a muggy night
scent of sweat
stultifying

she clamors
head in hands
of fools and attitudes

always

her discomfort sets the mood
poor susceptible
princess pea

seems all the world's
a briar patch
and she
with no shoes

wheat feilds
where the sweet wind wanders
and the wires sing out in
their earnest voice

let me run the pliant
course where loves
wound weeps

and let me lay my head
beneath the stark and
reaching heavens
the wild thrill
for taming dreams
spill spill
glitter garland glam

let these rakish bejewelled
delights be free from heist
for youve stolen me from
lesser plans
and built your fortress

there's a cruel edge
to your steel-blue eyes
and your poems slither off
your tongue

who do you make love to
when you're not fucking me
from behind, that's your
way, i've gotten used to it,
your dogged determination
to take me as i am,

All the words are bitter bile
abhorred as soon as written down
added to the discard pile
I rip another page and frown

How can I write when filled with rage
with words and thoughts aflame?
shaking pen will not engage
will I ever again write the same?

I would to write of peace and love
ideals which lay in disarray
turning red rimmed eyes above
"Bring back my calm to me!" I pray

consider the pond,
the golden koi rushing through
the water
to touch your open hands...

has your Buddha nature
listened to the river birch speak
the sky's language in spaces leaves unfold
watching patiently the sun coax open every blossom
to exude its temporal fragrance,
have you ever listened to spring peepers
harmonizing on water lily pads,
is there nothing of worth to save?

Second version of a readers perspective which is???

If at times,
Clock's hands
Were pushed back
For years as
one may assume
the computer existed

Just think how the Bard,
Would’ve faced the music,
To clarify his newer
birth of words
Not contained in the dictionary.

What power did he wield?
To use a word such as musify,
As it then had not existed.
The Bard I daresay
would have had an
explanation the way

She paints him
colors to suit her taste.
Her actions mold him according to her whims
while he writhes beneath her gaze,
those dark lenses transforming
his contour, size and shape.
Soon she has him ready,
wrapped for her display called life.

There is one catch.
She can’t control his sounds
reverberating off walls,
hills or ears of passersby.
They overhear his cry,
“Let me be me or set me free.”
They catch his whimper,
“Must you refashion me
to walk beside you
on parade?."

The way she spreads her legs,
like a letter of despair,
as the wind bellies with
a thousand voices,
and her mouth becomes a tomb
of little girls, a cacophony
inside a stale womb -
too warm to sing with an eagle's flight;
angels pressed in her diary,
waiting on their second birth -
'till she borrows a half wing of a casual moon.

I have a demon,
I know him well,
He was a gift,
Sent straight from hell.

He is a ugly sucker,
Skin scaly and green,
With the most yellow teeth,
That has ever been seen.

With bulging eyes,
Drool sticky and black,
A horrible creature,
But I can't give him back.

He tempts me and taunts me,
Puts ideas in my head,
He drives me insane,
Makes me wish I was dead.

twiddles her thumbs talking
quicksilver
musical chair jumping
mercurial
solo recital twisting
spliting hairs
spit spat splat
the clack of express train
tongue histrioncs
outlining time trails lost
rarely found barely
matters
onto something new
to peruse
examine, ponder
to exclaim unknown
until now
to all moderns
insight colored in sunshine
rainbows and angels in
various shapings of the phallus
she has discovered
the secret
shhhhsh