fiction 

tour of the park

do you love this world enough to save it?
do you love this world enough to be a monk?
or do you love this world enough to be a soldier?
nobody really cares about the theatre

a red-nosed clown rolls the dice & bets the house
vanity, apathy & vice… please save our slice of paradise-
please, cradle a fragile lilac
& promise to save these Miracles from the Blade

could you talk a seeker avowed to poverty into being Queen if you promise not to pay her?
what happens if you give the monk 10,000 golden crowns?
Is the vow of silence one of selifshness or selflessness?

let’s not forget that we are trying to construct an ideal world
not finesse our palette for hamburgers
although an ideal meal is one facet of a utopia
and the chefs are not to be sneezed upon by the man with a badge!

just because you don a tie-dye garment does not dub you a Ginsberg friend
and even Gandhi wore sandals.
heavens to Betsy comrade,
eat a sandwich before you martyr yourself.

dandelions strike one out of the ballpark for Team Cute
whereas the Japanese conifer stuns for Team Sheer, Awe-Inspiring Grandeur
the rose garden charms in twinkly pinks
while the grass is equally charming in its subtly I feel

Hope you feel warm Sir;
you are wearing the hide,
the very mortal coil
of 10,000 hatchlings!

we study this trunk to learn the character of “gnarled”.
take note friends.
its gnarl is a manifestation of toughness and the complexity of its environment.
the process by which it transforms the world into itself is gnarly.
we study this orchid to learn fragility in the face of intensely harsh, inhabitable conditions.
Thank Nature for her warnings.

instead of thinking about how you feel about plants,
temporarily consider how the plants feel about you.

my Finnish scarf is a virtue,
and the bearded man likes it.

my love for the hollyhock strengthens our bond,
and I imagine our relationship to be one of great mutual affections.

my bemusement at the gravitational disaster that the ? tree faces
may mildly bruise its dignity, but I imagine even he feels and appreciates
the occasionally comic guise in which Death presents himself.

Goethe holds a laurel which I’m sure he has Greatly earned,
and the oak wears a coat of ivy which I’m sure it didn’t ask for.

this Japanese conifer brings out the best in me
because it loves beauty and mourns ugliness.

‘dyou find Buddy Holly?
nah he ran off last night

People are prone to speak the truth to children.

This tree is wilfully quirky!
Bent by the world, it embraces its own curvature with panache.

Spitting is a willful act of rebellion,
and when presented with revolting circumstances which I am unable to change,
I will communicate my displeasure to the cameras as such!

Say a prayer for the prayer-sayers
that they may continue their crucial work
and a nay to the nay-sayers
so that they may consider the merits of yes

The lost souls slip through cracks & sleep on a bed of grass
The poet unifies language & compresses the uncanny dreamweb into a gem of iridescent silk.
I do not spin thread but I weave.

You can’t sit there folding palm-fronds into roses and expect society to support your whimsical specialness, ma’am
whilst others with all your credentials and twice your burdens place rovers on the surface of Venus.

Sun-kissed and strong, our tennis queen smacks that ball through the air, like the Star-Placer pinning Polaris to due North. It arcs in a true, golden parabola to the forecourt and both return to la terre in unison, as an acrobat of the theatre glides serenely, angelically, back to the stage on steel-cable wings.

at this point Strawberry Hill,
Destination of Dreams,
Point at which All Paths Convene,
lies glittering, beckoning!
our El Dorado, summit of poets & seekers!
What glittering verse I shall compose upon scaling its heights!
Our Quixote has become chilled through. The physical body cries out!

Now, $30 to the Sweaters for Poets fund!

Life is serious as the conifer reminds,
and I am going to stash Humor in my pocket for the day as an exercise in Dignity.

rather than the Summer of Love,
we dwell in the Summer of Normcore Passivity,
Technorapture,
and Personal Sedation.

another challenging day for the drag queen
as she relieves herself of her mantle of glamour,
shedding her petticoatt like an oak tree in the fall
as she lights up outside the liquor store,
scratching her head, robed a pink tux jacket.
the drag queen struggles again momentarily,
flailing briefly against the entropy,
then once again flings petticoat, handbag and hairpiece onto the gum-encrusted sidewalk.

Ingratiate yourself to the people indoors with a few dollar bills.

despite the seriousness of her woes, I just got a mild egotistical thrill for the successful articulation of another thought into verbal sculpture. A jewel for the Lyric Muses’ tiara.

Straight as an arrow, I refuse the joint.

The softness of my skin & receptivity of my eyes
lets me feel it all.
I have loved greatly, and I contain that love in my heart.
It shines forth from me and protects me.
There is no need to feat when you can create good energy with all.
Love everyone on the street and no harm will come to you.

Infantile and gentle, the microdaisies illumine a childlike sensitivity
that glows beneath my breastplate.

My afternoon is starting to wilt and I want an apple!
The apple rejuvenates.

The cheapening of the shareable .jpeg
has made the surface of the world a thing to steal & possess.

I don’t feel that the unconscious should be suppressed,
but I feel it should be brought to light and beautified.

The homies on the park bench throw me a wink.
They can see that my twinkle is on today.
I see that their groove is on a long-term slow burn around 8.5

Everyone has the teeth of the Hydra upon them.
You need to be able to throw Death an icy glare
as you button on your pearl choker and spit in his eye.
Tame death and walk him on a leash.
Teach him to be cool.

“permits and reservations”

I check me email for important beeswax and there is none.
I am spiritually wealthy, and I dwell in the land of plenty.

 

enTitled - even in the land of plenty, you can die of poverty
if nobody wants to throw you some bills for your palm-frond rose,
a few bucks for looking cute,
or give you a Badge that comes with direct deposit.

small flowers of gold, bells of violet waver in the air. a bee alights.
thank the Sweater for Poets fund for your sweater, and, thus blanketed- onward!
to Strawberry Hill.