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I Could Not. . .

I could not see.

and sewing buttons

from belly,

and nose yet to form–

realized I didn’t breathe


so pinching peeks,

I poked holes

wherein all sound ceased.

then silently

ripped lower–

‘til gum flapped into


barely big enough for loft

(in life–less form)

and missing you,

I could not love

set shaping hearts

–in coal, and sand–

played both hands of deck.

the Minutes

We dwelled

in one story. . .

a concept coerced into agreement


ongoing & incomplete,

this mash-up of styles,

is ruled & rigid

(constellations named, planets punctuating)

free & formless

(a stitch in time fabricated)

it’s a continuum

devoid of metaphor &

lacking nuance

–elliptical poem of all that’s imagined without imagery–

our universe

is cold

(and hot)


(and suffocating)

–expanding outward in

relentlessly onward trajectory,

moving forward toward backward

–it’s every word in every sense–

a journey unlettered

or littered

by sensical signs


of far-fetched angle

(0. 1. 0. 1.)

–simple &


the difference

a product

that to sum is a

force-fed “quota”


–and spelling–

all unknown fear.



Butterfly Social

I like people–

you could say

I’m a people person

–it’s just women I have issues with. . .
imitation the least form of flattery since

when are mirrors friendly?

and one-upmanship not my

kinda boat

–for all we’re in the same one,

gender’ally speaking–

and well, men.

a fine line between love & hate

(quite like a jump rope, sometimes)

it doesn’t take much for

those characters to morph

–graphemes and guys both,

and more

like a high wire, really,

the best ones do merit a performance

–but don’t insist

and the worst ones always watch …

but I do  like people


I do!

it’s just particulars I could

do without.

Different Gaits


black dog walks me.


& choke-collared,

the treats I get

taste of tears

. . .

altogether too salty,

but I eat them right up

–with a spoon–

(left over from offal


and more plastic. . .

more sporky

than silver)

they’re chewy,

(these Pavlov treats)

as pointing fingers,

and hurt the jaw

clenched in a fist

–which keeps my smack-you mouth busy, at least

and aye,

and oh,

I like a busy mouth—

ringing my ears with

a tortuous whine too high

for anyone else to hear,

they hit my gut

exactly like a steering wheel going 60

–trussed in nots already—

(not this)

(not that)

but them there. . .

my instinct is to run,

but black dog meanders

. . .

me an’ her


. . .

missing deadlines,

and ruing downtime.



Cookin’ Carbs

there’s mud in yer eye

so bottom’s up,

wash them peepers

with a cup

–of brew!


and here’s to you!

a jolly fellow,

through & through. . .

so good as gold

my mind is boggled

vision, too,

in lager goggles.

Holla Gram

draw back drapes to life, and light

unveiling that magic fails

inherent act, not small nor sleight


–of hand that wipes from eye

the pixie dust, and tears in trail

draw back drapes to life, and light


–box shadows wire tight

hatched, not hopped, in netted jail

inherent act, not small nor sleight


–is hatted man concealing sight

all snarling hare that’s missing tale

draw back drapes to life, and light


–show blackens glove, once white

heart slipping then, from sleeve to scale

inherent act, not small nor sleight


–trick du jour, when darkest night

reflects, and mirrors pale

draw back drapes to life, and light

inherent act, not small nor sleight

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