another escapist creation

Close your eyes and welcome the festival
that never concludes but now and then rests
as the colors and the musical feel
sense and dance best when evenings are cool
letting cubes clink in glasses, kissing you.

Tasty treats emit in a constant tide
aromas woven with pepper and breast
(and onions were made to tantalize).
Cold brew plentitude to chase that filet.

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I guess anything ought to be fair game.
I say so after experiences
expressly designed to drive men bonkers.

They entail rabbit holes. They know
their cute noses and twitches and whiskers
are explicitly irresistible.

Thank someone managing the Universe
there are chances to come to one’s senses
and get to building a shrine of one’s own.

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further yearnings

Come To Timmy

a yearning reaches for the vast
continent of possible scenes
macro to micro, ethereal
and eros; internal eternity,

but a vibe in monochrome blankets all.
Pride, pray, is not here a player
but only aware of a state that is,
which one may say is for anchorage

contributing to earthly sustenance,
but to speak editorially
a seaside terrace brandy and coffee
makes all that is monochrome melt away.

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sentimental for Romania

Come To Timmy

of all the sounds and sounds of sights,
and of all the chuckles and wintertime
mishaps, what of Bucharest remains in
the starkest of standings? What else
but the outer space bleep-bleep-bleep

uttered by a prior era giant
born of concrete with echoing innards;
maybe something simple as a signal
barked at the start line as announcement
of another adventure, the hour

mattering naught; as something simple
as a trip to fetch eggs or bread or wine
meant reinvention of the alphabet –
though reinvention is not the best word.
I always blossomed best in foreign lands.

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speak of a homecoming

don’t know where to put what these days

Come To Timmy

when in doubt, retire to the parlor
be it to gamble or to pitch some woo
being no true difference between them.

Whenever the voices of demons preach,
Remember the homey lane gravel strews
as naughty tentacles from distant depths
are highly allergic to the designs
the ivy genies can paint with eyes shut.

Highways without end do dangle allure,
but the slippery aims win in the end.

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not ghostly or ghastly but true


the ball by the river is in full swing
and in sweaty attendance a newly
risen forefather derives as much thrall
in electricity as the music –
hearing nothing heavenly as guitar
and microphone bark and twang; and vixens
primed and dressed for dancing; darker news:
what future era can hope to top this

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this poetry’s ditch

Yesterday’s meander
so happily lackadaisical
had to someday taper
into an uphill grinding slog
just when the season turneth to thaw,

and the meadows level and lush
in virgin whites and decadent reds
a fountain’s busy pummeling trims,
all carry on in careless frolic
in what may as well be a postcard world.

The eagle is considered majestic
or so esoteric legends depict,
conveniently omitting a little
detail, such as the fact that the eagle
observes cuisines via scavenger eyes.

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