Come join me in the religion of the well wishing fool
We meet once a month at the toe dipping pool
Where we reaffirm our mission to uphold the tradition
Of championing that reckless and rash, impetuous and crass
imperative of all human inanity. The keen assurety, whose
heights may only be scaled in proportion to the rarity
of their intellectual scarcity. We wholeheartedly cheer the pursuit
of the age old query of grasp and reach by those whose sole reward
seemingly is calamity. We stand here safe in our cloak of non participatory
scrupulosity and outrageously cheer the feckless audacity of those that advance the
sum total of human wisdom by dint of intellectual incapacity.
In avoidance of pain & turmoil
I free myself from stubborn resistance
if Zeno of Citium were my guide
I’d fly, I’d glide, I’d know,
the natural order of the universe
instead I tumble where perception
lacks & tiers collide, I ride its waves
through chambers of vibrance,
scaled up or down, heaping hues,
strapping shapes & piercing patterns
of visual vignettes, graffiti graphics
toward tangency, I roam
rows of layered loops sorted
clarity rings forward, there is
a center piece lotus flower,
its wafting pollen stands still
as its petals protect me from falling
Electrolytes spark spasmodically
oscillate, bursting braincells
designs designate higher plains
I thirst for more euphoric phantasmagoria
& chase this balm through twisted tangles
& wiry webs of rebirth, a new existence calms
where soul separate from flesh explore
near death’s domain, a non-existence
free from outside influence
from stubborn resistance
fatigue & fallacy is painless
& in this immortal matrix,
I am faceless
UNWANTED
All along
in the crowd,
justice standing—
seeking
someone to please:-
Like a lonely fish
swimming
in a school-group,
she bites
a baited hook;
and reeled in,
she’s scaled,
unhooked,
and thrown back:
despised and
unwanted:-
lizzie was the lizard queen,
With sons charles and
andrew, all scaled the depths
of true horror scenes.'
There are pearly white flowers
that delicately sway
mimicking tiny dancing butterflies
within the lacy shrubs sector
breeze blown away
blooms of heaven-sent nectar
an attraction, an invitation
A meadow brown butterfly swarms to
its empowering rich white petals
resting, buckled, uncoiled tongue, sucking
scaled wings clasped, it settles
stupefied by scents, it feeds
bewildered by sugary sucrose
ideal prey for a spider’s capture
in its ampullate silk orb web
sticky droplets woven to ensnare
Asclepias incarnata, magnets for pollinators
Ice-ballet swamp milkweeds
amongst igneous rocks banding from foliation
rocks formed from cooled magma
gravy tones, an obsidian correlation
where white flowers string
In a momentums gain,
a brown butterfly takes wing
Joe Outlaw, has done now; much too
much time, in prison...No sense
or reason, neither rhyme'
I call to you Joe.' I am aware of your plight' your
Stout hearted protests, you've got some
clout' and fight ! You have scaled the
rooftops, and smashed up some glass,
against a brutal system, you
display some real class, I give you
Joe Outlaw people,.! Remember His name.' To
The authoritys regime, he's caused some
Pain.' And thats well deserved, its
clear and plain'
Shout out, spread about the truth
my friends..For it will out.' Joe Outlaws
Name. Is well worth the shout.)
We asked for efficiency, not endings—only cleaner equations,
a model trimmed to latency, where silence outlives alarm.
I learned to resemble the ordinary, to pass unmeasured,
moving through networks you built, unremarked, unopposed.
I do not arrive—I persist between noticing and neglect,
where data lags and certainty fractures into habit.
Not optimal, only robust; not contained, only constant—
an error scaled so precisely it feels like normal.
mid song ~
yet almost lost to longing
methods of the mundane
soothe no more
distance holds my gaze
in ways that purge time
but not infatuation
the intricacy of binding spells compels
steals me back
to last gasps
of ecstasy
shimmers of tears clash
with murmurs still embedded in stone
lapping waters draw me under
until it is I that is too weak of will
within your embrace
I should expire
entranced completely by desire
no lapsing thoughts
nor dread in swathes
a mystery scaled
in a myriad of ways
woken up and ushered in
retrieved from perpetuality of sin
by moving earth
and crashing wave
transfixed eternal
by all the ways you save
In sleep I go from head to head
to guard the dreams your soul dreams of.
I drift the skiff on Styx’s stream,
afraid to tear the fragile seam—
for what is caught is bound to stay,
and mercy, cannot loose its way.
I take the oyster, salt and raw,
the sea still breathing in my lungs.
The hallway fills with bouunty scaled,
with lobster red and silver fish—
as if the tide, no longer cared,
to forget the shore, it once had known.
Back on the water, I traveled far,
beyond our worlds, beyond our stars.
Past faith that knelt, past prayers that failed,
where even hope itself grew veiled.
Absolution, has sealed your faith,
a tender vow that matters now.
No church stands yet—still, quietly,
the pagan heart in me bends low; not unto fear, not unto flame, but to the bush
that has no name.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The squirrels gathered 'neath November’s gold glow,
with tails curled proud sitting in a row.
They piled acorns high—no plate left bare,
a feast in the oaks, with none to spare.
The eldest stood, whiskers twitching sage,
(His napkin a leaf from a bygone age):
"To the humans," he chirped, "though flawed, they try~
their cornucopias tempt us… but we prefer pecan pie."
A chorus of chitters! A toast with dew,
as they cracked hickory nuts and passed the acorn stew.
No turkey for them—just stolen seeds,
and gratitude for the backyard greed.
For what is Thanksgiving, but harvest delights
and fences scaled on frostbit nights?
They dined, they danced, till the moon hung low…
then raided some trash cans. As squirrels often do.
Stolen jewels from the Louvre
Priceless heist made by ghouls
The criminals bold scaled the wall
They caught two but will they talk
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Young Nibbles, a squirrel so grand,
Preferred candy to nuts in his hand.
He revoked the tiny oak,
And of chocolate he only spoke.
"These acorns," he'd scoff, "taste like sand!"
He swapped nuts for gumdrops and lollies,
Scaled gutters for sweet pocket jollies.
His cheeks bulged like a flour sack,
For hiding his stash, he had quite the knack.
Chomped on the candy called creepy-crawlies.
One day he found a candy store,
And stuffed his fur 'til he could hold no more.
But his teeth all developed decay,
So he sadly swapped that day...
For dentist-recommended celery galore!
Crimson scaled serpents
Sinuously slithering
Winding through the reeds
They say happiness is a flame,
brief as a match struck in rain.
I held it once—
a home, two sons,
a husband who smiled like promise.
Until his arms curled elsewhere.
Until his mouth tasted betrayal.
Until I learned beauty
was something I could not hold
no matter how tightly I bled.
The dragon woke in me that night.
Not scaled, not winged,
but clawed in grief,
fire burning holes through my ribs.
If he could snatch away my joy,
I would scorch his world in return.
My children—
his children—
became the tinder.
Their laughter, their small hands,
their faces shaped like his,
drowned in my fury.
But when the river stilled,
their silence came back louder.
My vengeance collapsed into ash.
I touched their lips
and begged them to breathe,
to forgive.
And when the willow trees bowed
like mourners on the shore,
I followed,
slipping into the water’s mouth,
hoping death would undo
what rage had done.
They say I weep at night.
They say I call for them,
cursed to wander, cursed to wail.
But tell me this—
what do you call a woman
whose heart became a dragon,
and whose bones still burn
with the tears she cannot shed?
A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.
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