Home Sweet Home

Once a year we have an anniversary celebration
a chance to prove Cupid is a liar
because after you propose,
based on that expected nuptial thunder and earthquake,
the years prove his public relations
for this wedding bless
is a lot of pure, fertilized exaggeration.

Frankly, all that romancing
with such testosterone driven preparation,
followed by plenty of booze for some seductive hydration,
don’t quite result in those fantasy nights
filled with countless chances at some writhing ejaculation.

Oh the fluctuation in “come and get me”
with countless, “not tonight I’ve got a headache,”
just ruins that testicle functional feel.

And that diamond given with I do,
loses its honeymoon luster
before that time is even through.

What you get is compromise,
which looks a lot like being henpecked,
leaving the only thing you get to clasp with regularly,
instead of some firm supple mound,
is a bag when you have to take out to the trash.

The purpose of marriage
you thought was about steamy eves of passion
ends up making you smile at the emasculation in your castle
that is really her plantation.

Settling for liters of coffee and pop
to subdue the blue balls effect,
while she happily is spouting,
using some caustic punctuation,
all the reasons you have to be so enslaved
after that one night of getting lucky
lead to her pregnancy dilation.

We call it home sweet home,
having debt as the only form
of regularly being screwed.

Initiative

This is one of those really great themes. But it gets more talk than reality. Another of those subjects that sounds great, but seldom turns functional.

And that is no necessarily all that helpful. So that is why I have my own version of what constitutes initiative.

Now for me the most reliable form of initiative is fear. Yes, it really works great. I mean it is so effective.

And it can take a very passive person and make them so active. You just have to be careful.

For too much initiative can lead to too much stress. Don’t want to have someone keel over from a heart attack.

That is way too messy. Plus it can lead to filling out all kinds of papers and answering lots of questions.

Which really does take away from all the wonderful blessings you can get from the process. So I don’t recommend it.

Now there is always the preference of making it more interesting without making it more hazardous. That really is great.

Just have to be careful in the way you approach it. Have to make sure you always can use the person the next time.

Otherwise it can be such a pain. You have to start all over and that sucks. So you have to like inspire them enough to try, but not succeed.

This is a hard tightrope to walk. And knowing the how it can get such unexpected results makes it even more harder.

In any case I do just love to handle this is a good way. So I lie. Oh that makes it so much easier.

Now to accomplish it you just make sure you keep it believable. That is such a better option.

So we move on here and find the best method to create this motivation. Oh it can be hard.

But then you never know when it will work. So you have to keep trying. And then it will always bring rewards.

Or a need for wills, but we try to think positive.

Hey!

It’s said out the corner of the mouth,
after a quick glance to see who entered,
the tone has a hint of disappointment
you weren’t someone truly wanted to be seen
with the word mentally being spell ‘hay’
because the person is thinking,
“‘feed on this you old tired plug of a human.”

Then the conversations
sticks with trivial details,
never asking you about your day,
little comments added
to give the dash of secret lament
over wishing you had been
put out to pasture ages ago,
mentally drooling over the idea
that your mangy hide
could best serve mankind
at a glue factory.

Meandering around the indifference
like some sadistic prison guard
ignoring your screams
when beating you senseless
during baton practice,
being sure to always
point out with some subtle remark
how if you never came in again
nobody would notice.

After feeling you are about as important
as a rash you just need to get over,
the person tosses in a compulsory,
“have a nice day,”
meaning a prayer for self,
caring less if you even survive it.

A Duel In The Sun

Now again I find myself lying here,
hoping the crowd done saw it all so clear,
pretending a bullet did ruined my cheer
hoping they won’t notice I loaded on beer.

Oh we do this shootout every single day
helps to satisfy casino debts I can’t pay,
by putting on this gunslinger special play
making it look real the old west way.

Good thing we both have been using blanks
for that part I’ll always give my thanks,
can relax a bit during the six gun pranks
wishing I made a bundle like robbing banks.

At least my colt 45 can shoot something alive
unless the pistol in my pants that has died
its barrel so limp that under my zipper it does hide
been so long since it worked and made a gal feel satisfied.

But finding was to make that gun work again
on boxes of Viagra I’ve I thus been inspired to spend
so after this gun fight act even though I didn’t win
with a flash of my new stiff pistol some gal will call me friend.

Vibes

Well this is one of those things you can’t measure. It is the creepy feeling you get that something isn’t right.

And it nags at your because you know from past experience something will really be wrong if you keep the same option.

That is the down side naturally. There can be a good side too. That is the one where you have this gut feeling good is attached to a person or experience.

Now those are the feelings you have to watch out for. Because that is when greed clogs the mind.

But with practice you can manage to improve that problem. And maybe even learn to use it in a good way.

I’m not one who gets all that excited by the idea of sensing things. Mainly because of the times they prove to be wrong.

So often people want that edge. They want to know the future and be able to act like the prophet.

Good for them! Yeah knock yourself out. Go ahead and dream big. I don’t care, I’ll be there after you are wrong.

And meanwhile I will be more than ready to help you out. You know be able to save face.

Of course such help doesn’t come cheap. I mean you have to be prepared to pay for keeping a fantasy.

The price will depend on how much denial you want. Are we talking the level where no truth is there at all?

This really is important so I know how much I am going to need to lie. The more creativity the more I had to fake it.

I have worked up my own list of fees to accommodate this purpose. And I’m quite happy with my charges.

Normally the more desperate the person the more they will agree to cooperate. And that is the part I enjoy.

Well when it works out as I need. Which is not every case. Some people get picky about fees.

So I just wait till the really are needy. They the price is double.

Mistress

There is no time spent that is ever enough,
knowing nothing you do in gentle strokes
stops those siren vibes
that resonated in such a burning ache,
whispering the clawing need
digging so fiery inside
to appease that desire,
which always has to be fed
like a lion that is insanely ravenous,
being an addiction you can never appease.

Alone at night images come to the mind
you can’t forget the mistress
who controls your soul,
even in silence
no matter whether in your presence
it doesn’t grant you the mercy
of denying what is demanded.

Regardless of if you have to sell an organ,
there is no way to stop this power
holding you captive to that spell
ruining your brain to any other reality,
totally trapped in submission
over making sure every thing demanded
is eagerly supplied.

Then some moment comes to reason,
sitting back and realizing you are a prisoner
unto this paramour of compulsion.

One second of panic
and then you quietly go back to your lover,
pushing the power button on the lap top,
ready to check for latest upgrades
just to keep the one holding your heart
completely satisfied,
though you know it will never last.

The Color Of A Scream

In a world of noon and midnights
you only see darkness and suns.

Never feel the heat
nor the cold,
sterilized and chromatically
homogenizes
a view finder
within the mind.

But when your heart
dangles in the wind,
screams of pleasure or pain
always colorizes reality.

No Mercy!

I can’t take this one more second
time for a little payback has beckoned,
had it so perfect with my little act
park visitors tossing me nuts that I lacked.

Just when I thought I had it made
that darn ranger had to ruin my charade
all because he wanted more than his cut of nuts
could charge tickets to see other animal’s cute butts.

Darn sneaky rat had to go and get a dog
so what if he could play dead as a log,
then he trained those darn deer to pose
imitation Rudolph with a red painted nose.

When he manage to get that big grizzly bear
to put on a giant pair of orange neon underwear,
all I could do was to sit in such shock and stare
while tourist tossed him so many goodies with care.

But this last time really did curl my tail
after he got beavers to do mime acts on the trail,
even put their pictures on a souvenir lunch pail
time for me to end this outrage of his betrayal.

He thinks he’s smart holding his patron picnic
making the animals be serve kabobs on a stick,
let’s see how he hands when I scurry up his pants
and give him the curse of filling them with ants!

The Devil's Feathers

Soft of darkness in its deathly stillness,
visits in silence the slumbering innocence slain
awakening by the devil’s feathers.

For the hour has come
when evil’s playtime must pay its price,
as a crow of unearthly spells
descends from the afterlife’s dark skies
and gives flight to the musician’s dead heart.

Summoned scenes revive his sleeping rage,
as Lucifer lures his corpse from the earth
being the one to claim his prize
among the concrete vipers he has enslaved.

A token in blood is required,
drained from his mortal minions
who must be sacrificed for his pleasure,
because hell is hungry and Satan ravenous
for the taste of flesh
that acted as his fingers.

But they never suspected
the eve would come
where his bird of will
would conjure a messenger of his desires.

Each one that served his vile means
now dying in poetic justice form
so their souls could be claimed,
all on that one night
bearing the label of his title.

Victims and vigilantes
swallowed in the soil’s secrets,
immortality keeping its mysteries hidden
behind the fading outline
of black airy creature
who departs and then vanishes with an eerie caw.

The Screaming Scenes Of Seething Sunsets

I write to escape the mural of memories
awaken in the shuddering seconds
when some image, face or object
stabs my mind with a flashback flare.

Suddenly the pain, anger, love or passion
is as real and intense as before
as if thrown back in time to that moment
my heart was in upheaval
and I was walking on hot coals
that burn with either hate or happiness.

It makes my muscle grow tight,
blood pressure rise to cause my temples
to throb and pound so hard.

In my brain I try to give this recollection
some life and soul,
let the turmoil inside creating knots
breathe through my fingertips,
taking some shape of another world or reality
so I can inhale a peace to replace
what is driving me to the edge of sanity.

Words come to subdue the anxiety,
stringing them together as sentences,
while I allow myself a change to stroll
where my imagination can find relief.

Feeling a flood of rage or ecstasy
being such intense waves I can’t contain
or absorb in calming thoughts.

The only pardon for the torment
comes from letting the storm
blow across a page,
then I exhale that postcard from the past,
tranquility sweeps over me temporarily
and I can sit without hearing my screams
echoing from another day.

Lizzy Borden’s Condoms

Mother Nature is a hermaphrodite
and all the clouds have VD.
They rain Pepto-Bismol formaldehyde
from her bosom shaped like a penis,
it falls and fills vending machines used a chapels,
where sipping is approved by the FDA
as cures for prophecy baldness.

Toasts are made at a depositor’s mortuary
unto the glory of ecumenical hairdressing bowling allies
where lessons are given in Braille psychic readings
written as gospel tracts for domino prosperity.

Inebriation is given a neon whoopee cushion badge
before everyone marches off to a cinema all night car wash
offering a yogurt baptism by their loofah crosses.

The mind vomits another javelin
in hopes of piercing the labyrinth
where the hemorrhaging mural of afterbirth regrets
keeps the brain swimming in a septic tank,
can’t stop the menstrual infection of wisdom’s yen and yang.

Wading through the slime stardust basement
hearing Peter Pan play poker with Dracula,
in quest of a prophylactic
for the cannibal Casanova hiding in the john
who has a fanged Venus for a lover.

Feeling trapped in the looking glass
sometimes wishing Eden had been nuked
before creation went insane,
desperately holding a séance
to summon the spirit of Christopher Columbus
and prove the world is really flat
so it will stop spinning in your head
having voices that murdered goldilocks
with forty whacks.

Stupid Dog!

My owner is such a paranoid freak
about cleanliness he’s sure a geek,
wasn’t my fault that his stupid dog
started scratching his behind on a log.

I thought it was funny at the time
until this dude plain lost his mind,
decided Fido had a bad case of fleas
then figured I did to when I sneezed.

Now he’s trying to drown what’s not there
didn’t even bother to inspect my hair,
just showering me with such insane care
why he’s even spraying repellent in the air.

All I know is when this moron is through
going to make sure I give him his due,
wait until he’s sleeping on those sheets of blue
then I’ll rain on him with some kitty dew!

Stupid Dog!

My owner is such a paranoid freak
about cleanliness he’s sure a geek,
wasn’t my fault that his stupid dog
started scratching his behind on a log.

I thought it was funny at the time
until this dude plain lost his mind,
decided Fido had a bad case of fleas
then figured I did to when I sneezed.

Now he’s trying to drown what’s not there
didn’t even bother to inspect my hair,
just showering me with such insane care
why he’s even spraying repellent in the air.

All I know is when this moron is through
going to make sure I give him his due,
wait until he’s sleeping on those sheets of blue
then I’ll rain on him with some kitty dew!

Prelude To A Scream

We absorbed the morning like statues
cold and indifferent to its light,
eating the sun like swallowing a pill,
not thinking of its warmth
just tolerating its glow
because there was no switch to shut it off.

The newspaper sits on the kitchen table
rubber band still wrapped around the pages,
would cancel the subscription,
yet hoping this death inside
will stop being glasses for the eyes.

Outside the living room window
our neighbor mows his lawn,
it doesn’t need cutting,
but it keeps him from going insane
over being in a time machine that is frozen at 1991.

It is the last time any of us
felt the hour come with other than a thought
there was nothing tomorrow would bring,
which promised more than a yawn.

Tried resetting the clock to pretend
everything was changing,
if only this crippling sameness didn’t paralyze.

Haven’t dug my grave yet,
not going to write my will,
for in this hole where I’ve been living
there’s always a chance I’ll escape.

Ruts aren’t always prisoners
if you look for the right shovel to fill them up,
sometimes it just waits that occasion
when the brain stops sleeping,
suddenly waking to hunger to be on fire again
as life regains it flam and intensity
with an inner alarm ripping at the lethargy,
being a prelude to a scream.

Worth The Price

Concert pounding in the head,
stage lights mesmerizing the eyes,
sounds and sights twirl though the senses,
it was all expected,
so dreamt before the night.

But then comes that one magic second
when it all feels so incredible,
taking you like skyrocket
to a place where you explode,
inhaling that eruption,
knowing deep inside,
the cost of admission
was in this intense moment
worth the price.

CELESTE

She was named after her mom’s great aunt,
a gifted artist who tragically died too young in a plane crash,
having been given the relative’s picture as a child,
somehow deep inside sensing she had that same creative soul.

At night’s in her room she felt a presence,
it gave her peace and inspired such incredible images.
later she discovered they were from paintings
done by her talented relative,
and often detecting the scent of lavender in her room,
which she was told her ancestor wore as perfume.

When that power seemed to possess her fingers
how it felt so spooky and yet exciting at the same time,
then after that brush seemed to come alive and the canvas exploded
her insides became a blend of joy and fear,
wondering if this spirit growing to drive her to create
was really her own ability or was she being possessed?

Love found its way through her paintings
meeting someone at a gallery during a show,
but haunted by how again this followed the history
for the one who had her same name.

Still, her heart was engulfed by every fiery second of their time,
how it erupted in her expressions with such stunning beauty,
feeling so incredibly immersed in happiness
as if her life was somehow being blessed
to make up for what was denied her namesake.

Now the moment of anxiety is burning as a flame,
for she was invited to display her work in a distant city,
being a chance for amazing fame,
opening doors she never imagined.

Only thing that stalks her excitement
is that she had to fly to reach the event,
not enough time to drive or go by train,
aware this one opportunity will not come again
if she passes on this chance.

So she stands alone in her thoughts
being so torn within,
ever aware the reality of what happened to one
bearing her same name and career.

Tonight she’ll spent the eve with her love,
hoping the passions will calm fears,
tomorrow she fly towards her future
praying she’ll not follow the fate
of the one who went before.

LACE

Time threads it lace around the heart
squeezing it with serenity and fire,
soft, silky strands of nostalgia
stroke their sanguine memories over the moment
when an image or thought
sews a recollection to the brain,
others it weaves the black venomous strings
stinging in tightening sensations,
burning their caustic caresses across the soul
from a moment the past slithers as a cobra
across the mind with hate’s painful toxins.

It is an involuntary dance to a wicked calliope’s serenade,
replaying the circus where one once languished,
bathed in the bath of bliss and rage,
immersed in the swirling recollections
that twist the insides with their hugs and fangs.

Finding silence in the light
to stop the resurgence of screams,
mourning and embracing the pages of the past
as a satire and murder mystery,
where laughter is the stain of echoes
from visits to former lairs of happy face sunrises
and those when the knife from an abuser’s hand
still haunts with the image
of that dagger stuck in the back,
which killed one’s hopes and trust.

Tomorrow is the crow,
dark and uncertain
beckoning to a corn field
where you hope to find a Kansas for your life,
safe and predictable,
with a harvest of something you can eat
not having a taste that is bittersweet,
inspiring another journey
to the rollercoaster in the head
leading to a fun house of demons and angels.

SMOOTH

Glassy tongues gently
sliding those flatteries
over the mind
as if they were melted butter.

So smooth and soothing
by a silky voice that knows
what to say in order to seduce,
never telling the truth if it cuts,
because lacing the heart
with satin promises,
is a sultry raiment
that makes the mind forget
when a hand is reaching into a pocket.

Just whisper sweet kisses of temptation,
come hide with me
and I’ll make you taste pure ecstasy
since you truly deserve it.

Oh you brain senses it is lacking
details that you want to forget,
but who can ever turn down a massage
when you are aware
everyone you meet
is some kind of masseuse
so you might as well
accept the one
who stroke job has illusion
of being painless.

What Sleeps Within

Thoughts of hesitance
ponder the beast
beneath the mask
uncertain the truth hiding
in the heart unseen,
wondering the whirlwind
that will be stirred
when caressing
what sleeps within.

Fear is the keeper of hands
who must decide
to reach with palms or fists.

Remembering times when scars came
from presuming a gentle touch
would be enough
only to have fangs exposed
and stunned by the violation of trust.

But to extend fingers just the same
with soft delicate measures
is often the gift that truly dresses
a wound that heals,
until the sufferer
can do the same
for those also imagined
as a disguised creature
merely subduing an instinctive rage.

Canyons

There are so many times
when a gulf exists
between my daily life
and the places of my dreams.

A job that pays the bills,
but never inspires the passions
of what I truly love to do.
Home life lived more by duty
than by love,
because the burdens of choices
you know were the ones had to be made,
even though they didn’t carry with them
the blessings of complete happiness.

Knowing that options of change
would only cause so many problems,
so finding ways to fill the emptiness
without resulting in pain or sadness.

I lose myself in writing and exercise
using my creativity to find subtleties
of alterations to the things
that I must do everyday.

It isn’t perfection, but brings a special peace
while learning to seek whatever contentment
can be found in the dull routine.

Amazing how doing an ordinary chore
so very well an applying all the desire you can muster
warms the moment with satisfaction
until you forget it was so boring.

The Library

I came in quest of an exit sign
from my head’s maze,
some place that would stop the confusion
and purge me of those fun house mirrors
which I saw as my true face.

Convinced safety would be found
among the pillars of wisdom,
their silver sheen would shined inside
cleanse the sickness that sunk me into crevices,
sullen and saturated in shattered serenity.

Scrolls the sagacious scribe unfurled before my eyes,
they stretched a myriad of messages before my view,
each a promised paradise where I would discover
the slumbering scholar that slept in my brain.

It drove me in a ravenous pace
to taste each lair of ambrosia,
such succulent morsels of sweet mind pastries,
convinced with enough consumption
that it would fill the holes in my heart
until my blood could fuel my eyes
and they could see the person I never undestood.

But once I had devoured my portion
within I still found myself,
just a shell without any genuine identity.

Was in that emptiness I recalled
how in the quiet of my labyrinth
I could truly hear my own voice,
which sang a song uncluttered by facts
that hadn’t define me as well
as the notes I had known all my life.

Now I sit in this morgue of books,
tomes that brought light, but no fire,
waiting for a library card to my diary
containing the biography that is the real me.

Fear

A poet isn’t a person,
for it is a pure, overpowering energized terror,
an ice cream truck that runs you over
before you get a headache from the sugar.

The dentist visit not expected
where you are shown postcards of hell,
get a tattoo of rose,
resulting in an allergic reaction.

You upchuck lunch
after the menu starts talking,
pray to a vending machine
once the wind blowing from the cemetery
makes you only able to see
sitcoms about psychotic marshmallows.

Driven to madness,
which you explain as indigestion
when it only draws blank stares,
writing a map to a lighthouse
your gut insists is hiding in an convenience store.

What is verse?
Is that ghost in you head
appealing like a grotesque traffic accident
that is so hideous to watch,
but you are powerless to stop seeing.

Left impaled on a pen
with a pain that feels so good
to ever stop bleeding.

Scorned

Her steamy moods fear no one,
they are the smoldering and smoky signs
of her pending outbursts
volatility spewing her fiery sulfuric juices
across any face or textured desired.

The season of her silence is so unpredictable,
no rhyme nor reason avails her whims,
before her vomited rage spills forth,
nothing able to stop the power of her wrath
from moving as a hellish slug over life,
smothering the landscape
with her intensely scorching mantle.

Scorned by the slightest lack of respect,
ready to explode without warning,
death and destruction she doesn’t restrain
when her desire erupts in white hot rivers.

From her many pumice hats
warn to hide her seething thoughts
she’ll allows her ire to suddenly appear,
reminding how her anger is never subdued
merely has its moments of quiet
before the next time
that her fury flows
as the molten streams,
devouring peace and scenery.

Money Back Guarantees

His lips wound around my brain
in honeyed lashes of sincerity,
so sublime and heart felt,
the world would end before his word failed,
this saint of sales was a knight,
a pure crusader of the working man’s plight,
only veracity could come from his voice,
with a spirit being so golden and unblemished by greed
because his retail career was a calling.

Oh the facts spewed forth in intimate detail,
every facet of his product exposed,
nothing kept secret to insured
only truth was attached to his comments
for customer satisfaction he claimed
meant the difference between grief and ecstasy.

And to set my decision in a concrete conviction
he waved that money back guarantee
before my trusting eyes.

Surely with such insurance I was safe,
could walk out of his store with my prize,
aloft in the security that my purchase
would mirroring every promise made,
merchandise utopia found in this sales paradise
where only reality was vowed as shared
with every object offered
covered with this refund bond.

When my dream acquisition died
I didn’t fear or fret
for I had that document to rescue my disappointment,
happily returning it to the counter,
expecting this parchment to be my protector,
only finding out too late,
there was more profit in the space between the lines
where the exceptions made sure
all I got was sympathetic phrases
and never a dime back.

Dinner Time

My world fades at sunset
as night covers my dinner plate,
I look at the meal and there is no dessert,
what I once hoped as my feast
has been replaced by dull and bland buffets.

Gazing at that pitiful serving
while remembering when I imagined
such bountiful options,
not this ordinary entrée that doesn’t inspire
or fill me with the excitement I once craved.

Oh there was a time I envisioned a life
with every meal consumed at gourmet restaurants,
sampling succulent and savory treasures,
every day a masterpiece in mouthwatering morsels.

It would have been perfect and so amazing,
but those epicurean fantasies just evaporated,
a victim of more desire than choices,
kept telling myself it would change,
only as time elapsed the hope shrank,
until now I sit with fast food leftovers
feeling that memory withering as a dying leaf,
fallen from my tree of tomorrows that will never be
as autumn comes to my reality.

A Modicum Of Restraint

I can quit anytime I want,
all those who claim
that I’ve lost my head
to this supposed addiction
are merely jealous of my joy.

Though my family
are now memory vapors,
despite the useless dribble of that therapist,
even with my boss
having taken away my career
claiming my passion for this hobby
detracted from my efficiency,
inside I know in the recesses of my heart
they are all envious over my blessings.

For now I see and sense those shells of pleasure
with everywhere I go finding them appearing as an awakening,
as they dominate and consume my mind with a new life.

Yet, I suffer a visionary’s martyr fate,
just because unlike many who are slaves to vanities,
there is no weakness in me for such indulgences.

What they call a sickness
is to me being focused
at last finding the genuine core of truth
and I’ll never abandon this genesis in my soul,
because it is real life and not an compulsive obsession.

Masquerade Scents

Paramour paradisiacal nostrils
inhaling Quixotic scents
as Camelot whiffs
become brimstone odors.

Washed and Sobbed

When you get to that certain age
you got every reason to sob
while under the water from a shower head,
because no body deserves that drooping curse
what we get from gravity.

All those sagging spots
no amount of soap can make new,
even exercise don’t sweat away the wrinkles.

Course it don’t matter when you’re twenty one
you’re too busy just out having fun,
but after fifty there are times
that the morning really reminds
the Lord must have fingered
are skin looked better at an older age
resembling some well used bed sheets.

Problem is our brain doesn’t want
to stop thinking we can look good,
holding onto that hope
they’ll find a magic shrink wand
for what has happened to our bodies.

Which is why we cry under that shower stream,
especially after having seeing some young tight bod
still strutting around
and somehow feeling it is all unfair,
then telling the ones who saw our tears
how we got shampoo in our eyes,
forcing a smile
as we put on underwear of a bigger size.

Lay Back Days and Golden Pocket Books

The seventies for me were lay back days
after Vietnam and all the sixty insanity,
we didn’t have cable or personal computers,
movies didn’t need to be so graphic,
lacked ATM debit cards
and things were far more simple and sublime,
even comics learned to share a smile
with a special clever twist of irony.

Gas was only a buck per gallon,
dinner at McDonalds for two a mere five dollars,
amusement parks didn’t charge a day’s wages as admission,
there were countless scenic spots
who cater more to ambience and quiet pleasures
than souvenirs and over priced entertainment.

So many places to share with friends,
a certain innocence of being unblemished by commercialism,
where time seemed to hold its breath
while we savored every sensory treat.

Without the internet
life had a certain virginity of information,
no web sites existing to constantly peddle fear and paranoia,
talk shows were tame and not about,
insanity of people doing stupidity
while blaming others.

You couldn’t forget Watergate or the War,
but in the ease of affordable days
it all had its own special charm,
looking back with age eyes,
knowing I can’t go back to them again.

Beneath

Beneath the light that flashes its tinsel charms,
behind the eyes appearing hollow and searching,
are the riches hands seldom hold,
the mysteries waiting to be discovered,
of truth and lies buried where we can’t see.

They must be felt, explored with touches,
slowly caress for all their meaning,
letting the mind learn what is false and real,
whatever is of treasure or folly,
every detail that eyes can’t dissect.

For the stories dwelling
within the obvious,
those facades we wish were genuine
can’t be discovered or heard
from a distance.

Like a fog you can’t probe clearly
unless you are prepared
to walk into the midst
and inhale each portion of its essence,
know it so deeply in your heart,
will any person or place
lose their veil we decipher as identity,
allowing one to finally pierce each secret,
at last have a vision
able to see the world with all its flaws
as a beauty beyond what we assumed.

LOOKING GOOD

Now there is no reason this should be confusing. Nope not hard to understand at all. At least if you don’t get stupid.

There are all those who say about how beauty is skin deep. Like that really makes it unimportant.

And it is always the person with skin that is other than in this category who wants to campaign for inner beauty. Yawn.

Well to me looking good is a big deal. The important thing with that is packaging. Forget the contents.

This is where creativity is a plus. With the right words you can compensate for the questionable insides.

And that really makes it so helpful when dealing with so many people. Because they might say it doesn’t matter, but you know they are lying.

So I just listening to that dribble and agree. After all it will make them feel so good. So they will relax.

Then they will listen. And feel so good they won’t even consider that you are making stuff up.

So that is when life gets so perfect. Yep, they think you are their pals. The one person who will be trusted.

And they will be so darn happy when you show off their idea of looking good. Which always end with such joys.

I just love when I get a chance to bless in such ways. Yep there is nothing more exciting for me.

Now if it all works right I so dazzle I get to pick their pocket. And the never miss a thing.

Yeah, those are the times you have reason to celebrate. Because while they buy into the stupidity I’m at the bank.

Just gives me such a joy to bless that way. You sure can’t put a price tag on such happiness.

Ah, it is the small things that matter the most. And in this case I keep them small enough to forget.

At least when they ask where their money went.