The crown for the clown's fuckin' fake
it's a fuckery frame for a flake
a fuck of disgrace
in the fake fucker's face
a fake for a fake for fuck's sake!

Buzzy, my uncle, my guide, my best friend,
A special adventure that knows no end.
He drove to a spot where the tarmac was wide,
Where the sky met the earth and the great planes would glide.

The chain-link a barrier, tall, gray, and stark.
He flipped his small cooler right there in the dark.
A fence for a stool—a king's special seat,
To watch the big birds and the rhythmic retreat.

Two months of our lives connected by a conch shell
An ancient telephone in this digital age.
A distant sea singing in gentle waves
Your voice is a vibration in the ether
A sound wave converted to a signal
Your Northern dulcet tones
Tickling my cochlea
Small peels of hearty laughter
Delighting my inner ear.

From the back seat of our car she follows
motorcyclists with her eyes, mouthing words
of admiration, or looking down her nose at those
deemed too old and those who have grown
too gross. She tries to capture on her phone
their violent roar and velocity
in which she hears music and poetry.
A posse of bikes like a flock of birds
arrowing a path to anywhere else;
she’ll get no closer to black leather boys,
their fleeting and masked, inscrutable selves
promising danger beyond her belief.

Xi Jinping appeared slightly annoyed
by a meeting he'd rather avoid
a brain straining hump
a great pain in the rump
yeah, it's plain drumpf's a freudian 'rhoid

I got here by trial and error
quickly, learned to hide my terror
ducked my head so's to meet no eye
made no contact or gave reply.

Studied faces that were unaware,
kept my own counsel as I prepared
to meet with no others approval
swept from their minds in total removal.

Never showed weakness or fear
kept my face blank, suppressed the tear
lest my eyes should give me away,
and the rage of tender years betray

One night
To dream with you
One night
That I wished
You were here
I know that Is not possible
Because once you are dead
You can't come back again
And you are in a better place
Then me
There is not a moment
That I don't think about you
Yes all the years have gone bye
And I feel lonely without you
I don't have anymore tears to cry
Because I already cried enough
Today
I am not feeling at my best today
I am feeling kind of tired still

As the day ventures into twilight,
the guests start trickling in.
Some bringing covered dishes,
some pots filled up to the brim.

There's a grill with smoking meats,
descriptions are defied.
Don't ask, don't tell origins,
there's sweet corn for a side.

Hey there, Paul and Chryssa
Glad to see you here,
have a drink, a bloody Mary,
or would you rather have a beer?

It's been a while,
I've been lonely,
Alone I danced
in the dark.

My muse a dead
Guitar
The strings too tired
To spark.

After more than a year passed since I paid $35.00, when yours truly donated close to twelve inches of near shoulder length hair, and liberation (theology) immediately experienced, when fetish temporarily shorn (for the umpteenth time since donning so called hippie phase), which persisted more or less to the present day) after most recent decision to surrender not quite golden locks willfully encountered (Billy me) snapping shears hungrily eyed field day, and when lathering up shorter doo necessitated less shampoo, and also took mere minutes to dry shaking my head in a jiffy, which by the wa