rather yours truly doth thrive
on keeping the ethos, mythos,
and pathos of Pigpen alive
subjected to eternal
abomination, brutalization,
condemnation, damnation,
emasculation, humiliation, ostracization,
who one day envisions himself
as a decrepit solitudinarian
an aging long haired baby boomer,

I’ve made mistakes.
Love as a contest.
Love as war.

I’ve capitulated sometimes,
and they’ve done the same.
But that’s not compromise,
and not solid ground.

It took me some time
to find love I could savor,
like the first bite of strawberry jam on toast,
just like that, but all of the time.

I put the kids to sleep
just in time
for the first tear to fall

gamesome, chucklesome, bothersome,
and awesome modest fellow)...
does not deliberately court immortalization,
and wonders what criteria confer elevation,
exaltation, glorification, hero worship,
idolization, veneration, or worship.

I go about a daily humdrum routine
me, a twenty first century baby boomer,
who considers himself passé
and senses with sensibility
he would have been more at home
during the early nineteen hundreds.

She was a dancer
on dark paved streets,
she had vibrations in her soul
always music in her head.

Could not keep still,
her bare feet ever
tapping out the rhythm
of a distant melody.

Each day saw changes
on her preferred stage,
trash cans overflow
garbage in the streets.

Alarmed, a child pointed out;
"Look, Mom she's bleeding!"
(they looked on in shock)
As she danced on broken glass.

*eddy styx is my Male alter ego who writes dark poetry.

For a few hours freely falling for
each other, wrestling
with text, you are the
lover I want.

I might melt away, dissolve
into grass and trees, know
now, what could be, my love,
is you and me

on a beach, in bed, or building
a life, holding on to you
with the passion of purpose,
and releasing the love

of all things
together.

My love, where are you tonight?
My love, you are lost in the dark
of my heart’s deepest delight
where dwell the dreams of lovers like us,

No matter Tuesday, November 5, 2024
still one hundred and eight days away,
(thank you Julian Date Calendar -
FOR LEAP YEARS ONLY),
I believe a foregone conclusion
that Donald Trump will win
based on the pathetic debate performance
between Joseph Robinette Biden Junior,
and Donald John Trump
in tandem with the stellar performance
of the latter at the Republican National Convention,
which appeared to surpass great expectations,
a gut reaction, cuz I could not stomach watching

I look in my
purse, and my
wallet is missing.

I sit down to
give it a more
thorough look.

The wallet is lost.
An existential
crisis arises.

No license.
No pictures.
No credit cards.

I grapple with
who I am
and if I am.

“Why so sad?”

“Well, it’s you Grief, actually.”

“Oh yeah, it’s kind of my thing.”

“Why do you make people so inconsolable?”

“It’s really Love’s fault. We’re pretty much a package deal. Eventually, you’ll get to know us both quite well.”

“Your timing is terribly inconvenient.”

“Love doesn’t have a regular schedule. It’s a bit hectic for me too, to be honest. I’m very busy, so I’m probably not gonna get better at that.”

“You can be a bit of a bully too, inconsiderate at times.”

and let the youngbloods take the reins
infusing our promised land with hope.

You done good for America,
serving as laudatory President
from 2020 to the present
Vice President from 2009 to 2017,
and in the United States Senate
from 1973 until 2009.