I don't like the Leverage

I don't like the leverage

no evidence to push in front of you, and then watch you try and see around it's pile. I then fold my arms.

no boundries for you not to cross while I lob rocks in your direction, and hide my hands. I stand teasing you.


I want the weight

I want to tell you

--what I want

and own every sentence.

That mind---that brain *fairly
loaded with Poe's Tales
and Shakespeare's rails

books with huge tomes


words from many tombs

Divinity cross
and your legs crossed
linen pants avoids a stain

a soiled body
keeps order in the brain.

I can only ask that you don' t fall in love with me.




it is a nusiance




it becomes an endless fireworks display that makes you miss work.

The Dispenser

fear dispensed


but

the invulnerability




excuses that doesn't leave home.

the circle gets smaller




the conversations gets tighter




the moments


even finer

I can feel your heartbeat and your accentuation.


your sigh and your magnitude of nothing.




the circle is getting smaller

my vision even finer



I am beginning to see you.

The Cultural Mountebank

the cultural mountebank













surrounded themselves with a vast array of art and music.



the offerings


Artemisia Gentileschi



Sweet Honey and the Rock






bestowed a grand memory







all held in their hand; easily dispensable, but not swallowed





















what does it all mean if it can't be applied


























marble floors


and echoes











My mind a minimalist





in usuable space













avoiding the cultural charlatan

I am a conductor
with a torn topcoat





a nomad
a cryer

ice cold to sneezes

and pleasantries.










confused,

understood,

angry and merry.







and my subscription is paid up
something is wrong.



Above all I am determined to see.

Terry's legs were crossed and pushed up against the glass facing Monroe st. I stepped in and

slide down next to her.

"You're late."

"I am a slow walker."
"Also an idiot."
"I know, a well crafted one." I said turning my cell phone off.
"Carved from a wonderful pile of shit."

"Yes of course." I said now looking at the menu behind me, and then back at her as she picked at a muffin. "A pile flown in from Savile Row."
"You wish, why did you cut your cell off?"
"What, and have someone disturb us? I'm not taking that chance."
"We're not in a hotel."
She smirked.
" I can't imagine what it is like to work here and have people like you come in."
She pulled at her hair and leaned on her elbows closer to the window.
"Did you want anything?" I asked standing up;she shook her head, and I headed to the front. I ordered a mozzarella and tomato sandwich, and watched as a young woman's hips shook slicing through a loaf of bread.

"I'm going to die M I realize that now."
"What? I think we all have a shot at that goal." I said again seating close to her.
"Isn't this a joke to you?"
"This sandwich? Yea 7 bucks with a bag of chips."
"No this." She said pointing with her eyes out into the street. "Look , look out there."
"Where?"
"Outside."
"What about it?"
"The people, the busyness."
I settled my eyes for a moment. My shoulders bowed forward as if I was watching television, and Terry was forcing me to wait for the good part. People careened back and forth, and the west's setting sun bathed cars in it's last remaining light. All the things that I have seen before. But I made an effort of trying to see things differently. Is it in the way these people walk; their accelerated pace and thousand mile stares. Again this is commonplace.
"The city life." I said softly. It was a common response, and I knew she wanted more recognition, but I was tired.

You are a spoiled

you know that don't you?





a huffer and a puffer
with no house to *blow



after midnight


you negotiate
with





your sighs


and your carbon dioxide



oh dear queen

your face red and pouting





you are still lovely

who is Ali Farka Toure
who are you


I have doubled back


cheap sunglasses and a pretty dress.


silent
but crashing.

The Dramatists

they will cancel each other out with all of their sighs,their paragraphs and their weight.


Oh


their bluster and their threats; projecting a pocket full of nothing while riding the busy wave of anything, and then returning back to their sighs, their paragraphs and their weight.

It is impossible to believe they wasted this go around with such a rendition.







This go-round that is on a stage,
that is on a stage,
that is on a stage,
that is not even there.

In their dreams


they even careen.


Their eyes open and their sentence continue.
The box tightens,the accusers return. The movie speeds up at the darting of their eyes.





that ungraceful illusion streaming out of their head

The Dramatist

I need room







I need more room to love you
the dramatists have filled the great dinner party,
their hands surrounding glasses and staring the way they do, at things that don't matter.



oh they are superbly dress. Their ideas floating above their heads for all to see--the darker ones are ignored, but the comfortable ones,polished and vindicated.


The directives are always hidden in the hand(the one the rope shakes from)


The Dramatist


(incomplete)

I must of given you 30,000 words




thirty thousand



I have explained myself and tighten my philosophy
I have stayed centered and used a different road.



I have been clearly recognized.








to me









I have stopped one train to wait on another
your not understanding me

The Big Empty tries to claim her

every moment seems new

she chases cicadas at night

drives erractic and smiles at me
the suit fits tight.
she fills her wine glass unsure of the protocal



"Are you serious? " She says

in a
A suit that doesn't quite fit


she is everywhere
and the
The Big Empty tends to its pit







her uneveness
this uneveness

We must clarify ourselves

what are you doing with my love

you are staring at the sun
and missing its reason













what are you doing with my love

you are dwelling in the rain
and forgetting the season

Do we know what love is?


is it the final question

I had a conditional idea
but now its unconditional

Am I naive?

I create a rule and watch HS break it,
then
lovingly twist
and






turned it





I allow her to do this instead of the ego. I have let her in.

I needed a new idea another way to live

A superstar; hard to resist.

so it seems when you are loving; when you are finding new clues to who you are. Bringing illusions to the truth.

Do we know what love is?
Because they love me--they do, all of them. Looking to see where it comes from I'm sure.


"is it my sex?" They ask themselves

still offering, spilling and unsure of their posts

I have created this atmosphere as the dictator to the unknown land.
A fucking fumbling isolationist who jumps on stage with an idea.



I have drawn those too distraction by their own discoveries.










all of us looking to understand what we already are.

she straighten her skirt and laid prone in the grass
I slowly positioned myself next to her
The park lights poured onto a pitchers mound and gave us ambiance.

I last saw the Dipper 23 years ago at my grandparents house in Michigan.
A jar of fireflies cradled in my hand and a pocket full of misgivings to quickly reach for.
here it is being pointed out to me again and I try to get comfortable.

"When things don't look the way I expect them to, it's time to stop questioning and start trusting."











Gary R. Renard "Your Immortal Reality"

but you have

could never give that up









the fresh flowers and house slippers.
freshly squeezed and its stainless sanctuary.


could never give it up for the coarse world and its beautiful cousin the unknown








*but you have