the place before creation

is a world of its own

impalpable foundation

not made of flesh or bone

its imprecise location

a universal home

More of a vibration

in transcendental tone

a melodic adaptation

of aggregate unknown

a trembling narration

that dictates mortal stone

an ending destination

for every living soul

so relish this vacation

since all life is on loan.

Add-man

and right away

he has a hankering for Ribs.
 

Enter Even.

someone’s got to cook, and

Odds are, the fruit plate will

excite goose-bumps

–the start’her a Venom Appetizer

followed by spot-on desserts–

> I’m lying–it’s just <

more fruit,

dress codes,

and the first argument ever

over “who ordered what”

Delivery and take-out only–

–Garden seating is booked.

Fearing the boredom

looming at noon,

the Worm booked a day trip

as day-trippers do,

fleeing emotions

and choking foursquare,

–peeling back membrane

between here and there–

uniting the twain

with gossamer pages,

escaping the plain

with focal point changes,

shooting the gap

inherent in pauses,

discovering worlds

in well-written clauses,

building a bridge

in bricks made of chapters,

scanning the span

to new ever after,

dog-earring tomes

in paper boat kinks…

a see-faring roam

which vessel was ink…

paddling boat

tethered to Hook, the

Worm was transformed

by virtue of book,

finishing Kafka

delighted to find

–wings had developed

around his behind–

& broadened horizons

far, wide and high!

revealing the Bookworm’s

inner B-fly.

The elephant in the room

led to day-drinking. . .

ensconced in studio equipped with

hot plate,

bath-free commode,

and screened window of fluctuating size,

the addition of Babar

made the  claustrophobic closet

one paciderm too populated

–and margarita short of Taco Tuesday

the elephant wasn’t too blame. . .

the work-around I employed

–learning to scale walls–

hinged on equipment prone to error,

and the work-around he found

–at Christmas office parties, and stultifying family gatherings–

was sporadic at best,

since despite his edge

of maleness,

whiteness,

and impressive trunk & toenails,

there just wasn’t much call for

white elephants, anymore

–particularly offline.

The day-drinking fed

into night drinking

–hapless hours in which the tusky fellow also partook, and by the gallon–

me, trying to forget,

and he, completely unable to, possessed as he was

of regrettable long-term memory–

all of which ultimately resulted

in photosensitivity

–on my part–

and sticky skin

–as far as he went–

I tried coping. . .

purchasing pair after pair of drugstore sunglass,

but no matter the tint,

Babar always looked in the pink

when I wore them. . .

pirouetting despite the notable lack of pomp & circus,

–doubling down when I rested–

his coping mechanisms

were understandably murkier. . .

comprised of Wild Kingdom reruns,

shelled peanuts,

and mammoth hangovers,

–but then. . .

so were mine.

And come to discover

we are all playing

a game of mandated Russian Roulette

–and you thought Monopoly was bad!

whether you’re anti-gun

or

stick to your guns

young or old,

happy or sad,

you are packing heat.

(no permit required)

Sometimes the cylinder spin

clicks to

a chamber

like a gag gun,

like: is that a 45 in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

gag gun

(safe muzzle to nuzzle)

and

yAy!

or

pheW!

or

boOom!

or

any number

of fluttering tomfooleries unfurling from barrel

(up to 5 anyway)

the room so engaged

is

most importantly

free of blood-spatter,

and backdrop for

living ritual

(becoming or established)

and the spinning game stops

for any number of years,

(a few decades, anyway)

and the weapon

seems innocuous

seems unreal

seems like it isn’t cemented

in your grip at all

–yet it is.

Sometimes the cylinder spin

to chamber

doesn’t click at all–

it pumps the gun, and surprise!

–that pocket rocket’s a squirt gun!

fun in the summer

(of your life)

only

as surprises are,

the liquid it sprays

could be egg as easily as water as

easily as blood

and it’s certain to end up in your face

being the gun’s to your head

and all,

and the spinning game is less fun now,

for any number of weeks

(weeks left, anyway)

and the soaking blaster

gives you pause suddenly

gives you perspective

gives you the willies, really

–since who even knew

you owned that gun?

Sometimes the cylinder spin

is loaded

fully loaded and no mistake

there usually isn’t

and fate is wrested into one’s own hands

even sooner than prematurely

. . .

her hands

. . .

his

. . .

and the second book can never be written

(not after that magazine)

and that second chance can never be realized

(not after that second shot)

and there is no one left to encourage you

to even write it and

no one left to care and

the shocking piece

leaves you undone

leaves you forever

leaves you in the perpetual wound of grief

that this offshoot of the spinning game becomes

for any number of days

(too many, anyway)

you find yourself on the suddenly wrong side of the daisies.

Eventually the cylinder spins

to the chamber

that’s weighted

(just for you)

and that’s the money shot

–the “mean-it” shot—

the faster than a speeding bullet–

–shit…never mind

and suddenly that

shooter launches!

kaboOOoom!

(guns blazing!)

and your world and every

chamber in it explodes

(holy crap! That’s some serious hardware!)

–and you thought a scythe was bad!

(knife ≠ gun fight)

and the fully-strapped Reaper steals your punchline

after all

and last word

–kaboOOoom for those of you keeping track–

an elegy

that echoes any number of seconds

(til the end, anyway)

and takes you by surprise

–by the shorthairs

takes your breath away

–by the crosshairs

takes who you are

away

–to split hairs

. . .

Anti-gun,

pro NRA

(or not)

Jay went with Peggy

to MeMe’s big show,

the spot

where

the hottest

of

dots-per-inch go,

where graphics

by Vector

are just status quo

* not pixels *

> math’matics <

with measured ratio…

By following Bits of a Map

to her site,

the Photoshopped duo

streamed Byte by Byte,

compressing

their dressing

to lessen

the Drive,

a modus

of loading

that coded

them light,

and opening up

with remastered make-up–

fuzzed their Big Picture

but speeded the break-up

and since most attendees

were data

~with bling~

Amalgam-un-mated

to beta new Pings…