Fear settles in ever more, on belligerent,
Raucous, incarcerated youths.
Anxieties are accelerated with coaxing,
By the antecedent loom of Mother Moon.
Inside honey candles burn in low light,
Forgotten for their grace giving flame.


A healing elixir pregnant with virtue,
Awaits the ointment’s bearer.
Once applied, they are freely
Given onto their inamorato.
Their cards hold, a future told,
played on the plane of divination.
Desire is lost at the highest cost,
With no back track means of exit.

Halcyon wails waft across the wind,
From woman’s subaqueous source.
With tears engendered from Eve's outset,
This reservoir mists into thunderstorms.
When over suffused with tumultuous pain,
The levy torrents forth rain,
In railed, rapid, downpours.
With drenched heads our drained tearducts,
Are again replenished, emptied in overuse,
From humanities many woes.
This why we cry, when emotions brim,
With a sudden need for an overt culvert.


Tableaus full of chromatic tales
Tell of times unknown, except
By archaic interlopers. They by trade,
Are trained on a thread, to trudge,
And tread, a different path.
Their interstellar employer, only accepts
An adepts creed for world dominion.
Throughout holes arranged in
Subquantum space, leap these Lords,
To keep watchful rule, over all
They call, their galactic, colonial estates.

Vessels bespeckled by multicolored
Jewels, are filled to the skirt
With miscellaneous aromatic oils.
Attar collected over millenniums
From lands both afar and near.
Each is aligned or arrayed
In a most pleasant, precarious way,
As if to affect vices sway
On the sinner as well as the saint.

Elemental ideations unseen, unknowingly
Incurs a scar on any curious onlooker.
Unable to move, touch, feel, or flinch
They are clutched up in a duty
For an outsourced Agencies' task.
They, the marksmen have the self
Scoped at the end of
The cross haired site,
In a hall of mirrors, within
The carnival house of life.

Truth in beauty being
The beneficent means,
And most ennobled measure
For the inspired mind;
One might well ask
'By what standards will we agree
On true art’s form?'
And 'Who are we to gauge
The muse’s high provocateurs?'

Grandfather clocks snug against
The walls, click the clack
Measuring moments lost
To the intermediary tick of time.
These chronikers are sluggish and slow
In recounted details. Experiences squandered
Away, in the free radicals of absent years.

Hell’s kitchen bubbles a brew,
On smoked cedar, of true ambrosia.
It tastes like an acidic absinthe.
Lurid enough it just might have been
Imbued by Shelly, Byron, or Keats.
A tonic true enough to take one high
On a cloud, when the wellspring breaks.

The Night boat ferryman is gone.
In his place resides an empty shore.
On these banks haunts a hollow form,
A late caller, who embraces two coins.
The black water, cataract and sodden,
Conscripts the nature of this hellion’s hand.
Will this drama suffice as written,
And amble in step, to the mark of his brand?
No. He is too eager for a meager gambit,
Who will play cataclysm's part.
So neither man nor beast
Make his audition. Temperance prevails,
With none the wiser in the zero hour
Of this phantom's thespian yarn.

I move and wiggle, giggle then smirk.
My backaches until my legs jerk.
I sit writing, like an unwelcome guest,
Seated at my own table
During a Sunday feast.
Urgent erratic motions, move me
Close to solicitations of graces.
Glory is sung, until the word is heard,
How my largess goes undeserved.

These expeditious adroit undertakings
Are marred to a snail’s trail
In over ebullience. Anticipating
The outcome only breeds
Unaligned circumspect ambition.
I push, pull, and then pollute my lungs,
So I can feel the unreal reverie
Of ingenious thunderheads,
Outpouring their provenance’s
Flux animus deliverance.

Simple herbal extracted tinctures
Given under the tongue, tide my ambivalence.
How much my myopic sight is in need,
Of supereminent cognizant spectacles.

The Terra, bottomless beneath my feet
Billows and embraces me under each
Intentional supplementary step.
Strong Earth Guardians escort this trek
With bone, wind, antler, water, fur,
Fire, tooth, clay, claw, voice, and wing,
In many masks the Medicine-Man, Healer
Prankster, Angakok, Tutor, Shaman,
Counselor, Priest, and Teacher’s sing.

Let us at end take in a show, entrenched
By lengths only the lunatic is sure to go.
The drapes draw open, lights flash on.
A simpering slender gentleman
In a black top hat, and long tailcoat,
Out upon center stage, does walks. In rote,
He announces loud, to the bristled crowd,
‘Please may I have your attention.
I invite you to watch tonight’s performance
Of high drama, humor, suspense, intrigue,
And a few things not fit for perception.’
The audience howls, cackles and gasps,
Watching their lives which came and went.
Such merriment spent when recreavtive bliss,
Is like levin unveiled in a tight cross-cross knit.
All, at once, are awestruck and given a stirring
Toward perdition’s road, in alluring hurry.
What high precipices in chime, they climb.
What lascivious lows are enjoyed,
While enjoined, in complete abandonment.
Then the curtain closes with violet palls.
The viewer is left wandering
How they ever made it out.
But this was only Faust’s first act,
With many staid solecisms still to follow.
So they tighten their tie, their sash,
And uncomfortably adjust their collars.
For the grand price paid forth tonight,
This may well be, the only sane offer.