Whisper is jealous of Josh's black leather boots and Katie's fur lined boots, so they have a threesome to make up for it. They frolic in the moonlight, playing the oboe, xylophone, and vacuum, drooling and spanking each other. Then, the platypus, jackal, and whale join in, hammering out a rhythm on the pajamas, racing the tortoise, and jumping the rabbit's tail. Suddenly, the clocks, magazines, and movies come alive, streaming dirty gray hounds, tungsten spigots, mothers' spleens, kidneys, and tonsils, and cannabis shouting at the moon. The saxophones vomit sand and the pianos strike Jacks, while clouds batter receipts and panty liners. Finally, the cantaloupe refrigerator seals the deal, and the night is filled with laughter.
9/22/2023
Just like the lake of melting wax, on a candle gives off light,
Life is not about championing the selfish, golden prize!
Hopefully, I stay thankful with all my earthy might.
And, pray that I may one day, be welcome to Paradise.
I know how circuitous and bizarre life can be on this earth.
There are bright poet-angels on this firmament to support you.
But you, poets, know how cherished you were since birth.
Through at time..others are so disingenuously untrue!
From me comes deepest, soul-aqueous blue, appreciation
Blessed by waterfall. lessons on life, I studiously learned.
Transformations, not spigots of information.
And I know, you each will get all you truly deserved.
green to yellow
gold to red
to brown
leaves
or fairest hair
worn
as silken crown
Thick
with luxury proud
honey
poured aloud
endless spigots
with
memories to attend.
Now lost to brush
or hand
or wind
all leaves,
all hair,
and all souls
in the
end.
a walk through the organ pipe
cactus fields along
a contentious boundary
a place called Mexico on one side,
a collection of semi-independent States
on the other
Barrels of water with spigots
preaching survival
placed at intervals by
good samaritans
hoards of armed guards
roving in every mechanized
contraption imaginable
illegal immigrant skeletons
are collected frequently,
four in the last few days
within a ten mile radius of where
I sit, comfortable and secure,
well-coffeed, well-fed and complacent.
What inspires people to attempt
crossing a very hostile environment
with slim chance of survival
to reach a place where folks
seem so unhappy and fearful?
Why are the unhappy and fearful,
extremely blessed, well-coffeed,
well-fed and complacent people
so resistant to helping folks
risking their lives in such a fashion?
Sanitize your hands before
You open up the door.
Grab a tissue to protect
From germs left there before.
Purell spigots on the walls
Everywhere you turn.
Still, despite these offerings,
Most people never learn.
Hospitals are breeding grounds
For every type of germ.
Even if you’re visiting,
You may wind up infirm.
Years ago, before we knew
How microbes make us sick,
We’d take our medicines and hope
That we’d feel better quick.
Now we have preventive tips
That help us, there’s no doubt;
But if you’re in the hospital,
Then hurry and get out!
What happened to your pumpkin patch?
Is there a color thief about?
Did he turn their little spigots on
and drain their color out?
Perhaps the sun forgot to shine
and their hue could not accrue.
I wonder if they’d taste the same
if stirred into a stew.
For me white pumpkins are a shock
and seem as though they ail.
They don’t get my juices flowing
with countenances pale.
An orange jack o’ lantern is
the only way to go.
A candle lit inside one makes
a very lovely glow.
My family would not accept
a snow white pumpkin pie.
I do not want to risk it.
A white pumpkin I won’t try.
I am sorry that I must decline.
I do not care to take one.
A pumpkin without color is
to me simply a fake one.
The lonely congregate on filthy stools.
Imbibing from common spigots,
dispensing sour, fermented grain.
The stench of vomit invading the hazy,
impure air is not noticed.
Unkept men slowly poison minds and lives.
Dirty women, wearing cheap cosmetics,
stare into the bottoms of unwashed mugs.
Desperation and regret fill every pore.
Ugliness pervades the oppressive atmosphere.
It is here where the mistaken turns merge.
Broken lives dissolve into liquid narcotics.
No hope survives in the eyes of a drunkard.
He steps towards his grave in a dulled stupor.
She dances to hell with a bottle of corrosive.
My mind is full of tangled curls,
The ruddy red of firelight.
Eyes ice blue so soft and full,
Of new loves dreamt delights.
My mind is full of beard and brow,
Of the pang of drawing bite
‘Pon fair cheek and out turned thigh,
Within the garden of the night.
My mind is full of barrel chest,
And ‘pon the keg I lay.
Exposed, revealed, no place concealed;
As ‘pon me Milord played.
My mind is full of spigots
hard and long,
Of the tapping of the keg.
The outflow of gold gushing froth,
The frosting on the cake.
My mind is full of melody,
The sound of beating hearts.
As on we raced and drank and ate,
Milord and his tart.
A cacophony of sounds fills the air.
Bodhrans beat and the jukebox screams.
Flutes and fiddles mingle in a mad race
overpowering, the drone
of drunken revelers in the back room.
Daddy’s darling bounces upon his knee
wreathed in a smile rivaling the brightest sun.
Dinners play their spoons and dash their knuckles,
upon the hard black stained surface of oak tables.
Toes tapp, muffled upon carpet-covered flooring
and Guinness flows, frothy, dark, and thick,
cascading, from brass spigots, lubricating the tenor's pipes.
And in the dim, buttery warmth of candlelight
the accordion wails as Old Aunt Tillie dances.
hours fracture by
spigots clog every pore
the ideatron flickers on off
on off, on off, on off
flexing muscles and flipping through
maladjusted soft spots in the lightly lit dayroom
sometimes i soak in the inane and wonder
am i really inching closer to something worthwhile
or am i ever falling, flailing arms into the ruin of insanity?
but there's something inside me
it must mean something
it must mean i'm losing it
Sun stikes.
Pinpoints of light
wash summer's lost blossoms
dripping like forgotten
water spigots waning,
drooping, falling,
onto pine-needled carpet.
Ferns cointue greening.
Fairy-wing fronds languish
in the shade, then
tentatively reach
toward sun shadows
warming shallow roots.
Hummingbirds dance;
around the feeder
their soprano voices
argue territorial rights.
Steam plumes
from Redwood trunks,
gently rise toward fine laced
treetops offering branch tips
to touch the hem
of God's blue robe.