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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

Accountants

Shrine

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

TONIGHT

I WILL RETURN

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

Errands (WHAT ARE YOUR UNOFFICIALLY APPOINTED ERRANDS?)

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No Ropes  Love


You've gone
Papa
while I've remained
behind sullen and
city-fied.

You've escaped
the small town homogenization,
the Fargo-belly-up-to-the-bar horse jockeying.
You haven't been swallowed down a dank city alleyway.
You've crawled the hell-outta here while you
still could of your own volition.

You've gone and...

Every day I've skillfully engraved your name
onto left behind barely legitimized pieces of paper
so that I could remain living here.
I dwell by almost wits alone
in this skeletal home
which we once shared.

You've left me, slid under the split rail fence.
Daddy-oh, wag-tail long gone.
Oh so un-tame-able, unattainable, love.

They who live next door...
The "approximated family"
who approximate us...
with the very same moue look and
slick-grey complexion:
alcoholic, dysfunctional,
hungry, hopeless,
struggling.

There they malinger:
desperate-eyed children
pounding on my back door,
and a crazed crowing Mom-ma,
with a black and blue address
black numbers hanging ominous and
crooked above the entrance.

Later on in the evening,
I endeavor to plow through
the wastelands
of our many varied shadow lives.

Peer into the pile of bones
left in the bare corners.
Marvel over how you snuck on past.
Try to pick it all through with the twin knives
of my heart and eyes.

Mom-ma, she, sure doesn't want me no more.
Papa, you are the tale of a tail
gone lost on the trail to the West.

But,
I've learned to make some odd new friends:
with the Six Months Of Your Left Behind Bills,
Twenty Years of My Feral Childhood,
and One Year of Our Awkward Friendship.

(They keep me company, taking turns
when they can.)

I'm wondering
who's the one who's most unnatural now?
And, who's the one in their most natural state?

Who's the wild one, or am the one, un-wild?
Why haven't I eaten myself up with spite,
loneliness or hate?

And why ain't I dead yet?
You're gone ten years now...
so, Papa, how long will I have to wait?

We were both bogun.
Highly-educated, well-read Tricksters hidden
among the often garish but still well-respected richer class.

(Class? Huh?)

Why did we pretend at who we were?
Do I respect you,
now that you have left me?
Either then, or now, forever?

Now that you're over your search
for a piece of peace
or that cadence of what might for you, last...

City-fied, maybe, I was that Pretender.
All along I was just as feral as you were.

You possessed a fatal kind of self-definition.
Your life wasn't determined by just being a human.
But by being connected, wild.

I finally see
the wilderness as your fate.
It determined you
in the end.

No bars, no fences,
no ropes could have ever kept you
any closer to me. Held you in.

A little love is better than none.
(You once said to me.)

I remember the diner with the red-checkered table cloth.
It was our last supper. Breaking freshly baked Italian bread together.
You sitting across from me. I didn't know how you were already
hatching your travel plans in your head.

Early light the next morning,
the big El Dorado lumbered
slowly out of the
muddy backyard driveway.
Headlights pointed for dawn's red horizon,
compass pointing on due west.


Copyright 5/20/2015 All Rights Are REserved By This Author
Meloo/Melissa A Howells Straight from her real Tilt-a-World
all ideas, rants, poetry, prose are the legal property of this Writer
Thank you for reading..........










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