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Fashion is ta’ (me)

I sutured

– – my future – –

sewed it up tight,

threaded the needle

to join

dark with light,

hitching w stitching

the known to

the knots,

evenly looping

I pulled coils taut–

hemmed, then

the haws, when

debating the wholes,

– – missing a model – –

so fashioned a role,

at first thread,

this worsted,

wasn’t a fit

– – so snipping

these vestments,

I tried different knit,

& basted unhast’ed

a garment from heart,

a tailored creation – –

darted with art.

I’m a Speed Racer

When you’re driving down the road

running late—with ways to go

never get behind a Prius

charge it peeps drive slow as–

–Jesus lovers are the next to shun

praying hands at 12 and 1

always stay within the limits

honking’s fine, but speeding’s sin—

its’s hell on wheels to trail a truck

obscuring view, they’re big as f*ck,

since when they dawdle, you can’t know

if traffic’s bad, or driver blows

it’s also smart to skip the lane

when license plates are not the same

as state you’re in–a revved up wreck

those lookie-loos will hamper trek

and final peeps it’s good to dodge

-are tiny, ancient, grizzled codgers

gripping hands the only sign

they pilot car—from view behind

yes, if the minutes matter most

a biker’s best to follow close

or tailgate a souped-up car

when time is short—and distance far.

The Attitude of Sun (translated from French)

I gorged on

stillness…

chug-a-lugged the opposite of what ails me

(to the dregs)

tying off on the high of a

sudden privacy binge

–itself a purge—

and so civilized

–going pagan

to wrap myself around

my unwrapped “altogether”

and dance without reflection

recalling her

–the one who’d gotten me into this

–me.

The “she”  before this made all reflection

a freak show–

–and tell…and tell…and

.hell.

dancing yet more freely as

no one watches

anyway

–and by no one, I mean

everyone watches

but him

still–

glutted, I gloat now

all but, and some bloat

–how

I revel in so much air

d

 o

  w

   n there

↵and every direction north of there↑

bound chest exploding

boom-boom

(chicas)

boom-boom

meringue

in whipped up release

minus the frenzy

–no other can hear,

C

or out do.

w presence desired or disdained

–just me.

and I’m back

waa-laa!

and just me

taa-daa!

(is enough)

misfortune a maiden

not nearly so grey,

(before dye)

after all

is said and

done-done-gone

–augering

the return to me.

 

 

come again?

He makes my

frolickles

stand on end

–sex

oozing out of his porns

. . .

my thin goes

all humpy,

and juice flushy

. . .

fickles fade,

twinkles thrill,

. . .

and the tiny male

on my inner sigh

–private shows only—

gets all tingly

and seems

–of a sudden–

a big, hairy, deal.

wOo girl (from the Block)


 
How to win

(imaginary)

friends

(back)

and influence people

(made of fiction)

–first, write

a note of apology

. . .

— love letters lamenting & lining up alliteratively

like a

“to do” list, but a “to do” list with character!

(s)

avowals!

maybe even a diphthong or 2, enabling the creation

of prototypes every novel needs, if no perfume before

checking boxes.

invisible boxes in Original PC

once___

upon___

a time___

& sending expansive flowered

(thoughts)

— purpled prosies,

gilded girdeds, and

rose of sharron–

their way

–somewhere off synapse route #66

(where else!)

followed by changing weighs.

Personal weighs.

Permuting poetic measures of an intrinsically different caliber

that can be hard to discern without rule initially, so skip the acronym–

next honey.

not saccharine, not sugar,

and most decidedly not stevia,

this all natural state of mind is

bon

(bon!)

ensuring the pretend pals are themselves agreeable

to palette, pen, and projection

and making up for better company, instead of just desserts

–finally presence.

undivided presence of mime, and why not?

imaginary friends are

the

target audience

for the ole

“fake it til you make it” axiom,

tying in coincidentally with checking boxes but

what else?

well, presence.

–of mind, this time

that necessarily implies

presence

of mine

–which in fact AND fantasy–

are.

those same imaginary friends

–gone missing.

 

 

the sOmething in nOthing

the void conjures

. . .

making silence hum

—-embellishes

tinting white blue

–adds

mirror images long departed

–tangles

disparate action in quantum fields

–separates

hues in darkest nights

–discerns

the statue in the rock

. . .

its nothingness

the isness on which all

unwinds

–a tapestry woven

in temporal fabric.

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