typically, who’s judged, either positively or negatively, according to her size, her physical aspect, her conviviality, or ability to appease, though things have change since the advent of women into the workforce; stereotypes remain as well as vulnerability. There are men who will take advantage of the sensitivity of females deliberately, being wilder and more vulgar, imputing daily ills and dissatisfaction onto the more compliant head – like fire and water conflicting, the situation. This is certainly pig-headedness, but women are especially soft who choke the most often, and sometimes become inured to drudgery – desensitized.
In other words, those who wish to rule might actually employ the use of rulers, physically or metaphorically; and the more obeisant of their mates stay put – if not, fly away, where they will be less judged and more appreciated in environments better for the propagation of equality, not any lacking in tolerance. A woman cannot be twisted cannot be twisted, nudged, prodded, or stretched into conformity; for insistence is as cruel as negligence, or the absence of care, which leaves a partner wondering if love really exists or if it has not been all some frivolous dream, a mere facsimile. How brutal it is to be criticized for being short, or dumb, or for having cut one’s hair, as if one were a doll or a dummy without any other purpose than to please the eye of the beholder and fill his appetite with good things – abhorrent! A female of genius, after all, is not a trollop.

V III .
Cannibals

To The Honorable Mayor Bloomberg and All and Sundry:

I do not think that we have ever had better late autumn weather, and although final exams are taking place this week at Hunter College, the wind gently uplifts morale and delectably fills our nostrils with air that’s almost salubrious. One might even say that it’s vibrant and purple, like the best of wines or canned or jarred berry preserves; the air is wholesome, and the hearts of students fill themselves rapidly with pre-holiday expectation. We would like to consume success this season and quaff up opportunity, and spirits right now sort of vibrate over words of crystal and essays composed of long ripened significance. I believe that we share the same curvesome and winding streets, the same spindly trees, the edifices rising up in monolithic hunks of creation, always glinting prettily, reliably staid — the sun above us is the same, of course, though the deeds committed under it vary, and beneath the wakeful moon likewise.

I would that we were all as proud, honest and devout as we should suspect a good, young American resident to be, endeavoring to achieve goals ceaselessly, kind, neighborly and courteous. I give you my deepest and most heartfelt greetings, mayor Bloomberg, and will go on to inform you that we have perhaps crossed steps, not simultaneously, but at different times, since we inhabit the same rife locality. Your place of residence lies only a few blocks away from our 68th street campus, and as I recall, it
bears a few exquisite flowers emerging from the soil like little gems.

Meanwhile, as you bustle around speechmaking and problem-solving, we students pass our time in study, drink copious volumes of freshly-brewed coffee, take walks in our sweat pants and oversleep, sometimes, only to wake up in an inebriate haze. God bless our numerous efforts! It’s a wonder that we ever get anything done down here, considering all our extracurricular romping, gossip, and idleness, but our predecessors have stated “gather ye rosebuds”, doubtlessly referring to us; but also, the more that’s done in a day, the better, apropos of positive work and lessons learned. We wait hungrily for our mother’s thoughtful pie recipes to manifest themselves in golden swathes of light upon checkered tablecloths, to be fairly portioned into sixths or eighths, a bit of locution and familial friendship, the results of our exams, a brighter and more brilliant new year, the hopeful advent of which is not so very far from today. Our worthiest of wishes, may they be simple, faithful, and aspiring, bask under the sun and grow to perfection, so as to harbor
later creations of intellect born from mindscapes both steady and intricate.There is, however, a curious tidbit I stumbled upon whilst researching the admirable life of Saint Boniface that struck me with the same puissant smack as would the boom from the mast of a reeling ship. I stared and stared wide-eyed at the terribly gross phenomenon, incapable, at first, of discerning what precisely it was; whether it were the axel of a wheel or a sadist’s cyber rampage or a lurid, gruesome message intended for deliverance to a secret nation of killer-cutthroats and cannibals. I had been somehow directed to an extravagant cut of prime meat, gory in principle, that seemed to me as if it belonged somewhere between the purgatory and Canaan among blazing fires and bubbling vats of rapeseed oil. Admittedly, every man thinks he has a kingly garden, whatever it really is that he makes, depending upon the obtuseness of his reasoning; so rather than seeing Eden in this ghastly, threatening, shadowy, mysterious, and intensely bulimic website, I beheld the Inferno unfolding;
and though as the situation had it, I escaped from the space-consuming travesty to which I had been visually subjected, fancying I had tripped through a graveyard, covered, as it was, in another man’s questionable dirt; and do not believe the woman chance-ly splayed on the site’s eerie wallpaper had similar luck. There’s a victimized female effectually hanging there, entirely in the nude, comprising the great delight — can it be — of many a drunk, pig-minded, violent, perverse and predisposed male chauvinist, a right and bloody keg which I fear might spill out, loaded with sperm and spittle, to the detriment of others i.e. normal people who prefer eggs and bacon at their break-of-fast, and toast, to this obtrusively sorry nourishment of vipers.

As a fresh and modest student of the twenty-first century, I find prospects of eating, for instance, a char-blackened, toasted, atomized, cannibalized female who’s probably been violated sans remorse, unfathomable; for it’s not by such pre-historic rubbish intelligent American minds should be educated. God save this criminal world, and let it rather eat historical religious dogma, musical theory, safe magazine snippets, and marmalade! William Falkner might have written at the beginning of his opus As I Lay Dying, “my mother is not a dog” and been legally correct; only to have me add, “No man, woman, or child deserves to be raped, sodomized, and eaten”. Are there at all heroes born to still crashing waves before they slap the cheeks of virtue silly or flush modesty, by pure unbridled wickedness, bright bitter red? Sir, I am all eyes and ears. I await with anxiety your take on a matter that’s unusually ugly and deformed.

If I remember correctly, though the events of June seem vaguer than those of last week or even yesterday — God puts on trial my attentiveness and must frown dourly upon my erratic studying techniques, seeing as I’m very random, and burst into thought freely, high-stationed here in my academic
tower, quiet as a mouse, and suffering from a maternal sort of worry, engaged in writing innumerable lyrics along with maudlin poems whose content varies seasonally — a serial killer and former stripper, escort, and porn star by the name of Eric Newman alias Luka Rocco Magnotta displayed a sequence of cat murders on this very same website, after the which he ruthlessly recorded the murder of his homosexual lover on camera to his choice of music, also theatrically eating portions of the dead victim’s flesh — what cockerel!

Men are reekingly guilty from time to time of an incredibly deleterious form of narcissism: something, I think, that springs from the most rotten corners of a starkly carnal society, the values of which are infrequently upended. Perversion gives itself a tarnished mirror to suit its gamut of needs, dips its fingers into triviality, consumes the superficial abundantly, and nominates pornography as its best of friends — or should I say in the manner of insinu- ation, living companions. As I sit here wondering when I’ll be able to sip my next cup of chamomile tea and break bread in the common cafeteria among normal, young, and like-minded individuals, setting my nose to the grindstone over books, I tell myself that dancing naked camels are an outrageous and excessive insult to normalcy; that I do not want men’s sexual appetite to be ravenous or impinge upon the rights and liberties of intelligent women, or anyone else for that matter; that a man’s continual search for his next hump might counterpoint the intellectual valor of mankind as a whole, or lead to rapine, or instigate assault; and that if my soup is pleasantly spiced,
I do not need to find spice elsewhere, let alone send a spirit to Jesus for it, having perceived it as being nothing more than a packaged packet of spice.

I grieve that flesh and blood is commercial or bought and sold — families grieve — and I imagine that if there is indeed a God, which I tend to profess, since I attend church regularly, he mourns! These gory websites from which a thousand evils probably spring, these carnal areas where people buy other people like skirt steak, these oftentimes fatal videos that cater to the male capacity to ejaculate either mentally or physically whilst gloating over toilet pot art — not quite achieving here the epic sentimental merits of Casablanca — these hirsute images that cause men to lust from the profundity of their cavernous abdomens and spit at unsuspecting acquaintances and strangers, these avid volumes of hemoglobin that take the place of ketchup in the nauseating, profane, unsightly, and obstinate mouths of die-hard porn addicts, these malcontents: we do not want them; not a dram of their credences, not a speck of their drool or ejaculated seed, since Sunday picnics don’t perforce involve ice picks, rape, and elaborate piles of weaponry.

The throat of my demi-religious corpus, still yet in its smooth and rosy prime, confesses that it should swallow easier if there were no bum-cakes in existence or nude, cut, slashed, and insolently degraded confectionary involving superimposed layers of human flesh; if it could quaff Starbucks coffee without insinuation that the contents therein are actually a fine, condensed female essence that escapes once the face is lifted. How incredible! Shall we attend to porn and gore rather than the course, bleeding wounds of children and virginal martyrs fallen at the hands of aught that is infinitely more selfish and gigantesque?

The Asian ingénue so exotically featured on that website I stumbled upon this morning, treading haphazardly upon a netscape of limestone and fire, might whisper to me in my ear as I compose these possibly ineffectual words of ink, of ink and not blood: he stands over me like a colossus and partakes of my flesh! The sensibilities of me quake to think that such banal propaganda might exploit children, catering to goggly-eyed pedophiles who do nothing but feed their seething hormonal sex-pots of catastrophe on ceaseless influxes of modern American smut. My mouth as well might whisper in your direction that misdeeds are committed with too much relish, as much as affairs are conducted with condiments, rapists suck up sunlight with kisses that they steal, the phrase “bloody Mary” bears a twofold meaning, there are necrophiliacs who dream of sexually assaulting and forking into young women as if they were the world’s sweetest jam tarts, and married men seek prostitutes as often as their wives make chicken soup, not knowing what expensive shaved Parmesan really is. I do not fancy the poetic mouth wants to wilt in the red “hot” light of egocentric male chauvinism or flagrant bigotry; and it is not an equivalent bud, it is superior, it is fine and wishes for absolutely no distraction from either academic or sanctified existence. There are men who brood over taking breath, I am not kidding; and affirm that if they were to have their way, the world would delve into chaos, and there would be no paths by which to exit the fantastically gross labyrinths that they forge via media and via the web.

Greetings to you, Mayor Bloomberg, and I hope you’ll be celebrating a merry Christmas to surpass all other Christmases, wherever you’re intend- ing to pass that most special of days, whether with friends or with family, in one place or in several! All is well here at Hunter College, I can attest to it, where the zest of knowledge and of rehearsed artistry provides our lives with ample color, not to mention fortitude. May you enjoy your holiday goose, or ham, or lamb, or whatever manner of glamified sustenance you chance to share above a richly dressed table, among people and objects that sparkle and glow, to nothing comparable, but excellent in every single way. I’ll probably spend a hefty portion of the day reading French and composing rhyming verse, lost in a plethora of simple musings.

Remember, though, that there is a practically ubiquitous degradation of things which are priceless; it occurs diurnally; and what one man considers to be the fanciest of gems might constitute trash — thus afflicting society with a barrage of so-called precious past times! It irks me that a bound and gagged innocent might be on some raging bestial maniac’s dinner plate, as helpless as a downy grey goose, and as morose as a crow. It would please
me infinitely to have you look over these bogus little attempts at cancerous, vulgar, and bulimic communication I’ve recently discovered, and possibly write a speech apropos of the contents. I’m expecting also a nice, ethereal fall of winter snow, a good meal, and decent company. Three cheers for socio-political progress, gun control, public safety, feminism, and the pursuit of happiness! My soul should like to hear the ceaseless bells of liberty until time itself ceases to exist, but not until then, believing always in the primordially of charity and hope! God bless all our virtuous endeavors, and save us from temptation, whereas our creative minds shall eternalize Grace rather than Shame. Adieu, Sir, people, and luck be with thee.

Sincerely,

Alice M. Baskous!