Wooing

The dead stars humble in their black holes, sing laments of when gravity was on their side
Hear it, hear it from the hearts you happen to get close to.
The drums of life and a drummer afraid to sleep for fear of missing a beat and slipping and subsiding.
Knowledge that comes early and only meant for the lonely with senses scattered and askew.

The stars that shine now, on a clear night, part of a pattern
that's speculated upon,
That with the help of numbers and names helps to discern
the reason life is such a longing for drops of options.

The stars glittering , casting spells on astrologers and cosmologists
On lovers and mountain climbers
On anarchists and on narcissists.
Knowing no one who has returned is a concern and the reason for rhymers

Wooing the shenanigans out of the quantum mechanics, greasy and queasy from exposure to one too many quarks,
All out of uncertainty principles and naked in the night, putting the spectra back into the spark.

Back To Where It Came From

The judge with unresolved grudges takes heed of institutional nudges,
The death penalty on his lips,
Surveying the soon to be condemned without the hope of last minute rearranges.
Surveying the condemned's sins dully cocooning his eyes, following the condemned's breath, just a blip.

The man standing in front of him looking like he's been bitten by snake.
Ragged from the eyes down,
A smoker with a yellow forefinger and thumb, tired of the wait.
Up against the wall of justice , and the moment they strap him down.

A man protected by the paradox of tomorrow.
Tomorrows he has previewed in and out of prisons.
Time that cannot be lent or borrowed.
His already dead part, on a flight of fancy , to see what is and what isn't.

The judge grunts, weekend golf thoughts mixed with the hardness of what's to come.
For just a second he can smell the insecticide of an exterminator, but it passes and goes back to where it came from.

For E and D

This sweet couple
surfing on
their heart's ripples.
Each an oasis of innocent occasions.

In a moon beam condition.
In that state
The universe dances out of range of the statisticians
And the devil can't get any details on how their souls relate.


These are sweet mates
Love is all over the place
Opening into each other's fates
Ground level grace.


Love is starry eyed and blind
And good at synchronizing the co-ordinates of lover's minds.

Pie

Selling Fantasies in the shanties
Representatives of the committees pitch their spiel
Privatized eyes still as snakes, picking out the pros and the antis
Focused and getting a feel

For the the psychological and cognitive weaknesses that can be adapted
to the traps of the crap shoot street
Using strategies that have been scripted
Much of which has never met a mind it couldn't delete.

Marshall McLuhan Mondays all thru the week and all thru the winter and into the summer
There's the physical world-- the river,the ocean , the valleys
A world the digital architecture tries to emulate ; but there's always a bummer
when you try to get it down verbally.


Whys in the sky try to fly
Clicks and button pushes search for the pie.

Wasted on one too many miracles

The sight of the world on fire from afar.
Napalm and new improved networks of lasers for the lazy man's way to wage war on the unanswerd prayers
of the puny under pressure amongst the ruins; without the backup bullies and without an endless supply of bullets pulling for them, about par
worse than wishful thinking , history as predictable as data dead questionnaires.

The ecology howls, you can hear it like echos in the Grand Canyon
And Marvin Gaye on the radio
Waves of emotion washing over the universe, kids spelling it out with crayons.
Not yet in touch with the buzz of Edgar Alan Poe.


Pleasures of plunder wait like lizards, venomous with spendor
Philosophies, that can be bought hot off the word processors , help to get rid of that rotten feeling that something's going wrong .
In between the terror there's the tender,
an indulgence that's departmentalized and handled with tongs.

In the wrong hands and at the wrong time, the thinking goes,
It'd be like God wasted on one too many miracles, strung out in the after hours, forgetting to keep on his toes.

Winter's Collapse

More of the same , passion without the brain kicking in
Hovels for the unacceptable, unsupportable by accounts receivable
of the the international division of the economic crash course within
as explained on the Oprah show by someone with gifts to charm and make it believable.

With angels in their eyes and demons in control of their fingers
and looking out for their base-- hear the drum roll across the divide--
more dangerous than blood sucking bikers
brain wrecked by rhetoric ad nauseum
bitter looks across sweet faces as they remember the untrue and tried.

Fortunately there's fortune cookie dualities to match realities.
What goes up must have an attitude for the altitude and an inner tube for the rip through the rapids
and an ability at picking the locks of predicaments that have a headlock on the socio-economic picnic's major modalities
and the ability to making the grab and go flat out when things get vapid.

Rolling over the death traps
Eyes together opening , witnessing the winter's collapse.