Hang your head and count your cursings/Worrywarts are rife and welcome/Put a mousetrap on your purse strings/Soon high water; sooner Hell’s come.

Grinners laughers friendlies ticketed/Rants and ranters championed/Free&Easers get persnicketed/Dimed and quartered; amply dunned.

You don’t like it? Hit the road, Bud/Sunshine lover? Not our kind/Lead balloon and splat-implode-thud/Pull the blest venetian blind.

City limits marked with waxwork/Downtown’s square between my ears/My brain’s Gloomberg: Death and Tax work/Overtime to stoke the drears.

enter oxy exit cee oh two/let the good time red corpuscles roll/feed the cells come back for more and woo/the alveoli lading out the dole

for heat a sheen of vaporizing sweat/for cold a rapid tremor-matrix shake/a dreamful sleep makes sanity well met/digestion staves the cravings for beat’s sake

forgive me pretty please with sugar on it/i am so shy here, four lines shy of sonnet

the younger brother waits on the phone/for his older brother to find the word that is eluding him

and after a decent interval supplies the word in the form of a polite question: “whitewater?” “yeah…”

their conversation lurches here and there like a car/driven by someone learning stick shift

it gets smoother at the end with the manly I Love Yous and Keep Punching Buds that slide into well-worn conversational grooves

the younger brother pushes the red Off hangup icon but misses/and pushes again but before he does/he hears his older brother whimper eloquently

he hears frustration and loss in that untranscribable syllable/and more/he hears dim realization/that he is losing his mind a piece at a time/just like mom did

the younger brother feels a pang but does not whimper

not audibly

The painter wiggled two three-foot stretcher bars into two eighteen-inch ones and added a gorilla-glued brace and corner supports. They then used a staple gun and a canvas grip to affix fine linen to the wood. They primed the linen using the centuries-old rabbitskin-glue ingredients and technique.

In light Conté crayon the painter sketched the curvature of the ice moon, the circle of the giant ringed planet it orbited, a hovering spacecraft, and an infant giraffe standing with splayed legs on the ice moon’s surface.

The painter frisketed the moon, planet, rings and giraffe so that they would be unpainted when the spectacular background of stars and galactic band were built from Mars Black, Payne’s Gray, Alizarin Crimson, Naples Yellow, Titanium and Zinc Whites, and Pthalocyanine Blue. The background took a day.

The gas giant and rings and hovering spacecraft took three days. Red Oxide, Burnt Sienna, and Ultramarine Blue were added to the palette.

The surface of the ice moon took twenty minutes. A few dots of Cerulean Blue became streaks with a few deft strokes of a palette knife.

The painter improvised a semitransparent structure near the giraffe, with glowing, flitting shapes that implied small flying lifeforms within. Most of the structural work was done in about an hour but fine-tuning took three.

The giraffe was of Earthly shape but they gave it an unEarthly pelt of circuitry such as is found on a computer’s motherboard. A glowing giraffe’s heart, the color of bright sunshine seen through thin ear flesh, revealed the localized transparency of the giraffe.

Almost finished, the painter added implied distant sunlight, shadows, and a few unifying thisses and thats. They stepped back and wondered why something seemed to be missing, shrugged, and went away and had a meal and a nap. Upon return the painter grinned, nodded, and quickly painted loops of the whizzing lifeforms, in sharper detail than the ones within the semitransparent structure, encircling the giraffe here and there. A bit of glow was added to the giraffe where the forms flew close to the pelt’s circuitry.

The painter signed and dated their finished piece. On the back of the canvas they wrote

“Trojan Giraffe.” 18″ x 36″. Alkyd on linen.

The painter added their right thumbprint, in Alizarin Crimson as always.

Then the painter cursed heartily that neither they nor their painting were anything but a figment of a poet’s imagination. Their last words, making the walls of their magnificent loft apartment ring, were “I deserve to live more than you do, you cheap hack. Painting is HARD WORK. Poetry is lazy daydreaming!”

prostitution rocks/on halloween when trick and/treat are the same thing

the containers kids/use for candy are the or/iginal loot bags

a solar-powered/witch’s broom is tricky tech/lunar power’s worse

a bag of sweet treats/needs preventive dentistry’s/tooth preservation

happy all soul’s eve/may your tricks be solvable/your treats delicious

you can’t get fried/on cyanide

nor run amok/on hemlock

curare? sorry–petrified

snake-bit? don’t spit, nor them mock

.

with cigarettes come sighed regrets

with smack you lose big time

but cannabis in blissful sets

chagrins your gin and lime.

the dart left the hand of the expert player/and its tip clove the cork/within the quasi-trapezoidal section of the dartboard/that yielded a triple seventeen/to win the game

the dart quiesced in its foam-rubber nest while its owner and operator attempted to persuade/a much younger female in a cotton dress designed to reveal but not flaunt/to accompany him and his pickup truck to a nearby hotel

she declined

the dart next unseeingly saw the light of day/in the woods near a campground/where its owner, irritated by the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker/decided to teach the woodpecker a lesson

but midmotion of the dart-launch that would have pierced the bird/where her spinal cord met her head/an artificial wasp plunged its titanium-alloyed stinger/into the dartsman’s throwing hand

the dart missed the tree altogether/and was abandoned by its owner/who drove himself one-handed to the hospital/where baffled surgeons removed his necrotized hand and half the adjacent forearm

while the operator of the artificial wasp sent a drone/to retrieve the fallen dart and bring it to her/for documentation/of a successful field test/of one of the newest weapons/developed by the department of defense

as for the wasp/it darted homeward as well

the springloaded mousekill the flyeating plant/the holder of grease°line of questioning°web/the finger embracement°thematical rant/the souls being pulled from the beach on the ebb

bland protocol traps us in nets of decorum/deft headhunters trap us with dazzling enticements/swift factchecks trap lies in a broadcasted forum/a verse traps attention with sugerandspicements

and gravity binds us in vast looping spiral/high penthouses pen us in decadence heaven/harsh scripture compels us to stone and go viral/and crap games sing siren songs seven eleven

seduction abduction reduction and rape/enflankment embankment tank airless no breath/the scars of a lifetime are hell to escape/but we are all sprung with omegatrap Death

“As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.” –Blinded Gloucester in KING LEAR by William Shakespeare

he is naked in a huge sphere in interstellar space and cannot remember how he got here

the sphere is transparent and he floats near its center gently pushed hither and yon by a cool breeze

there is a galaxy nearby but no star near enough to be a local sun

he drowses and sleeps and when he wakes he sees another sphere quite close

it is blue but for a tiny human figure floating near its center

he realizes his sphere must be blue too

gently the spheres draw close and when they touch there is an anticlimactic clacking sound

the figure within the other sphere floats toward him and he wonders if it is their personal gravities pulling them together

she is female and would be far too young for him except he sees that the body he is in is no longer old is somehow many years younger than it had been

both of them instinctively put out their hands when they arrive at the touching place and their palms are mere intimate inches apart

her softly swaying hair and enticing shape arouse him and he blushes and pushes away

“children,” says a voice, “i plucked you from your planet after learning something about it, and about you.

“you are perfectly suited to each other. you never would have met but for me. and i have made of you a work of art.

“but do not rejoice. the theme of this art show is Futility. and the title of my piece is Pale Blue Balls.”

with that, the spheres dissolved, and the air within them as well…

but before the two could die of decompression, they woke in their separate home-planet homes, thousands of miles apart, their bodies as they were, with the grim knowledge that they would never meet in real life…

unless they defied Reality Itself.

That hot chick Maria Teresa/Asked a feller from lower East Mesa/If he’d like to get nasty./”Too iconoclasty.”/She said, “Wow, now I need a cerveza.”

A couple who lived in Surprise/Made a feast of six blackberry pies/And with bellies that strained/And their teeth badly stained/Caused a neighbor to holler, “MY EYES!!”

Far westward of Route 303/Was a Buckeye lad needing to pee./He dropped trou and drained ocean/Saying, “Please, no commotion–/Since it’s Live Free or Die, I felt free!”

In Scottsdale, In Old Town, a punk/On a scooter veered close to a monk./”You WANK!” cried the Brother./”What ho! It’s another/Yank-Dodger encounter! Who’da thunk?”

When riding the Metro Light Rail/You’ll see Freak Shows aplenty, and sail/Through the circles of Hell/In malodorous swell/When the babies and saxophones wail.