touch tomorrow boldly, without fear
I want something else, something softer, that fills the sky with light. A pulse of heat that fades doubt to reveal a kiss of hope. I want tomorrow, boldly, without fear or pretense, and know the moment clearly as our skins mesh with the truth.
I want love to be the answer we are seeking, nothing else.
Is that alright with you?
love in reverse
Everyone knows love in reverse, when it fades your dreams into obscurity. Every word you speak is only a lie. Your hope is doomed and you wonder why you bother to speak at all.
Everyone knows love in reverse, especially when love is true and no one cares to listen.
Dark knot is impaled on bitter truth, that perfumed moments hope will be denied,
to return to a swirling time when every thought is thoughtlessly wrought
and every dream undreamt is sought,
a tumbling staccato of bursting words,
spraying from unreasoning lips
to kiss the sweet firmament of joy like some force of imagination
beckoning rainbows to appear
and flowers to unfurl.
What juice compels love's existence?
What nectar inspires the graceful play of want
that touches every filament of the soul
leaving nothing of the heart unspent?
Caught in the aspic of the moment
we find each other at last
whether we believe it or not.
o, love divine
o, love divine, so fair and fine to be entwined with you is bliss, your allegory in all its glory is a story I dare not miss. but should you turn all cold and stern it makes me yearn for one more chance, that you still got and can allot one more shot at sweet romance.
birch leaves shiver in sun lit dance their brilliant green delight as, transfixed I watch their silhouettes in shingled shadows, gray roil a rooftop beneath perfection of a blueness, bright Spring enthralls in triumph this bright day!
I feel as hollow as a clear-cut forest
I feel as hollow as a clear-cut forest, raw stumps blasted by merciless light, where a glade of birdsong flowers had in a pregnant glory of radiance lain. Now there is only still-born silence, harshly sterile and unyielding. I skitter like some lost lizard through the chaos jumble, seeking to restore his fragile Paradise.
I anticipate your voice as apparitions of delight
I anticipate your voice as apparitions of delight tantalize the air before my eyes I know your trills and laughter, the words you always use, are concealed like silent seeds waiting for their mistress to make them flower.
Morning sky, dark and still, wraps the windows in fitful blues and grays while within, a soft radiance of thought gathers around the sweet puzzle of love a bouquet of dreams. They flit like hummingbirds, tapping softly at the soul.
a thought, in stillness cast
I look for you but only find embers of a dying dream even love so dimmed by doubt holds back cold darkness now
jade green dream
I will miss you tonight, beside me in the radiant dark, the warm fullness of your face resting on my chest. I will miss the stunning softness of your skin, slipping beneath my fingers like a river. I will imagine your peaceful breathing deep in the night when all is quiet as I lie in ardent vigilance, listening to the darkness as if driven by ancient instinct. Untethering myself from time I will race the stars with your image in my mind until unconsciousness carries me out of this empty bed, to awaken at dawn from a jade green dream of your eyes.
tsunami disaster one
I hate it when human suffering is reduced to a scientific curiosity by a mindless fascination with statistics.
A Good Night Song
Though darkness seems to fill the sky there is a light that never dies, That churns with eternal fire and fills the stars above. When it has waxed you will remember, The sweet moment of surrender, And infinite desire that filled your soul with love. Burning love you feel its glow, Burning love you miss it so, There is no place it can go without you. Where your heart is not yearning, longing to be returning into the warm, sweet arms of your burning love, The love your soul is dreaming of.
sky sings its morning trumpet, gray mist kissed with promising dawn, its perpetual revelation of Light revealing the truth of day as clearly as pure honesty reveals the truth within. another day, another dawn, another trumpet duet.
exquisite, though flaws may be
In a world where flaws and perfection form the exquisite whole, even the perfection of water knows ripples when disturbed. The music at times is sweet and fine, and though the player skips, it still courses in my blood and works magic down my spine. What is perfect in life is what is truly beautiful in the heart, and what is in my heart right now is you. Please forgive my imperfections, I am only a man, not a rainbow or a star.
the quiet peace of us together
The distance between us stretches across California as we grow weary of virtual substitutions. Chat, email, whatever convenient nonsense, is nothing like three dimensional flesh occupying close proximity, lips kissing with vollies of purposeful intensity and hearts filled with gentle love that takes its time with every moment. I may navigate a digital realm to look for you, to titillate you with images and words, but I want to hold you in my arms and think of the quiet peace of us together. Nothing more. Am I a fool? Perhaps I am, but then you know I've been a fool before.
When you hear my silence
It's another night when all I hear from you is silence, so I worry, just like you do when you hear my silence, and to make it more interesting I have in mind the image of a man you mentioned who may at this moment be richly courting you in a style beyond my own poor capacities as I sit amid the carnage and rot of this war upon my past, waiting for the final battle that will lay it to rest at last and make an armistice that opens the future like a flower, sweet with fragrant possibilities that will only be ours. Or so I hope while alone in this silent place, this cold room without another pair of ears to hear me sigh and fret, as you sigh and fret when you hear my silence. I'm so tired of silence. Why won't you break its spell?
You are my ferocious rose full and sweet with time, with blossoms grown heavy now, silken lip petals parting so eagerly to be kissed. All the words have gone, leaving nothing but desire, and though you murmur pleasantries something burns behind your eyes, aching to escape. So calm and civil, yet also hungry, when will you finally come to tear me apart with your love?
Another second slides by with the patient certainly of a river carving its way to the sea just as destiny seems certain to finally make its way to you. I try to think of nothing as each exhaled breath fills my mind with silence. Desire hangs suspended, the tendrils of its heat exhausted, quiescent and cold, it floats numb and sightless down a gloaming corridor towards a glittering brilliance, so warm and bright. Now there is only the sound of breathing that stretches seconds into minutes and then hours, but beyond that the mind refuses further definitions, seeking respite instead in reverie where all substance is gone from reality including the remorseless clank of the clock, metering life a tick at a time. I don't want that, something softer instead, like clouds washing by, forever concealing the edge of dawn.
Like wind and rain they were, one dark, the other light as air, entwined in business, untangling some knot together always in unison and perfect harmony. Little sisters linked with love and laughter, worn round as pebbles by each other and sweet as warm raisins. Little sisters like faces of the moon and places in the heart that shine as bright as any star will ever shine.
My natural impulse is to hear your musical comment and turn my head to respond to you, but you're not there, you're here in this thin little data-stream instead, spurting through some sort of internet appliance or other. So much for natural impulses. So I turn to my keyboard to write back my scrawny little data-stream reply, trying to imbue it with as much detail, nuance and feeling as possible that it may in some scrawny way prove as satisfying to you as looking directly into your eyes and smiling a funny-faced reply to make you giggle and point out an interesting association with this piece of music you found that you would have pointed out had it been so easy to share as that, but you didn't because you were typing a message instead of living it with me.
Some day all our natural impulses will be set free.
it is time for love to bloom to its fullest flower and time for us to know the real meaning of a rose. it is time for all our magic tricks to create real rabbits, and time for us to know the real each other, exposed. and it is time at last for you and me, to finally build a world for we.
hot stuff 1
Yours is the Vagina of Heaven for it is filled with the fruit of our love that spills sweetly between my lips when I kiss you there. Yours is the Grotto of Ecstasy wherein I may regain the reason for my existence. This is no simple poem, it is instead the grand poetry of evolution manifest in the union of our bodies as God is manifest in the union of our souls.
It's pomegranate summer, when the last sheaves of heat have dried up all your dreams, turning them into poetry for Winter. It's pomegranate summer, time to forget away past glories like pressed flower's dry stories no lamentation will restore them, no matter how much you adored them, they are gone. When the uneaten fruit of passion is dug back into the earth it's pomegranate summer, move on.
the gossamer thread
The gossamer thread, that links, but does not bind, seems so elegantly pure in its simplicity as to be immune from fault, unlike a hope-tethered heart, dreaming of impossible glories and unwilling to run the risk of feeling pain. For it is pain that makes all of it an illusion because when everything else is gone only it remains. And sometimes that is the puzzle of love.
All Of That
All of that? All of that you say? I might want to do twice all of that and yet you say it anyway? Because you know all of that is a whole lot more than petting When you really consider all of that do you know what you are getting? If I think about all of that it really gives me some ideas That may put it all to the test perhaps for many years. It starts up rather high around your lips and then descends, In the general direction of your hips but enroute, it all depends. Perhaps a cheek deserves a peck, perhaps an ear, a bite. And then the sweetness of your neck is always such delight. Slipping over your collar bone and sliding down your breast, As lips wrap nipple tips you moan, My mouth will get no rest. From there a trail of kisses leap from rib to rib as down they go, around they flow, a dancing, mad ad lib. Then swish around your belly to meet the curling down that caps the lovely swelling of your perfect Venus mound. Now inhaling your musky glory pouring forth as sweet as cream, Like magic nectar from a story risen out of a sweet dream. Tongue extending to the moist crack as if to sip a cup, but first the juicy smack as you open yourself up. Then hungrily going down to suck you between my lips, a swirling pulse, round and round, with the rolling of your hips. Until the twisting tension goes and can no more increase Only anticipation grows Before the clutch and sweet release, When a rock slide of ecstasy pounds your belly like a drum and makes your juices all burst free so I can taste it when you come. And after the last shudder passes into what has already been, A wink and coo, is all it takes to do, all of that again.
another silent hour
nothing breaks the spell of silence, no soft vocal timbre shakes the calm nor is there the bed frame creak of lovers in repose. there is nothing so sweet as that, nothing that compares to the rush of breath that precedes a kiss or the long, soft silence that follows in its wake. nothing so gentle as a caress that lingers on a cheek or the sigh of contented bodies blending in the dark. nothing but a hungry clock ticking for another silent hour.
the pulse of you, where only stoic silence lay like an icy seed, dry and pointless as death. the pulse of you where dust-dulled eyes stared into another dead dull day, keeping clock-time busy counting the rhythm of night. the pulse of you draws a graceful, grateful breath that shivers down, rekindling my soul and I am no longer some mindless thing marking the death of time, but a man, full of purpose and joy. the pulse of you is life.
pushes forth its final plentitude
yet this does not satisfy
always wanting something more
then there ever was before
for another thought, another dream
a possibility, unseen
where a little bit of green
is being born.
Jinx!- they shout when two people think the same thing at the same time it's bad luck -Jinx! But when we do it -Jinx!- it's not about luck at all it's -Jinx!- about being carved from the same soul stone, tumbling down cataracts of existence to a pool of mutual Joy. Jinx!- you laugh, I hear poetry -Jinx!- Art bursts out of us like wonderful fruit fallen from the tree of infinite possibilities. Jinx!- you smile -Jinx!- we kiss -Jinx!- in love forever. Jinx!
Nothing quite so brittle as truth sometimes gets when painted into a corner by fears, nor is anything so shocking as certainty betrayed over which only fools shed tears, Only one who is wise believes in nothing at all and on that course his heart always steers.
He picked the rose off the table where it lay in a pool of wine and, after mopping with his towel, placed it in a sideboard cup hoping to take it back to his lonely room where now it rested in a vase on a little table with a bottle and a glass, a little book of poems, a pencil and pad, where he leaned, sipping and dreaming of a rose, far away, far away, far away.
lament for tammy
Every tear falls like rain from the heart and fills the world with love as surely as rain fills it with life. No need to lament the rain for that. No need to lament the heart.
It's what she said after hours of sensuous prose, punctuated by scintilating sexual tsunamis that tossed my senses into sublime capitulation. And then this sudden mundanity like some rancid joke left out to stink up the kitchen and drive all hope of sustenance forever out of mind. Is there any finer despair than this, the kind choked between the glory of wanton wonder and the terrible finality of doubt?
The Hardest Part
Always try to be ready for the hardest part, The price always paid for an ardent heart. There is nothing to say, All lovers are prey Until they haul you away In the knackerman's cart.
what dorothy would have said
The best way I know to tell the merely frail from the truly sick or friend from foe? I am certain cunnilingus will do the trick.
Politics is vaudeville for masochists.
Never surrender your child heart for it is the aperture of Joy.
There is something about life that burns brightest in the eyes of those we love who are leaving it and leaving us to lament their beauty like a burning star in our midst.
Blade In the Heart
What is sacrificed for truth is redeemed through clarity. Though it wounds at least illusion is dispelled and the soul is set free. It feels like a blade in the heart.
and every time the dream
spatter of images, expanding, briefly bright, vanishing beneath an onslaught of facts. and every time the dream contracts.
The Sad Case of Pablo Neruda
"I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair" said Pablo Neruda to the air, where he lay broken and beached, whale-bone dry, having leached out every juicy joy, poor boy.
I am tortoise, swimming through the chorus of the sea, its song my destiny. I glide down thermals to deep shoals whispering of food and there in darkness dine and then rise through shimmering clouds of Life, so sweet my carapace brims with joy. I have traveled far, to the great Cold to feast and fatten for the long journey home, bearing my young to sun-swept sand and then to sea again. But what is this that now burns my flesh and blinds me to the light? What is this, that chokes me as I rise to breathe, what is this that has silenced the great ocean harmonies? And as I breach to draw my breath what is this scorching thing that strangles me with fire? What dark destiny has caused the sea to burn my life away? What is this, why won't you say? How many tortoises will it take to make us wise?
truth rings a blues note. i joined the tortoise in tears.... -feather
16 January, 1998 The ICU warriors battle metabolism and toxins and my brother is the battleground. Here, in the street beneath his room, many lives move under a gray January sky, enfolded in fragile freedom from pain, and fear, and awareness of delicate mortality. Nine floors above is the window that looks out on the street that he cannot see but can only dream of in some deep place, the place where he holds fast to life. He is the most brilliant light I can see in this building filled with stars. in memory of Brett
patient places that fall open with the languid grace of flowers. a blossoms throat, deep within a woman where words ring, shivering bells in naked glory. I want to kiss every hollow of your naked body and commit the scent of you to memory for all time.
in the sudden darkness of night
in the sudden darkness of night, when the roar of flesh aches in complaint that no one has come to tear aside anguish or kiss the naked tears from my eyes, nothing but sullen shadows where the hollow ring of solitude lies.
business as usual
There are no ethics built into any business practice that supersede the primacy of avarice.
To a man lost in the desert every mirage looks like Paradise.
So what sort of charade shall we play?
What sweet gifts shall we mold ourselves into,
what morsels of flesh will pass
between our lips?
What song should I play with you?
What candle should I light up inside you
to illuminate the glistening passage
to your chamber of dreams?
And finding you there,
naked and warm on the dias,
how shall I sing my praises
to your fragrant meadow eyes?
q u a n t a
I would probably love kissing your breasts and seeing your nipples
tighten seductively, begging to be kissed even more.
If we are really only bands of conscious quanta,
free to traverse the spectrum of stars,
what magic links us so firmly to our flesh?
You are in one of those meetings and everyone is sipping their coffee and either listening or calmly discussing the business at hand and you are with them, wearing a nice silk dress, listening quietly to the conversation. And suddenly you feel me blowing over your skin like dozens of soft kisses dancing beneath the fabric of your dress, yet no one seems to notice a thing though you bite your lip, inhale sharply and smooth the front of your dress revealing hard nubs of flesh pressing back against your fingers. And I am there, about to enter you, and no one can see a thing though they are right before your eyes. As the murmur continues you look around at their faces, going through the motions of participation while not really being with them at all. A spreading heat presses gently against your thighs, you slide down in your chair opening your legs wider beneath the table where no one can see. Something astonishing happens, something familiar and warm, soft and firm gently prods you there and then slides exquisitely up and down Your breath catches in your throat, you inhale deeply to stanch it, you peer carefully around you but see only pleasant smiles or no one looking. And then it begins again. It is not some fantastic artifact of memory, it is sensation that opens you like a rose, wontonly unfurling beneath a golden sun, exuding perfumed liquor as sweet and rich and stunning as the wetness you feel there now. And then the phantom form pushes back the walls of your defenses, and, sliding forward, enters you. Gripping the armrests of your chair, coolly slitted eyes stare abstractly at the table top, while within your skin is writhing and riding a blinding rhythmic pulse sliding deeply into you like a flood. You want to grip it with your legs, howl into it like a tempest, but the moment demands silence. Then suddenly the first shudder of release breaks beneath your skin like distant thunder. You panic because you fear it happening here, but it is too late, it comes on, like a collapsing mountain range it comes and shatters you with cataracts that leap beneath your skin like tongues of fire. Moments pass then drifting up through the strata of sensory remnants your eyes open. Everyone is leaving, time to go.
The truth about truth is quite simple. Truth doesn't matter if no one can hear it, but if they can hear it Truth still doesn't matter if no one is listening. In a world such as this it is surprising that truth makes any difference at all.
If you go back far enough everyone is innocent. After that it doesn't matter.
s e x
Nothing else will do but the taste of you,
washing down my throat in salty waves.
as your thighs are rocked
by flexing little spasms
that announce a deeper pulse within,
writhing on twisting currents,
hot and damp,
almost beyond control.
buried in your thicket of laughing tendrils,
redolent with the honey of your scent,
tasting each crevice
I am reduced to a tremor
that shakes your hips
like a flower, dancing on the wind.
We are meant to be just this,
naked and dumb as flowers,
pulsing in singular
There's a man somewhere who starts his day with a healthy morning jog and, after a light breakfast, rolls off on a bicycle to work. Within fifteen minutes he arrives at an office park where he walks into a room, sits down at his desk and pops a little pill into his mouth. Logging into a computer system he stares at his screen through the optics of a predator drone, hovering in the airspace over Afghanistan, waiting for the order to make its first kill of the day.
He's thinking of pizza for lunch, but can't remember if they deliver.
It must be galling to be murdered by someone who stood up afterward to dust Cheetos off his shirt.
If we want to do something for soldiers we could start by making them unnecessary.
The families of the people we murder will certainly appreciate how carefully we did it. Should we make extra room in the barracks for all the fruit baskets they'll send?
Why didn't George Bush leave his legacy to somebody else?
When technology makes it easier for cowards to commit murder the horror of war becomes a treatable malady. Fly on Xanax warriors, burn those hamlets down!
He's not paid to think, he's paid to act like he does.
Teabaggers are like refrigerator magnets that don't believe in magnetism.
It is art that gives substance to the glory of God and not the other way round.
Privatized profits from socialized costs. Ask not where the middle finger of the Invisible Hand pointeth, it pointeth at we.
Give the Chinese more time to rob and murder and they'll eventually catch up to our level of hypocrisy. They do however deserve special commendation for being notoriously cold-blooded. Maybe it's too much Melamine Fried Rice.
Lying distorts truth, not the other way around.
Al Gore could probably sell lawn furniture made out of rain forests as long as he let aborigines hunt in the parking lot.
Al Gore just bought an $8.87 million villa in Montecito. Bet the barbecue runs on cow farts.
If what Ted Haggard believes about God is true he may find himself spending Eternity with Richard Dawkins.
One of the wonders of social networking is you can make sure everybody knows you're stupid.
Public adoration is like having the safest sex possible with millions of people while being despised by all of their girlfriends.
There are those religious who seem to believe in a society where Freedom from Thought is considered Freedom of Thought.
"Madam Speaker, I rise to oppose out of control war and defense spending. This bill (H.R. 5136) would authorize a record $726 billion for defense. Congress refuses to find money to maintain COBRA premium assistance for jobless workers, but somehow we can afford yet another increase to our already bloated defense budget."
-Rep Pete Stark, someone with a clue
You're in my heart, safe from Time, and I won't let you go And I must speak for you when someone needs a little kindness, And laugh for you when the world could use a little joy. I must do for you all you taught me to, Ever since I was a little boy. Because you're in my heart now, forever safe from Time, And I'll never let you go. ~for Mommo, 1923 - 2009
The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Updated
Mine eyes have seen the orgy of the launching of the Sword;
He is searching out the hoardings where the stranger's wealth is stored;
He hath loosed his fateful lightnings, and with woe and death has scored;
His lust is marching on.
I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded him an altar in the Eastern dews and damps;
I have read his doomful mission by the dim and flaring lamps—
His night is marching on.
I have read his bandit gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my pretensions, so with you my wrath shall deal;
Let the faithless son of Freedom crush the patriot with his heel;
Lo, Greed is marching on!"
We have legalized the strumpet and are guarding her retreat;
Greed is seeking out commercial souls before his judgement seat;
O, be swift, ye clods, to answer him! be jubilant my feet!
Our god is marching on!
In a sordid slime harmonious Greed was born in yonder ditch,
With a longing in his bosom—and for others' goods an itch.
As Christ died to make men holy, let men die to make us rich—
Our god is marching on.
Mark Twain, 1901
After decades of murdering people every time our politicians have to prove their virility or because the military-industrialists need another boondoggle, how pathetic that we finally only relent on this business of death because we don't have the money to continue the slaughter.
urgent thoughts about the garden
My heart aches for this time we are living in, for the magnitude of wishful thinking, desire and denial that is defeating the effort needed to insure the survival of our beautiful Earth. I do not get the impression from most of us that we are engaged with the issue at all. The problem seems so huge it leaves us frozen for a moment in befuddlement until the spell finally breaks and we stumble off to seek oblivion in amusement.
This is absolutely insane, because there is no way to hide from a truth that will soon overtake us whatever we do. Yes, it is a hard problem to solve, and there probably is no perfect solution, but if we do not act there will be no solution. Rather than throwing up our hands in resignation and rushing off to buy more privileged access to waste-stream inspired mood alteration maybe it is time to become intellectually and emotionally engaged in building the future out of how we decide to live it. Because that's how this problem is going to get solved, by people deciding to live differently than they do.
The path to enlightenment begins with a question,
"How Many People Can Live on Planet Earth?"
For decades we have complained about the need for a new governing paradigm for human civilization. The time has come to stop complaining and instead to start living a new paradigm until the world has no choice but to follow suit. It really is just as Gandhi said, "You must be the change you wish to see in the world"
a found poem
The Least Tern's Turn On The Edge of Extinction On the Mothballed Runway Of the Alameda Naval Air Station Sunday, March 28, 2004 A poem by A M Fonda There are migrating stars in opaque night skies, That today to date, elude trained eyes, These jaded Suns call galaxies home As we search the heavens, thinking we're alone Our awareness develops as we learn How to preserve nesting grounds for our friend Least Tern. Such slender, graceful acrobat, Sea swallow feasts on anchovies, or fresh crab, cracked, Shorebird, avid fisherman Will nest on any hospitable sand Or pebbles, concrete or cement, Whatever grounds Earth won't charge rent A plot of land, a refuge so Flocks of Least Terns may come and go. If we ever locate the center of the Universe And discover an endangered species arrived there first Where we are now could be better or worse Depending on our propensity to learn On the mothballed runway where, rests, nests Least Tern.
Turn your back on weeds you've hoed Silly sinful seeds you've sowed Add your straw to the camel's load Pray like Hell when the world explode -Buffy Saint-Marie
It's like the world has gone mad because of a sudden flux in it's psychic burden, when the only way our differences with be resolved is with baseball bats and tequila in a parking lot somewhere. At this moment I am learning that pregnancy is the new abstinance because Bristol Palin says "Regardless of what I did personally, I just think that abstinence is the only 100 percent foolproof way to prevent pregnancy" and she is standing up to sacrifice herself for as much money as possible to prove it. And suddenly the vision comes of she and Nadya Suleman together in their own reality show called Too Fucking Many where in the background, beyond the sea of smiling faces in straw hats and i♥jesus buttons, a mob of Pakistanis chant "We are ruined" and then suddenly somebody drops the Bomb.
The human race is one virus shy of humility.
On the Origin of Fuck
The first person to say fuck was Roberto, schiavo di Nero, chamber slave to the Roman emperor Nero. As Roberto was leaving the Imperial suite with his master's chamber pot one night he suffered a misstep at the top of the Scalinata Imperiale that caused him to drop the Imperial commode down the stairs where it splattered into an explosion of last night's Ode to Jupiter pork chops, Nipples of Venus asparagus tips and Mama Mia's creamed Bulgar Surprise. He had the misfortune to have done it in front of the Captain of Uniform Imperial Etiquette, Dispazzio Pollutimus, who was commissioned to sentence to immediate death any slave who broke the rules of Imperial Etiquette. Thus it was, as Dispazzio strangled him slowly to death at the top of the Scalinata Imperiale, that poor Roberto choked out a word that would become one of the most spoken in human history.
Would they do it in the dark?
Yes, they'd do it in the dark or even outside in a park,
They might do it in the rain or at the bottom of a drain.
If they would do it in thin air they might do it anywhere.
Would they do it with a vole?
They might do it with a vole, they might do it on a knoll,
They might even do it with a cake, or out on a lake all alone with a snake,
If they would do it with time to spare they might do it anywhere.
Would they do it on a hike?
They'd definitely do it on a hike and even try it on a bike,
With rabbits too once they could hop, or in a zoo or barbershop.
If they would do it in a lion's lair they might do it anywhere.
Would they do it on a rug?
They would do it on a rug and put the picture on a mug,
They would do it when they dined even if they all went blind.
If they would do it without a care they might do it anywhere.
Would they do it when they dance?
They might do it when they dance, while in a trance without their pants,
They probably do it on the phone, especially when they feel alone.
If they would do it when they're bare they might do it anywhere.
How To Tweet A Love Sonnet In Newspeak
I ++ ♥ U
She was on a big blue couch with fried-egg pillows, exploring her sensitive regions and making noises that suggested she had never done anything like this before, like it was something new and exciting that she just couldn't seem to get enough of. It was hard to believe that a woman like this, in her big-boned plump blond fifties, could be anything but a jaded porn goddess, just rolling around on a couch for a video camera trying to finger-fuck herself into next month's rent.
And in fact that is exactly what she was, yet she was also much more than what could be seen on a lustful broadband movie screen. Where was the connection to the poems she wrote in the garden that she pulled back out of the earth each Spring? Where the big, cold glasses of grandma's lemonade, under the apple tree near where the pole beans flower? How much more complex she becomes when these facts are known, how much more radiant her beauty and sweet the taste of her skin.
The trouble with not knowing these things about her is without them there is no love, there is no love. There. Is. No. Love.
♥ St Valentine's Day Massacre ♥
Someone murdered my heart, Did it like this, did it like that, Made it like love was a thing of the past that was never really meant to last. Oh, someone murdered my heart and it was you, ooo, ooo. Someone murdered my heart, Did it like this, did it like that, Made the sweetest kind of cupid love, into a dead bouquet of stupid love, Oh, someone murdered my heart and it was you, ooo, ooo.
It's odd how Satan's prosecution of Job's torment is mirrored in the behavior of the most vehement faithful. That secularists would find this outrageous is natural. That many Christians would not is appalling.
It may be true that quoting scripture instead of using your mind does a disservice to both.
The only nice thing about Fred Phelps is there are only so many words for shit before he runs out of things to say.
Shattering glass is the sound of rage.
You take in another murder and after spitting the brutality of it out of your mind the only thing you can taste is revenge.
If people feel pitiless know it isn't the way they came into life, they came into life with a blessing. And what some of them do with this blessing of life is enough to make you wish they'd never been born. This is the greatest pity of all.
Some people are like a diadem glistening in the eye of God and others are like a virus looking for a six-pack.
All money seems to do is make the poor more desperate and the rich more vile.
With slavish decades of desire now passed I breathe a free breath of indifference at last. Sex is such a pain in the ass.
When the PC crowd gets done with our dictionary the only word left will be 'yes.'
Every time I think that there are some things you can't say someone writes a poem and proves me wrong.
Language evolves. If it didn't we wouldn't be having this conversation.
Concerning the Presence
of Dust On History Books
It might have salutary effect on synaptic amplitudes
needed for production of reliable platitudes.
In any case dust is considered metaphoric
for anyone serious about waxing historic.
What Makes A Condom Politically Correct
A politically correct condom has a hole on both ends so no one will feel left out.
Insuring A Wheel
As no one anywhere appears to be listening It's important that someone somewhere is speaking Insuring a wheel is clearly heard squeaking.
the other shoe speaks
When he told her he couldn't see her anymore she came home,fell into bed and wailed that she wanted to die. How we worried about her. We didn't know what we would do if anything happened to her. We sent emails to each other, discussing it. Then he called and said he changed his mind, he couldn't stand being without her and she was elated. After that I said that this makes me feel like a turd that was scraped off the bottom of a shoe and put into a sandwich for lunch. She said stop whining.
In Commemoration of the Health Care Bill
They finally managed to make a decree for them Defining exactly what in it would be for them And though it was somewhat a bitter pea for them Insurance men put something under the tree for them.
no longer being the mirror of your joy
Circumstance has put me into a postition where I can spend most of my time engaged in creative pursuits. I occupy myself with writing prose and poetry, digital photography, web design and programming. Beyond that there is the pursuit of happiness, often in conjunction with some really fine beer. ;)