A Beautiful Man, Holding a Broken Hand Mirror

He was my
best friend.
He wasn't my friend, at all.

He always, gave me the same lamp,
on Valentine's Day.
I always,
gave it back,
on his birthday.

He ate all the brownies, even~though,
I accidentally
used garlic powder.
I think, that we both decided,
he should cook.

He broke my favorite vase.
I never let him know, I cared.

He left feathers
in my mailbox,
and tiny paintings,
tacked to the walls, behind furniture,
so you'd never find them, if you didn't move.

He walked in, once,
with a ladder, paint, and brush.
Painted a shadow, of a rabbit,
on the wall, and, left,
without, ever saying a word.

When I asked him, if he was a vampire.
He thought, that I was joking.

When he asked me, to marry him.
I thought, that he was joking.

When, he asked me, to borrow, my atlas,
he hid, with his eyes,
the trip he was planning.

He dared me to come to his funeral,
wearing a red dress.

I did.

He was, one of the most beautiful men,
I've ever known,
but, he was holding,
a broken hand~mirror.

Goodbye, Pike.

No~one can live, as a mirror.

One Cloud Feels Lonely

ruby brown
was found, today.
almost drowned.

now, he is happy, to drink bottled, kitten milk.

human beings say,

"it never rains, but, it pours."

this is not very apt.
for, frequently, it does rain,
without pouring.
the rabbits' proverb, is better expressed.

they say,

"one cloud feels lonely."

~richard adams watership down~

A Small Male Fallow Deer

how is it,
that someone,
who we hardly know,
can rip our heart,
in two?
and, how, then,
should a lover, long,
be able to,
or want...
i stood beside the man,
i call, my ultra lith,
past the time of sleeping,
his, where he travels ragged miles,
and, i, just seem to travel...
in rolling hills of emerald,
stone fences,
too far away to care about,
or hinder,
where we'd go,
in technicolor.
and, there are no weeping camels.
a male, and fallow deer,
raised it's tender head,
with velvet antlers,
still,
and looked at us, in silence.
we're never silent,
unless, there's something,
dreadful wrong.
and, we're never really peaceful.
only in my magnavox of irish dreams.

he wondered, laughing,
looking devilish,
wouldn't it be funny,
if it was just a simple farm boy,
who figured it all out,
in the end?

and, later, pointed,
with one finger,
and asked,
is that the deer,
that we saw,
inside your dream?
how is it,
i ask,
laughing,
looking deviled,

how is it,
that as a stranger,
and lover,
both, at once,
can you rip my heart,
and, yet,
read my dreams?

~

i am listening, to the man, in the paper hat...

Fate of Cards

gray.
she fluttered, down from plastic rickshaw,
sat on kitchen sash.
gray.
wind pushed her into water.
faded queen of hearts.
bau~gula.

invoked for cursing, sick of love.
joining suds and old coffee grounds,
in drain.
beside the suicide king,
who had fallen, there, days before.
picked up from gutters,
south of main and cushing.

king of hedons. babylon.
both, now soggy, from different decks, completely.
covered in spaghetti.

Bikes of Tortured Girls and Paint

"I like to wake her up, when she's had too much to drink,
or, when she's just too tired to know what's going on."

"I like to ask her, things, like..."
"What color do you want your bike, painted?"
"Can I paint it, stripey... like a bee?"

"Yesss..." She'll answer, sleepily.
"Like a soft, fuzzy, bee?"

"Yesss..." She'll answer... "Like a soffft, fuzzzy beee..."

"I think, that may be categorized, as torture." I say.
That's when every man, in the room, looks my way,
and say, almost, in angry unison, something...
about how I don't understand men, at all.
But, I do understand men.

And, I understand why all the loved and tortured girls'
bikes, are striped, and painted fuzzy...

At Least I'm Dreaming, Again

"At least, I'm dreaming, again."

She said.

"I called in sick, and then came by to visit you."
"You were sexing with my friend, Miss Nadja."
"I tried to explain, to the both of you,
that I wasn't mad, just bored."
"Then, I rode that big green bike, right up a two story wall."
"It only stopped working, when everyone told me that I couldn't do that."
"And, I fell."
"All the way down, I just kept thinking..."
"I really, so love this old Schwinn..."
"But, it's going to hurt, like the Dickens, if I don't disengage myself,
from it, pronto."
"You know that sick in the stomach feeling,
that you get, when you fall..."
"Well, it woke me up. I was mad at you, all day."
Not really mad. Just irritated."

"So, Ultralith, what do you think that it means?"

"I think that you know what it means."
"And, I think that if I tell you what I think it means,
it won't be any different, than what you thought it meant, before."
But, I do think, that you'll be irritated, at what I think it means."

"Well...
"It's been since December."
"And, it's almost my birthday."
"At least, I'm dreaming, again."

Not Worth The Salt

My son came here, one day.
He knew I was sad,
about not being able to figure out a particular friendship,
and the loss, of lied to about, relationship.

As he left, he turned, and said,

"Mom. I tell you what I do.
I know that you don't always like it.
But, I tell you.
I tell you the truth, because, I respect you.
AND, I trust you.
I trust, that you will love me, always,
even if you don't like what I do."

"Never be sad, at the loss, of someone,
who won't tell you,
the truth."

Then, he said, "TRUST IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN LOVE."

"I CAN LOVE SOMEONE, BUT NOT TRUST THEM.
BUT, IF I TRUST SOMEONE, HOW CAN I HELP, BUT TO LOVE THEM?"

As he walked away, he finished, with,

"Someone who lies,
is not worth your purest tears, of friendship."

My son is twenty~two years old.
What he said, is wise, beyond a million.

People lie, out of fear.

I am weary, of chickens.

Much love.