me, I enjamb all the time

Something takes its toll
And some have no ear at all . . .

Stoned Aurelian
            At the wall
Looking after
            All the hidden
            Abreast of the last
            . . . .

It’s not what you say, it’s the way that you say it.

Spreading your wings
From the lightposts
Of Excelsior
            To the hidden paths
            Of Oom

(“Don’t tell me this is the shortcut!”)

All these paths are barren
Except one.
And I alone can tell you
Which shall bring forth life . . .

Tattoos until you make no sense.

time to re-OpEn this mAchine ________||||||||||||||||||||||||||________ Open that thing





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switched at birth

fields of reincarnation
chaotic attractors
predestined random
switch at birth

switched at birth

I'd Rather Sink Than Swim


She laid silently under the dark purple sky. The grass beneath her whispered secrets as the wind swept by, begging her to stay just a while longer. She breathed shallow as the world wept, caressing her face, gently flowing through the strands of her hair. Her teeth chattered lightly as her warm tears mixed with the cool rain. The beauty that poured from above left her in awe; kissing each droplet that hit her lips. She looked around observing the stone graves, each so strong, holding ghosts that made goose bumps run along her skin. The trees groaned as the wind turned to evil shadows striking everything it crossed. It blew her hair furiously in all directions. The sky light to a sparkling blue, shocking the whole world with a fluorescent white, almost blinding. As the glow washed over the trees and the graves, it made eerie black flames dance in the grass. Soon this storm would pass and all the beauty would slowly die. Until then she would wallow in it, breathing in the life bursting through the night sky, crying her pain, sharing the sadness with the benevolent beauty that lay above her.

Print Another Madness

My muse returned just in time as my bile rose again. It came back with a vengeance. I could hardly hold my tongue.

In the land of a thousand rivers a man was gunned down between rocks and greed.

Then they slew him again on vapid front pages of necrotic newspapers.



so easy
lose myself
find myself
stubborn patterns.


Writing meeting

Rack and rose. Space-time esophagus. Break the answers. Span the discomfort.

Make my French toast crazy. Spread the nonsense. An empire of writers. “I wasn’t interested.”

Clay bursts, Broca’s television channel. Power shunts, what shunt does all the time.

“Oh, no! Not yes!” The tragedy of owning Thursday nights. Dirty rose secret.

The Journey to Yes. Be great at what you don’t do. Spike that cliché at the end goal.

Outrovert. “Where do you play?” Safety in bludgeoning. A day late to my obituary.

there's a pantomime

flip the await the
able break coral
schiene chiome
gride it anonymously
dure dure voglio
machined violins

archaism आश्रम
Polish brother hobbit
creased matzoh in
house to house
killing there’s the
past coming back to

sacrifice the gat
specious c’è un guitto
(so I can remember.
how to spell it.)
you have bridges,
you have organs—

coherence makes you
listen in the night.
passing out at tea
time you got apnea,
kid. the mild and the
moderate, mold takes

her consciousness
in the dark and brings
her to the moon.
socks around the neck,
you heard me. and you
might get a glass

out of it when you land

(Passover 2018)

The Sound and the Fury

The Sound and the Fury
digital photo

I said to Flarius




I  said to Flarius the poet that life is short
        Possibly shorter than a  boat  
   But what obstinate jewels kept the Empire in 
  Frogged by your eyes  I am dog to the night
Mona's sheet has many bottoms
 but mostly her round as a moon
    one's the one you rue  

I once played Trumpet wth Flavius while he accompanied me on radio

    we were doing a recording   (cassette recorder or reel to reel )

Femmes   a Barbe.... 

Forthrop my good frienwsas runnign wheels in  the back... trum and rum an humm! hummm!


Forthrop was loose with Dististopher ? was that his name the man with the Jeanne Mance apartment in his house, a broken record instead,  a dope riddle brain not working much anymore these days nor those before.
but white hair flowing and a  cane one saw the once brilliant intellect sliding down his profile


ANyhow ,NnONOoeticradition. more lik I see myself as part of a culturalENSEmBles esemb

Let the brooms resume ...


      Let the brooms resume the trim rim the Brim bloom room for your post



      Brooming    post 21 st century              

                L       o    o       o   mmmmminngggg   



  that sandy throttle of your throat


   calling out the owls the cooting things

            creaking up bright

     tearing up a fright 


     asking on the god of blissful things













Happened ...


     What happened to this blog? was it the code or the node of time busting its ass on a conversation that didnt happen?

     was it the text belaboring its night? Was Brim the Boom bummed off by fb & twitter, was blogging

     railroaded ?  An Brim with it? who Took the Broom to Taking the Brim?


the plots of poetry
     & the secrets of conspiracy