Halicron

Ramble on? When twilight fades from the dying day and the nightingale's song begins to play sweet melody, filtered strains that echo down sweet lover's lane I pause, collect myself and of the air I slow inhale rapturous, the flower-laden night golden blooms fading from the light and wild things, yellowed eyes just past my sight breath deeply, of the dying day, while I make my lonely way down lover's lane.

He looked like Jesus. The Son Himself, smoking in the laundromat. Maroon beret, red wool turtleneck, dark jeans, birkenstocks. Purple granny glasses. Snappy beard, trim like you'd expect Mary's toenails to be. For twenty-two minutes he explained to me the nature of man and thought, the universe, everything-     "Listen," he said. "Listen," and his teeth were brown     under the influence of decay.     "Listen," and I was listening, "you can't- y'know, life man.     Life is this crazy cosmic whirlwind, it's like- life is-     Damn." He took a breath, popped something blue     and round as my thumbnail behind those oc

Are we A Mused yet? Poetry is the practiced cultivation of so much bullshit, in which writers generate a beautifully complicated series of cadenced and semi-musical rhymes of rhythmic structure, then present it in a purposefully obtuse written form, or verbally, with phenomenally bizarre intonation; the idea being that anyone who lingers around corner cafes or coffeeshops, drinking wine and smoking clove cigarettes- habitually garbed in turtle-necked shirts and snappy berets- must be justified in doing whatever the hell they want. This is particularly true if said poet is trying to convince beautiful women in the audience that they should s

Spark A lament! words shrilled in protest, an elegy in half-syllables and inadequate verbiage. Tears hung pendulous in her green eyes, a pianist's fingers clenching in consternation. She wailed because I did not turn to Him and surrender. It was not something I could give away, this cross I bear- the burden of failing, of succeeding, of loving and hating. Of all failures I give only to myself, and where she mourns, I am triumphant for having failed to succeed, having done it ultimately alone admitting only that I can be broken- in the darkness of closed lips, once, I betrayed myself. Above all else, I would have her s

She told me to walk her way, that so seductive way, with a shake on her hips and a smile on her lips she put a little pressure on my fingertips And then we were bouncin' and jivin', movin' and groovin', time stood still and rippled past then came flying like a forward pass We tore up the floor, then I asked her for more we were back on the scene back out living the dream Feet in the clouds and our heads in the whirl We clicked at the hip and I spun around that girl, singing We were bouncin' and jivin', movin' and groovin', Danced to the way the music was played Caught in the beat of a rhythmic gyration the body la