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Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

All Beings Considered

I Long For Stars

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

Your Next New Dying Black Swan

The Dreaming Life ( A Series Of Dream Vignettes)

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

All Too Clearly Now

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

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)

Cuba Libre


Max on the max

The Little Bird Said

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

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Chicken Fat

you've got your name for me...

you call me
chicken fat.

you think it hurts
each time its spat out
from your foul mouth.

but I think different.

I meditate on this:

fat is what keeps the chicken warm
fat is what keeps the chicken from harm
I think THAT in my head every time your meaty fist pummels me
or when you say your black words.

so every time you cackle or caw:
Chicken FAT!

I think on this. And I've studied it some.
I think on how chicken fat melts and sizzles off the bone.
I think on how I might be different when I've grown older.

But also on how
you'll still be the same blackness inside only
growing blacker
and still playing at the same see-saw game of
"I'm better than you"
and still having the
50-50 chance of coming up a loser.

Every day I'm lookin' in the mirror now.
I see a bright red robin tilting her head.
She sings about the promises of Spring.
I see a Lark too. She sings long elaborate songs of a
beautiful summer. And there is a beautiful wise Cedar
Wax Wing who can survive anything that a rough
winter will throw at her. And somewhere in that mirror
might even be a Swan. Long-necked and graceful and proud.

Where are you these day? Is it a sad bitter end to your
tale? You aren't even planted. No one to visit you in your
last garden. There is no grave. And no one to come visit you
long after you are gone. Not even the wind, Sir,

But I have forgiven you. Is it a child's forgiveness?
No, it is my own, now.

Copyright September 4 2014 All Rights Reserved By This Author
(these various words still stuck in my head from a long time ago
thought maybe in different words from different mouths)

All Poetry/Prose/Stories/Rants/Ideas Are the Sole Legal Property
of this Writer/Meloo/Meliss A Howells
Copyright Tilt-a-World

thank you

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