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NOTE TO THE READER
Once Apun a Time

This yarn is a flossy fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together, adorned with fur-ther braided tails of human frailty. The looms were loosed, purling frantically this febrile fable... 

Some pearls may be found wanting – unwanted or unwonted – piled or hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy...

The threads of this untethered tissue may be fastened, or be forgotten, or else be stranded by the readers and left unravelling in the knotted corners of their minds...

'twill be perchance that some may  laugh or loll in loopy stitches, else be torn or ripped apart, while others might just simply say “ ’tis made of hole cloth”, “sew what” or “cant seam to get the needle point”...,

yes, a proper disentanglement may take you for a spin on twisted twines of any strings you feel might need attaching or detaching…

picking knits, some may think that 
       such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land’,
       such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land’’,
       such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land’’…

and this may all be true, if credence be dis-carded…

such is that gooey gossamer which vails the human mind...

and thus was born the teasing title of this fabricated Fantasy... 

                                         NEVER LAND



The organ grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -

he quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:

“You’ve tried and toyed, but can’t avoid or shun the pale monsoons,

it’s sink or swim as echoed dim in swinging door saloons”.

The laughingstocks are flinging rocks at ball-and-chained baboons.



While ghetto boys are looting toys preparing for their doom

and Mademoiselles are weaving shells on tapestries with looms,

Cathedral cats and rafter rats are peering in the room,

where ragged strangers stoop for change, for coppers in the gloom,

whose thoughts are more upon the doors of crypts in Christmas bloom,

and gold doubloons and silver spoons that tempt beyond the tomb.


          Mid Uzi shots from vacant lots, that strike and ricochet

          a painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way

          to tantalize with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;

          and indiscreet upon the street she gives her pride away

          to any guy who’s passing by with time and cash to pay.

          (In concert halls beyond the Walls, unjaded girls ballet,

          with flowered thoughts of Camelot and dreams of cabarets.)

Continued in Part 2
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