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bottles & bones

It Was Autumn

It was autumn, and every touch seemed more pleasant in the autumn. It wasn't too cold, and it wasn't too bright. It wasn't too humid, and it wasn't too dry. It wasn't too frenetic, and it wasn't too quiet. Every sensation was just right; life producing perfection (that's what it was) from the carelessness of myna birds pecking at the pollen on the legs of honey bees; the nonsense of romance; a play.

I couldn't sense anything when I was feverish inside of her room, except that her thoughts were louder and harder (I could taste her thoughts, too); she was (be)coming lighter as I pushed and pulled faster and further; (this only happened when she was beneath me,) and when she felt my fever crown she'd push me down, roll me, place me, and then wrap me in her dank blanket, pinning my hands behind me, and when I struggled she said, 'No,' and then she would rock me to compliance; and my complacence shadowed my awe; and I'm thinking blindly, 'Am I present, or am I absent, losing conscious contact from this delirious dream, or is it a real scene?'

My mind wandered away as my head tilted towards the window frame. I could see the daybreak decant through the waving linen drapes, and I'd shiver and quiver, shrinking into the scene; and I then I'd feel a warm hand -- her percious hand -- stroke my head, and my lucidity returned again.
tags: prose

A Prayer Your Idea of Hope

This is your idea of hope

offering trivial sacraments and rites,

the complete disrespect of your rational Self

hoping for a change rejecting humility for an uncertain fantasy.

Your only higher power is the square root of negative one, an imaginary number for an imaginary dogma so you can cope with hope of fitting into this time,

your actions justified by silly decisions that have led to a concrete event witnessed in the present before the future

past the thoughts of regrets, pass the remnants of coincidences, not miracles, not mysticism,

worshiping unpredictability because life complicates the fear of death.

Feel hope in the shadows of insecurity, a more powerful motivator than faith in nonsensical and irrational beliefs.


the cuckold cries, "again".

We scuttle on the shuttle
within the bubble of humble

And we, I mean I, will always be the token, the souvenir, the pawn displayed next to the wicker lawn furniture frayed in a junkyard dawn.

Reflective but dejected. Rejected but subjective. Languishing between the pauses of nervous laughter. Sweet and sour syrup ladled on ruptured blisters.

There is a time (there is always time) when the change benefits another couple but not the single -- singles drift by the wayside once their role as the distractor is diminished and no longer necessary because the commissary is like that of dysentery;

so we are (I mean, I am) the emissary of the sluggish withdrawal from humility, tranquility, and peace, sublimating from an aloof aura of amor to a cowardly curmudgeon accepting even a petty paramour; an incredulous inamorato scuttling between the passage of a couples shared time.

"Thing of Beauty" ( draft 3)

Threaded phrases

only in moist dreams,
(could he) be
enamored by the boldness of her

flashing intimate things,
looking bookish and pensive
with those Tina Fey glasses;

and all that shy, creepy weirdo
could mutter were phrases like
"right on," "cute," and "nice,"

staring at those garter hugged nylons,
and the tear-drop hem of her skirt
flouncing with that oonce - oonce song.
tags: prose


Dear Lydia,

Your poem sings, each word resonating on its own chord--its the voice of the poem, the choice of words, the literary conventions that resound above the context.

I’m not going to claim I know the intent of the poem. The reader knows nothing (and does not need to know anything) of the poet’s absolute meaning within the poem. This is a personal judgement for me because I like sounds and the sounds of words and the sounds in words; I feel sometimes acknowledging the intent may create unnecessary biases. Like with favorite songs, it is at first the sound that we appreciate, and then the meaning and context follows, enlightening our perception, creating an elevated sense of appreciation: “Ah, now I get it” and then the smile and the warm fuzzy feeling--

What is a poem that does not sing to you: It is ineffectual and empty. Usually the thought “I just have to get to the bottom of the page” enters the mind. On the contrary with your poem: One does not want to read it once or even twice, one simply wants to read it over and over like a song being rewound to a favorite lyric --the words are notes; the eyes are amplifiers; and the mind is the speaker.

Thank you

Snapshot 7


I found a butterfly


the gulch

like a





penetrating  a


tags: prose

Final Submission to the Fraternity of Dying Poets

Composed in the lingua franca Kryptos (Dream Talk)

Another lonely night, albeit not in that negative light when even facetiousness and sardonicism are more than ineffectual--It started with the rain and ended with good by night made awkward because of your self portrait: Fucking Evil Art Rendering [FEAR]:

A hand brushes the forehead as you escape with the milked mist and you feel the flush rush as those eyes on you tickle your attention after a moments’ too long pause; a smile spreads thin over the gap between two cascading ridges;

and you retreat

of course

assuming assumptions were inappropriately imprinting the same tired scenerio you-yourself and other Dead Poets have coauthored and edited--that long dialogue across broad time and limited space, tilling up more archeotypal dramas from the collective unconciousness some call it Reality, others call it Dreaming--it depends on which side of the globe you are from. West side. East side. In the end, they are the same side, because a globe (aka sphere) has no sides, otherwise, it would be a block (aka cube) or something like that.

There is a time the embrace has no time limit. The moment is dependent on you then; however, you start letting go prematurely with impatience and that Fucking Evil Art Rendering acting as a black matter plug at the base of your neck, itching, tickling, itching, squirming to be actualized in some warm, moist form--essentially a brain stem with a flagella of thought, a dellusional extension as evidence for covalence:

They’ll ask you, "What did you mean by that"? and you’ll tell them, "Sperm."

To bail or not to bail, leaving behind that Fucking Evil Art Rendering of Mrogs, Snogs and Trís, Snorfs and Anhangas with their Enthusians--residents of Necrocity, a region residing on the fringe of existance, the border between Myth and Reality / Dreaming (not Fantasy / not Imagination), where Scylla and Charybdis coincide with the Sirens and the Furies: female prowess checked by masculine insecurity some call Epic, others call Tradgedy.

Are you lost in space yet, Mrs Robinson? Is the picture unclear, Mrs Robinson? Do you need another metaphor; or may I graduate from the topic at this point in time?

Dead Poets believe that when their head is down, they are seeing up. When their mouth is closed, they are talking, and only a few can hear them by lifting the pigments of that Fucking Evil Art Rendering, noticing the canvas is rather poreous and white-bland.

Dead Poets:
Ramble on and dip that Fucking Evil Art Rendering in maple syrup, slice it up and serve it out and call it a Missed Fortune or make it an acrynym and rewrite it so it says:

not TIASA: this is [not] all about some ass ...

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