A Fortress of Solitude

the frozen throne
and find some peace
that’s all your own!

into the ravenous mouth
of this frosted Sarlacc
who’s hungry to devour
all of your frozen assets.

Sit, if you dare,
on this Pit of despair,
but you may find
that when you stand
a piece of your derriere
is left behind.

Relax, if you can,
on this quiet hut,
but don’t retard
to think about
the crystal shards
that long to cut
their teeth into
your tender butt.

Stop, excrete
on ice and snow!
Forget the seats
you’d rather go!
Take the crate
that’s sure to freeze
and lacerate
your hind with ease.

As last resort,
I’m sure that you’d
employ, enjoy
this port, this Fort
of Solitude.


a bijou

A bijou

found on the ground
and placed in the pocket:

A tightly closed,
serotinous, and
silver-plated locket.

Rumored to open
only under heat or stress.

Placed in the pocket
to fidget and fondle.

a psychological talisman
a cognitive charm
a token of anticipation;

and for months it sat.

A year:
but armed.

Occasionally rediscovered
by a pocketed hand
rolled over in fingers
to be clutched and clasped,

this locket

without hinges,
without chain,
without hasp.

And then one day
it was withdrawn
from the pocket
into the palm

and noticed
to be opened
on its own.

It had found its heat.
It had found its pressure.
It had opened with time
from external stressers,
and it was ready to release
its full potential.

But it was quickly re-pocketed.
It was pocketed to be pondered

in order to wonder
as palms grew sweaty,
the bijou had opened,
so why wasn’t I ready?

It had opened,
but I could see
that the picture
in the locket
did not resemble

And while I thought
and failed to do,
impatience grew
in that distraught
and pocketed bijou.

That bijou,
that locket,
then found a hole
inside the pocket
and freed itself
from being confined
so that it could find
a place where that hold
would cease to block it.

And now it’s gone-
gone where to?
Somewhere growing
beyond being
a pondered
and pocketed

two-toned beings

emerging from a chilling starkness
two-toned beings shed their darkness.
perched and preening folded wings
they clean themselves and ponder things.
a’pauled by shadow they’ve led and wallowed;
enthralled by shine they’re fed to swallow
basking selves in warming light
these two-toned beings prep for flight;
and they, as pages gently tern
devote their morn to groom and learn.
these paradoxical two-toned ones
are dark behind and white in front.
the coldness of their hours done
is purged by dawn of rising son.
and so the gospel, undeterred
reflects itself to man from bird,
as one cleans wings for flight of nest;
the other seeks his righteousness.

sipid drool

Slowly and gradually it begins
with a pace that seems
that it will never reach the end.
A drip
at a time
A drop
to the bucket.
Then collected
and poured-
Poured into the pan
and then-
Slowly and gradually it continues
with a pace that seems
that it will never reach the end.
A degree
at a time
A slow
temperature rise.
It darkens
a bit
It ambers
a whit
It seems
a jot hotter
It tastes
a drip sweeter
but it’s still only water.
It boils and bubbles
and slowly it thickens
but it still isn’t thick
it’s just
a tick sweeter
a bit hotter
a whit darker
but still water
and still a long, long, long way to go.
Slowly and gradually it continues
with a pace that seems
that it will never reach the end.
A degree
at a time
A slow
temperature rise.
the boil roils and the bubbles burst
heating quicker than it did at first
getting thicker and thicker with barm emersed
getting darker.
It hisses and foams turning into a dome
of heaping froth and sudsing, seething, mellifluous broth!
Moments ago, it would never be done,
but oh how the palmates are suddenly turning!
It’s a frantic rush to save it and keep it from burning!
Removing the finish and adding some new
as saccharoidal varnish is brewed from the dew.
and hands getting scorched in the skin-searing steam
to scurry in a vicious flurry over a viscous slurry
to scoop up and pour out the musillaginous stream
until finally it all is off
to where it can cool
to be bottled
and become a

everything feigned

When did the world turn artificial,
where every structure is just a façade?
Our foundations aren’t stone,
but a cultured veneer.
Our marble is printed.
All our buildings are fraud.

When did the world turn artificial,
where plastic composes the treasures we make?
The gold is just paint on
acrylic injections.
Our gemstones are molded.
Our jewelry is fake.

When did the world turn artificial,
where food is from factory not from a field?
Our flavors: impostors
and chemical posers.
Reality poisoned
for profit and yield.

When did the world turn artificial,
where cheap is the cost of convenience gained?
There’s patience for nothing
and speed is the measure.
The quality’s forfeit,
and everything’s feigned.