estuary synchro
droplet drizzle
svelte line abbrev
sweet

thumbtack a pash
slide the tumblers
in harried haste
unbuttoning the evening
atrophy
hovering over
and filled with
its lurid paste urge
tinged in its passing
this watered light licking
raindrops

fan whirs
humming electrical
satisfaction
this heat rancid
the balcony awash in
ice and leavings
from a yesteryear
wayward storm

THE PRETENDER

He thrust his fist
to the heavens
and cursed the gods
in defiance
to claim his divine right
and alliance
with Dark Ones
who judge and condemn all Creativity
with mellifluous drippings
of false eloquence,

The Muses all
covered their faces
veils mourning black
and took to hidden places
for fear of an attack
and that one of his arrows
dipped in venomous bile
would find its mark
in their own heart

IL PRETENDENTE

The Me in Me,
Stares at Me
Smirking at the Sins
I'd trashed

With an impish smile
I chuckle at him
"thanks for showing
I'm human"

"Where does reality come from,"
the title of a book of philosophy by Arne Naess.

Reality,
is it,
was it ever,
can it be,
or is it illusion,
who really knows what it is,
and why is it that we ask?

We question
the existence of existence,
so to speak,
we speak it,
it is when we speak
we hear it's voice,
it's creed.

We need to know,
but why?

What is there we can do with it?
Is there anything we can do with it?
No.

I'm between red nebula somewhere in space
and myriad red rain drops here

After I close my eyes I see the same
it's a huge planet without a mask

Touching a ghost with my ghostly hand
one step back, it's fluttering in the distance

Between death and noble gases
where might be nothing

A bursting in antimatter cloud
where truly might be nothing

While their atoms are changing structure
I think the sound is my step's sound

I dipped my hand
in a cold stream of lamplight
my hand came out
dripping with tiny wings

I held a flock of new friends
spotted brown and gray

I was told there was a time
when friendships
mended broken things,

so what truth is there
in all these unexpected conclusions?

You might be the most
adequately fashioned,
but no ticking clock ever held the
mastery of time;

what are we today,
if not fragments of all
we ever were.

He's fallen for it again,
after swearing by God's book,
his rogue mouth would halt
it's yearly stuff-athon.

Yet he's once more replete,
no, bursting forth, stuffed like
a Christmas bird; crackling,
cherries, berries,coat his lips,
cheeses of all description on
his plate and his tiny mouth
is doing its best to devour
it all.

poem body
gleaning and dusted
cretin finish
from a luster proletariat bohemian

rolls well
greased with vodka
and nicotine
cafienne and tragic love

but ive given up the ghosts
and lived in the ruins
leaning on the doorframe
with a sardonic sanctimonious
grin

my Olivetti in the corner
onionskin like parchment
and a fresh roll of ink ribbon
from staples

my new celly from the step
kid

Silence whispers
i can not understand

the bare tree
is significant

it knows.