I prop my

mouth up

lifting dewlaps

I cram teeth into corners

I auto-tune screams

until

the blood-curdling sounds like

lyrical laughter

–no mean trick–

and my far away eyes

grow more distant by the day

masquerading as de rigueur

disinterest

–I’m not taking a selfie after all!

all true expression

dead

(along

with him)

farther than 6 feet under

–gone

. . . .disintegrated. . . .

replaced by a

“that’s acceptable”

caricature

“that’ll do pig”

in peep’s clothing

in a society

where no one

likes a

grumpy Gus, least of all…Gus

and when no one

loves

— in turn

no one is loved

and all that remains is this race to the finish line

festooned in

cheese mirage

surrounded by vermin

(lab and pet)

and a few less nippy rats, as well

from cubby hole

to content

to chaos

to coffin

–where at last

the make believe

ceases,

the guns stop echoing

the crowd stops surging

and fear founded

and faced

–dies.

Prior to

posting,

I arranged

the cheese

just so:

from

biggest to smallest

hardest to softest

stinkiest to mild

adjusting the angle

and lighting, both

–and snapped–

told them to say

“people”

lost in thought,

I sometimes lose

the thread of conversation,

captured by his baby blues

or dimpled

demarcation,

at such times

it’s good to nod,

and murmur

words affirming–

–mindfulness

lest a redress

for daydreams

leaves me squirming,

umbrella phrases

do the trick

“it always goes that way”

or laugh when gaffe

of gath’ring wool

results in

“whadja say?”

switching tack

and topic nets

convenient change to prate

“the weather’s nice…”

or better, splice!

the Q:

“have you lost weight?”

but perhaps

the best reply

embodies the ironic,

“I hear you, man”

“I understand”

is cheeky tongue for tonic.

Avo is a pushy food

a hard-as-hell

then mooshy food

an eat-it-now

or toss it out

it pressures you

without a doubt

bananas are the same

to say

they’re on the clock

to throw away

mere moments after bitter green

they’re brown as bread

no in-between

which brings to mind

–those croutons keep!

dryness typifying

treat

a tasty stale pretzels share

and best of all

unscheduled fare

and there’s no hour

yogurt ‘s best

its curdled sour

aces test

passing sell-by, eat-by dates

this year or next

that yogurt’s great

remember then

when roaming stores

to purchase food

that doesn’t force

your menu choice

–unless you like

pushy foods

that morph like ice.

A picture is worth a 1000 words

but not just

any 1K

creates a picture

that’s where books come in

. . .

books are

word albums

–like photo albums

and come in lots of

sizes

. . .

journals are

the candid shots

caught out

in red eye & bad lighting,

weird expression & off angles

stripping depiction

to just woke up

real

–foregoing flattery

and dismissing delusion

. . .

text books are

the utilitarian pics

the passport photos

and X rays

the work team at Xmas party no one wants to attend

and fingerprints

only a phone could love

the mundane

to which most masses

are mandated

–and succumb

. . .

fictions

are the big hair snaps

the vacations from your day-to-day

with

too much make up and unlikely

cosmetic surgery

–an extra leg where none is needed

or fish tale missing mermaid,

a second nose

or even a third boob!

(depending on the writer)

. . .

But

Poetry is

the grand.

the 1 large

and true self

of all that’s unguarded inside

suddenly–>

outside!

(WTF!)

& vulnerable!

a child on school’s first day

–the runaway

the crush approached

(and approaching)

the echoing silence

and final good-bye

. . .

the

all that’s soft kept hidden from life’s

hard edges

–lunches done!

(check)

–contacts made!

(check)

–nets worked!

(double-check!)

ensuring

all that’s gross

continues

. . .

yet

Poetry is

the real you

(times 1000)

the you that longs to

be

here

. . .

.now.

a transcribed sepia

and reminder

you were beautiful once. . .

my eyes

cage

the world

grab chunks and change it

. . .

to

impressions

of

the

without

watermarked

by

experience

wrapped

in

moods

whitewashed

in

wishes

this picture in picture is

captured by questionable cameraman

rolling tape

–and editing with hamfist–

lowering the boom

and playing the bias

the movie remains

long after credits roll

— blame and acclaim courtesy of. . .

snapshots

of memory

–and mind’s eye micro expressions

–and ethereal facades of

towns not wholly built

And like any town

there are areas

best avoided

red light

and skid row

and

war zones

and

dead ends

unsafe to traverse

and pacing

those carved roads

in my grey real estate

–which risky areas increase with foot traffic–

I purposefully pick the path

more picturesque

ignoring construction

on the ghetto inside

–ignoring tourists tossing peanuts, too–

so it

subsides.