from far away in india
he tells of things
of river things and tales
on winds afar
stirring the grasses of my heart
here where i sit where we are
i tell the critters that surround me
of their brothers and their sisters
how well they are doing are
singing upon the breeze
for listen
he is speaking
his smile of miles is turning leaves
and planting seeds
of the flowers that will smile
just here where we are
gotcha ~ a reflection
gotcha! gotcha!
God is the omnipresent louse
so pick at what you will
you will still have no will
for God is everything
even you
because he made himself
and then he made you in his own image
as a laterally inverted transgendered likeness
or likeness not
there it is
it’s a fact
you has been got
ye gads
God has only gone and gotten himself
to blame
here’s a prompt reply
you offer me a prompt
when
to a poet
the whole world is a prompt
forever is an instant
#hashtag
isn’t that the mutton cloth
that an engineer uses
to clean the oil from hands
that have been beneath
the engine of life
resuscitation is in reverse
now there’s a prompt for you
a-systole is a long line
in stanza of lines
queuing to form a circle
to watch the children skip over it
kids ~ well they asked you
kids!
we lined up the snails
and waited for a bus
to squash death
onto a steep learning curve
as we hung upside down
from the railings of don’t you dare
what we talked about
was turning life on its head
but we didn’t understand
why blood seeping
through grassed knees
was memory’s long smile
STRAIN spotting
STRAIN spotting
tearing the underlined pages
from the kama sutra
sidling the steam train
as electric arrives with its
lubricated driveshafts
vibrating off the rails
of a change of track
what is the point
of the red signals
the menu
in the dining car
is awesome
but the plates are cold
euphemisms slither
as the lights flicker
and our steward walks past
with the drinks we ordered
empty glasses
the sparkling water is still still
but never mind the strain
the destination is unchanged
hot jotting
the writing
has melted from the wall
it is the end of us all
at the end of the dance
of the seven veiled shenanigans
it is plain for all to see
the last old tree
flowers like you’ve never seen
or will ever again
put the kettle on
i am hot and dry and
i crave just one more sip
