To you,
that separated your children
creating this wide orb of confusion,
take a bow oh great and wonderful never was ...

Your end is around the bend,
the smell has hit your uh-oh senses,
found you missing your wit,
hard isn't it
swallowing your own shit.

One day I'll pilgrim my way to you,
find your scent among the adders
and constrict your venomous spoutings.

The Moon.

The moon her yellow fingers, grasses light,
invisibly pale, white, underfoot a winter crunch,
a cloudless sky, the pastel globe afloat on the
blue moat of our castle home, as she in azure
heavens waked by dawn, a perfect sphere,
this october day, two thousand and eleven.

I know its last years! LuvAnn.

I
Oft there comes a wind to tell a tale,
and oft am I without the wherewithal,
to set my ship on voyage forth to sail
beyond the sight of sheets, where ink will fall.

But now, I must recite in measured verse
a tale, yet famous, but in me sublime.
I hope I do not make this tale too terse’
and spoil a song in less majestic mime.

So shall I tell the tale of Inklindon,
of merry inky folk and of their cares,
and when at length, my verse is spent and done,
I shall move on and leave you with my wares.

RITES OF PASSAGE

in the front parlor
on heavy purple
worn and bare
he sat
legs dangling
in the air
silent cries in dresses
sequenced black
passing by
wooden floors
that cracked
cigars and pin stripe
whispering in the back
blue chiffon and organza
in a mist sickening red
empty stomachs
stale coffee on the breath….
the touch of death.