A curly corded telephone rings in a distant room,
its black Bakelite bulk vibrates behind closed eyes.
An old-time fire-engine parks its flame and brass chassis
inside a cavernous skull, though no conflagration
sets the dark alight.
It is that shallow pit of night when faceless clocks
expose themselves to be landmines.
A far past is calling; disembodied tongues drum loud
in an echoing ear.
A cumbersome receiver tumbles off its cradle
an accumulated dust of misappropriated yesterday’s
softens its fall.
Nothing has grasped at nothing.
A line is dead and buried; there's no resurrection,
the call however lingers, as a voice dissolve's
deep within the combustible light
of another day.
Lariat light rope hemp leather corded twined
My mission here on the parried to unwind
In my strength I shoot my shot
I let go lasso catch tether livestock
Running noose circles the neck
I am the long arm of the law
I'll rope the moon, the sun, the stars
And ranger and ranger or stranger
I confess I'll address the
Getty Ap horse, gonna rope me
Buttercup, Clarabelle, Molly, Rosie, Gertie, Henrietta, Nellie and Moo
I'm a Lariat Cowboy YaHoo-
02/17/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026©
The dogs are in their pen
We have a new video app where we can watch them
We look into Joe’s cell phone at their usual places
No dogs
Did they escape?
I turn the video camera to the gate
Long sigh as I realize it is still bungee corded shut
Buddy is tall; I see his back walk past the camera
Is that a deer? My husband asks, looking over me
Maybe It’s a dog, I suggest
I look closer
Whatever he sees, I do not see
Nothing gets clearer with age
Pauline and Malcom..Its ending in tears..You tore up the
Chance.' You have enhanced many fears.' You've destroyed
Credibility with such a deceitful agility.' In 'the Age you'll be
Re-corded as no doubt paragons of order.? And Malcom you were doing so well.!! Even Sweden knew of you.' And I here that tell.
Tell..? The whole world has been made now poorer, by your inactions
Regarding Victoria.'
A curly corded telephone rings in a distant room,
its black Bakelite bulk vibrates behind closed eyes.
An old-time fire-engine parks its flame and brass chassis
inside a cavernous skull, though no conflagration
sets the dark alight.
It is that shallow pit of night when faceless clocks
expose themselves to be landmines.
A far past is calling; disembodied tongues drum loud
above the rattle of a tin ear.
A cumbersome receiver tumbles off its cradle
an accumulated dust of misappropriated yesterday’s
softens its fall.
Nothing has grasped at nothing.
A line is dead and buried; there's no resurrection,
the call however lingers, as a voice dissolve's
deep within the combustible light
of another day.
I lay my dark and spiraled finger
against pure and corded wildwood,
In the wailing current
of the rich wheels of wilderness,
Before the sonant vesper
of dreaming by a worshiping colt,
Shielded from sheaths of stone
by a tree marked in enfolding moss;
The flashing tongues of rolling air
in fluent, black, and breathing flesh,
Smoking in its morning cloak
of great, weaving draperies of fog:
Steeled ink, lashed still and damp
against the awning jaws of dawn.
And from the deep comes soaring
the melody of waters roaring,
Suspended in elephantine glory,
in masterly paintings of old quarry.
Colored yellow beneath the sunlight
Eidoloned by azure breeze of the sky
Covered green like trees of delight
Scented by wind and bubbles of lye
Corded in lamp that cools the night
Your heart throbs in counts of chite
Chortled in incense of kookabura
Quilted and freed from petals of Datura
Heart dipped in cherry blossom
Shaped in cleavage of ample bosom
Deathless soul pulsating forever
Your heart lodging idyllic and so tender
It’s a bit of a pull running up from Maida Vale
to Saint John’s Wood but my legs feel no pain.
Back then I had corded limbs
that could run on the liquid fuel
of feckless youth.
Running shoes push spirited blood
up into a glowing muscular brawn.
Speeding past Abbey Road studios
listening to Warren Zevon
hammering a piano, his hair flowing,
the music coming together with werewolf howls.
Mind and body unwinding like a clockwork ******.
A woman with a pink headband
rests on a pavement bench.
She has also been running. I sit at her feet,
she pets my long hairy ears.
my lolling tongue slurping her hand,
but I must leap away to bay at many moons
until age gnaws away the very marrow
of these my last dog-days.
I scorn the scowls
of winter’s reaper
steel slicing scythe
his corded calamity!
Who grabs the life
from my chest
a killing clutch
his murderous glee!
Cold stagnant breath
rots my cheek
putrid frigid blight
his icy stagnancy!
Loud howling voice
a solemn knell
the endless tolling
his ringing revelry!
Oh scavenger of
dark March day
die a death
so set me free!
A massive, arch-shaped hearth of stone,
old shiplap walls of weathered oak,
warm, woolen rugs of corded make,
ancient rocker, it creaks a lot.
Fire consumes thick maple logs,
perched low on a wrought iron gate,
cast shadows flicker on the wall,
on the dog snoozing by the chair.
All his fur must be decorative
since he always hogs the fire,
a brindle-mutt with gray muzzle,
might just lick intruders to death.
Round window reveals falling snow,
and frosted pasture beyond it,
safe within this homely cottage,
hear the sounds of owls at night.
Such a place I will imagine,
sanctuary, my escape,
but deep down know, if I had it
I’d be bored within two hours.
…I guess some aren’t meant for peace.
He'd glimpse her, the peripheral life of her;
she lived in the corner of his eye.
She passed-by, her face and form - tidal,
a tug on his shore.
Perhaps she was salt for his blood, spice
for nomadic mitochondria
that carried her silks and perfumes,
salts to his earth
when flesh grew dry and dark?
He took a mind journey
within the coiling tendrils
of his pith and fiber.
Capillaries traced her imprints,
neuronal fingers tried to define her.
He'd gladly walk into her marrow,
metabolites clinging to her shifting shapes.
A camel-train of visions travels
his corded spine
bearing incidentals, trappings.
He plants glances among ganglia,
feeds on a returning musk,
until she walks among his thoughts.
She is no longer a fantasy, no longer
a salt lick of moth-threads and rain,
but what she is - he could not say.
I seem never far flung from thoughts supreme and a my/their/your/importance to things at/of a conscious cramped mind. If thinking is Activity,
Thoughts, action streams that flow from equal amounts of
"Spirits" aplenty-a necessary catalyst and music, yes
Music the ****** of word birth, unknown, exacting, pure,
coital corporeal, clean corded from an ancient womb world,
then I am a premiere primary post partum poet,
pious and plentiful, panoramic and primal----
least of which I follow the noneany standards of
prose polished rule constraints of useless
ninny-nanny nonsense frivolity of any/all nil/nothing of
menial meanderings of less viable word wit-tent.
Everything id intended by therefore their "crowd" creators,
lest us/we behold that soulless saturated
stingy sick mass raptures of wordly whiny wimp
wis-dumbectomies, courtesy of ignorant intenders
that soils its rhymes via elementary elusive exaggerations
for the masses of asses with
vocabularies of molasses
when they read-listen-write-wrong rewrite
a pontious plight in that life Ass-ignment ignorant driven
illicit class of uncreative writings of Life. Tragedy 101
Escape from thunder and lightning,
Remain or stay in safe shelter;
And if you are out on the street,
Hurry up and run for cover.
Don't get out of the house at least
Half an hour after the last sound;
Stay inside the building until
The risk is nowhere to be found.
Keep away from powerful stuffs
Like computers and corded phones;
Never be in direct contact
With these electricity zones.
Avoid plumbing, including sinks,
As well as the baths and faucets;
Run away from frightening harm,
Evade the nature's wraths and threats.
Stay away from windows and doors,
Remain calm beneath the ceiling;
Stay off veranda or porches,
Escape from thunder and lightning.
Scream burn in the corded bridge
take me as I am or not at all.
I am sick, demented
what is, insane?
Super nova burst and created monsters
I am only one.
This world vomits pain and in it I find the
best feelings.
my chest is throbbing because the black
monster i keep there doesn't know
how to do anything but beat against its cage
and pretend to be okay.
I'm going straight to hell,
where I'll be free to be as unwell as i
please.
Please me, please you.
In a bedroom we are all just black
shadows and silent moans.
In the morning light i am a goddess
without emotion and you are pitiful
this is all I have ever learned.
Goddess, in Hell
behind the invisible and locked door Akashic records are re-
corded and monitored (lizards and limbic systems leak fluids)
as druids sacrifice their lives for the harvest and hum…
the swelling cities ramble and babble
beneath sagging and aging wires
disintegrating and integrating
into the impalpable web…boiling brains…
blackness eats mouths growing cancer
as the king’s atomic crown blinds all…
the owl recognizes a voice in the orderly wilder-
ness…the first flakes of snow descend…electric hell glows…
all citizens know and obey the silent titles and epitaphs
etched into our stony silence stabilizing foundations of reality…
the texture of madness caresses my psyche
my eyes envision scythes and scathing words…
…caustic causations eat reason out of my tongue… (who are you?) whispers the auto-
mated unconscious answering silhouettes with symphonies…the negative is the final
answer…contracts contract and species sizzle beneath the riddle penetrating the o-
zone…
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