I am a builder,
Who constructs ,
And who adds value.
I am a creator,
Who uses imagination
In my writing.
I am a singer,
Who sings songs
Written by others.
I am an individual
With my own my ideas
And devices.
Constructing my world.

While out Christmas shopping at Mall Of America with Our Spanky Gang of Little Rascals, who should we bump into but, Scrooge, Fezziwig, Fred, Bob Cratchit, Mrs. Cratchit,Tiny Tim, Jacob Marley main fictitious characters drawn upon under belly, of real life mid eighteen hundreds lowliest British (thermal unit) poverty stricken caste. Das scribe sketched out their soul full collective misfortune, without virtue, but plenti via a vice, which storied lives depicted (i.e.

Some days I imagine it might really happen:
orifices oozing with ectoplasm,
Dorises with messages we can’t fathom;
transmigration’s been the fashion since ages ago
when Buddhists could make it to the sixth Bardo
or lose their many selves in Limbo.
You don’t think so?
Of course, it’s never on CNN, BBC or Sky,
just something glimpsed in the corner of an eye.

I was decanting your glow,
leaving the party popper antechamber
slimed and smoking with blue gel
and used batteries from gazebos
and the dead starfish and shooting galleys
I traced from your bruised
stars tattooed in the lettered spill
of braille symmetry
on the bruised oak of your skin,
the drowsy azalea, the caked inhalants
the silhouettes of hookah
and sugar cubed teeth falling
indexed with alchemical numbers
sifting in a dream’s boiling apocrypha,
and on my peacock’s tears

Dragonfly you bug-eyed fiend,
you rule the skies mosquito king.
Cruising through the stratosphere
just to find another meal.

Landing on an old tree branch
you pause to notice circumstance.
With steeley eyes you wantonly
peruse the swampy canopy.

To find a worthy mating wheel
you hold it tight as if to rear.
Fulfilling your supernal needs,
extend the life of your species.

The doorbell rang
And woke me up
Waking from my slumber
The chime that chimed
Was the voice in my mind
That created the words on the page
These words are out loud
And they're really, really proud
Of the way I feel inside
So still and so calm
So deeply profound
Ready to express my thoughts
These words come from me
The one who wants to be free
To soar like a bird in the sky
The doorbell that rings
Alerts me to things
That I need to be me
To be free
Free deep inside

After a hiatus of countless years
plus an additional
almost three months
since a major makeover,
(I experienced the magic
wrought courtesy
a bonafide big hearted
beautician at Salon Nova
located in beautiful
downtown Limerick, Pennsylvania

There in the midnight air.
Your brains are scattered there.
Your fiends discretely leave,
accomplished their dirty deed.

Your friends and family
weep with a sense of ease.
Knowing your suffering
has passed into eternity.

They never realized
the true nature of the beast.
Which tore your poor mind apart,
broke your soft fragile heart.

You've finally past the test
now you can take your rest.
Weep not for those you've leftt.
You'll meet them somewhere else.

I’m surprised you imagine
I’m to blame in any way
It’s in the job description
It’s part of our DNA
A forger creates forgery
A robber commits robbery
A sorcerer practises sorcery
A mocker makes a mockery
So, love, it’s not my fault
You should be more adult

Basking in a supine position
with eyes wide shut
while the space heater churns out
fast moving molecules of heat
solitudinarian drowsy thinker fêted
by miniature fantasy
of tropical island paradise
accompanying and populating slumber
courtesy flickering, mesmerizing,
undulating barenaked native nymphs