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The Best Revenge (For All Your Critic's Critiques)

Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

I Long For Stars

All Beings Considered

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

Informed Through Pain

Sometimes In Losing I Have Gained A Lot

A Man Of The Clouds

The Birds Are Such Un-numbering Creatures of Distant Hitchcockian Past



Didn't You Learn That First Lesson In Kindergarten?

They Grew (A Poem From The Imaginarium)

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Cuba Libre

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

Your Next New Dying Black Swan

The Factory of Resentments

When My Blues Are Gone

Expect Yourself



Silver-Tongued Devil

Within The Green Wind Becomes The Fall

Think On This--IF YOU WOULD

Open Lines

You Got Your Lilly Back

I Write This To Remember


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Sometimes,  He Goes Traveling

He travels
on the bus
on his bike
in the car
and in his mind.
Leaves behind supposed scenarios
dark clouds and her.
He thinks he's
on a holiday
vacating is what he thinks
he has to do.
And he meanders on like this
trying to make up his mind.
Is there a point of return?
So he returns at the end of a day.
Maybe mended.
Maybe put back together with glue.
Maybe half at a loss of what to do.
Maybe what he thinks is going on is all a trick.
The synapses have misfired.
Or his life is a blip on a monitor.
He gazes into himself and across
the Geiger counter eons of time.
He was told once, his life fell balancing on
the edges of a dime.
She may not be so bad, after all.
The key goes in the door.
Its good to see you.
Glad you're home.

Copyright August 31, 2005 All Rights Reserved By the Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World

Sometimes don't we all go traveling away from our troubles,
what momentarily ails us...sometimes just in our heads, others...well,
you know what I mean. This is an honest piece.

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