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metamorphhh _aka J. Crawford_ - poems -

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									                                           Poetry Series




                metamorphhh (aka J.
                    Crawford)
                                            - poems -




                                       Publication Date:
                                               May 2007



                                              Publisher:
              PoemHunter.Com - The World's Poetry Archive


Poems are the property of their respective owners. This e-book was created by metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)
on www.poemhunter.com. For the procedures of publishing, duplicating, distributing and listing of the poems
published on PoemHunter.Com in any other media, US copyright laws, international copyright agreements and
other relevant legislation are applicable. Such procedures may require the permission of the individuals holding
the legal publishing rights of the poems.
                                         metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)
                                         I was born in a hollow log, in the sadly unremembered 51st state of the
                                         union (I choose not to revisit that tragedy here) . Raised by an escaped herd
                                         of circus goats gone feral, whose leader took a shining to me, and sent me to
                                         finishing school, from which I soon dropped out due to lack of interest, and
                                         hygiene. I joined the merchant marines when I was 12, and travelled the
                                         high seas, seeking my fortune; which, unfortunately, I never found.
                                         However, I DID land a job with a small publishing company in Paraguay...we
                                         specialized in midget porn serials, and novellas based on reject letters issued
                                         by Reader's Digest.

                                         After several stays in prison, I undertook various occupations, including
                                         coconut inspector, village idiot, president of CBS, Garrison Keillor's
                                         undershirt, and smoke detective. I eventually settled into the poetry game,
                                         where I am immensely respected as a hack du jour, bon vivant (sp?) , and
                                         general n'er do well. I've finally found my perfect mate, after the both of us
                                         spent years with people unworthy of us. I have gigantic, perfect breasts, am
                                         covered with tatoos of various denizens of the animal kingdom, and love to
                                         mock people I don't understand, children with learning disabilities, and
                                         anybody else who doesn't praise, admire, and otherwise worship my
                                         particular blend of slutty feminism. All Hail Metamorphhh! ! !




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                                            2
          .Latter Day Stoic Blinks His Eyes in Bemusement

          Yesterday, looking out my window,
          and just for a moment,
          I saw everything as not-wrong;
          moderately surprising,
          as my day-to-day credo is:
          existence is something which should not have been.
          It may have just been the result of a heart flutter;
          judgement-suspending palpitation,
          dissolved in a instant with the realization
          that I wasn't dying at that particular moment.
          Attic fans spinning in intimate harmony
          with hummingbirds taking dangerous breaks
          on pine needle perches as wind chime vocal
          chords gave voice to warm fronts circulating
          through condominium yards inhabited by
          barking dogs and yelling neighbors enticing
          insects back into their burrows while children
          played and cried and motorcycles whined too
          quickly over speedbumps damaging lowriding
          japanese cars and unanswered telephones
          demanded attention from those on unemployment
          and others who deigned to pick them up.

          That's the way it goes sometimes.

          Is it possible that everything could be contained...
          or, at least, represented...
          in a sentence?
          Or a word?
          Or an expression on a little girl's face?
          I'm not a believer; but, sometimes,
          I believe.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                  3
          .Paper People

          They are the sails on a ship-in-a-bottle,
          bound for nowhere, moved by any wayward gust
          blown in thorugh the hole; ruffled, but unfilled.
          Kites holding shakily in the deep blue, never bowed properly,
          drawing attention through sheer gaucherie,
          and long, piecemeal tails that touch the ground.
          Grocery lists from Pompeii, poured over by inept
          archaeologists with misplaced senses of value.
          Orphaned novels bound without tables of contents,
          introductions, climaxes or plots; but filled with footnotes.
          Old socks still in their wrappers.
          Origami souls.
          Christmas leftovers.
          Passports into the locked men's room.
          Monopoly money.
          Subpoenas issued by the court of the achromic.

          I might have added something about toilet paper,
          but it would have been too predictable, no?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                           4
          260/138 (extemporaneous compostion)

          'Hm, I seem to have a piece of lint on my eyeball.'
          That's what you might say, if you were looking at the monitor I'm looking at now,
          and you'd probably be right.
          Only, mine's a crack;
          an opening into the real me,
          or, perhaps, an escape hatch.
          We'll see, I guess. Eventually.
          I break the pills in half to save money,
          or sometimes, I just forget to take them.
          Ten minutes ago, in the right temple...
          like watching old 'I Love Lucy re-runs,
          where you pretty much know the story,
          but you've forgotten the ending,
          and you find yourself waiting for the surprise,
          the thing that didn't happen all the other times you watched it,
          'cause you're just not sure,
          and the expectation's killing you,
          wondering if your cranium's filling up with henna rinse.

          'Rickyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! '
          Will it leave a bruise?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                               5
          49 Watt Thought

          I think my brain burned out the other day.
          I held it up to my ear,
          shook it,
          then threw the thing away.

          I replaced it with a candle,
          intuiting that a less perspicacious illumination might contrarily serve to make me wise:
          fantastic apparitions danced like drunken satyrs on the wall,
          cast through the lenses of my jack o'lantern eyes.

          Flame danced, then withered with the wick,
          and in the subsequent darkness came the end of all confusion.
          As for the rest? I'll say no more,
          but leave the curious reader to decipher my allusion.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                      6
          a bridge...(haiku)

          a bridge to nowhere
          ultimately collapses
          under its own weight

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   7
          A Call for Pardon

          Is there ever a time when ties can be said to be truly broken?
          When, tallied and measured and found unbalanced, words that once were spoken
          in solace, in rancor, in haste; or, simply to shut out the frost
          that lingers ever at the window, at so terminal a cost.

          Or, is the hunger of finality the search for dissolution,
          as it casts about in anxiousness for the untimate solution
          which might turn back the clock, unburn the bridges, and set the tangent straight-
          to bow time's arrow until it breaks, and wipe the writing from the slate?

          I pray that, at the judgement throne, I might receive the gift
          of knowing her forgiveness, and that some power had healed the rift
          within her trust, mirroring the day when I drifted from her shore.
          That she'd found the strength to persevere, and learned to love once more.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                8
          A Cup of Tea on Tau Ceti III (castaway)

          Polly: There's magic in the air.
          Anna: I smell smoke, and putrescence.
          Polly: I've tasted kisses sweeter than promises.
          Anna: So have I...where have they gone?
          Polly: Every new life brings hope.
          Anna: Children are liars who learn to lie to themselves.
          Polly: Then, why do they keep coming?
          Anna: Why do they keep leaving?
          Polly: I'm not sure what to make of that.
          Anna: Prude.
          Polly: Bitch.
          Anna: Point taken.

          Polly: I weary of this conversation.
          Anna: I, as well. Pass me a scone, and the butter knife.

          Narrator: Please join us next week for another installment of 'Upside Down Cheshire
          Cat Frown', or 'Mrs. P. and the Sisterly Mystery', where Mrs. P. will be heard to say...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                      9
          A Delicate Knot in the Cord

          Strange days, these days;
          in so many ways
          we differ from our predecessors-
          our ancestors,
          living lives not so very different from their fathers,
          or their fathers' fathers,
          or their fathers' fathers' fathers...
          and on down the line.
          In the big picture,
          will these times appear as a blip?
          A fractal hiccup?
          Or, does this exponential leap signify something
          more?
          Perhaps a door into a broader reality?
          But, will we survive our own fragility
          in days
          as strange
          as these?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                    10
          A Goth Lament

          A mountain of skulls,
          piled upon an ashen plain-
          circled by crows.
          Malformed shapes suspiciously human
          cavort about its foundation.
          Copulating
          Dismembering
          Gleeful
          Honoring life in the shadows.

          A sound!
          They scatter at the ice cream truck's approach.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive             11
          A Gray Day

          I never knew you, Spaulding Gray,
          but I think I understand you a little more today.

          (rest in peace, my friend)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          A Haiku Fable

          when God slit his wrists
          life issued forth forever
          stained and innocent

          with his dying breath
          God tried to take it back but
          it was an exhale

          all existence fled
          into the void riding on
          that mephitic wind

          dreamless sleep drifts on
          a null sea blind radiance
          a broken circle

          sequence extension
          pus from creation's sore a
          link becomes a chain

          cilia writhe stretch
          howl with the agony of
          organization

          feedback looped wedding
          ringed street smart ganglia fills
          up the pnssy space

          order established
          now down to business time to
          polish the mirror

          all strays accounted
          for the last has become the
          whole we are not two

          reflection is self
          Narcissus is sucked in and
          it begins again

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   13
          A large proportion...(tanka)

          A large proportion
          of our cognitive functions
          are visually

          oriented: surfaces
          juke us up. Depth just bores us.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   14
          A Physicist/Theologian/Linguist/Philosopher/Poet Discusses Poetry in Terms
          of His Particular Naturalistic Metaphysic(s) …Back Pocket Scribblings
          A Physicist/Theologian/Linguist/Philosopher/Poet Discusses Poetry in Terms of His
          Particular Naturalistic Metaphysic(s) …Back Pocket Scribblings

          A gnat, trapped against the
          Windshield of a moving
          Car, vomits up its life,
          Just moments before life
          Returns the favor…it’s
          Another fatal notch
          Cut into entropy’s
          Pistol grip, or bedpost,
          Depending on how one
          Looks at it.

          Derrida dipped a dinosaur
          Into a vat of sulfuric
          Analysis, and discovered
          Smoke-a double-edged conclusion
          To be sure. But, like Chomsky, he
          Was right and wrong, Or, left and wrong.
          Or left and right
           ……………………………..Like a
          Pendulum do.

          Conservation of energy
          Begat substance,
          Begat form,
          Begat sensation,
          Begat grunt,
          Begat sign/analogy,
          Begat metaphor,
          Begat horizontal masturbation along the Planck/Plath timeline
          (or, start anywhere you choose) ,
          Begat slant logic-
          That is, of course,
          Until genesis was ripped out of the bible,
          And we were left, stranded,
          With cover to cover revelation
          (Amen!) .

          Kant can’t.
          Sartre will,
          But nature won’t budge;
          At least, not on purpose.
          She’s a blind, enigmatic lass,
          Glued to the mirror,
          And pretending to be a womb w/a view.
          Essence precedes existence, indeed!
          Did anybody else hear a giggle?
          She turned herself inside out,
          And the resulting surprise came with a bang.

www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                               15
          Now, on to the meat of things…
          There was this little girl,
          Brutally murdered.
          Only child of parents subsequently
          Rendered sterile in a bunging jumping accident.
          The perp got off hands free,
          Thanks to the help of a conniving lawyer,
          Who, himself, eats puppies before bedtime,
          Though hunks of flesh and DNA were actually detectable,
          And still exist under her fingernails.
          Oh, and the little girl
          Also had a puppy, which
          Was also murdered right before she was,
          While she was forced to watch.
          At the funeral, the theologian performed a eulogy,
          And some members of the cast
          Breathed big, hesitant sighs of relief.
          And the physicist promised release from pain,
          And the parents wept.
          And the linguist discussed the meaning of meaning,
          And of death from sundry points of view,
          And he was heckled from the podium.
          The philosopher fared no better,
          Though some in the crowd
          Recognized his sincerity, and shrugged.
          And they were poets, one and all,
          Though they never acknowledged the fact.

          Oh, and one other,
          Who stood apart from the proceedings,
          Writing in a dog-eared notebook
          With the stub of a pencil.
          He was also a poet,
          And knew it,
          And, after finishing his piece,
          He quickly skimmed over the content,
          Paying more than some attention to the style;
          The flow, as it were.
          It wasn’t particularly sonorous,
          But it was tight,
          And, more importantly,
          It sounded contemporary…
          Then, when he was through,
          He promptly shoved the aforementioned
          Stub of a pencil into his
          Eye, and fell to the green, green
          Grass, under the glistening orb
          Of the unforgiving sun.

          Another poet, happening by,
          Dipped his index finger into
          The bloody socket of the wounded
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                     16
          Poet’s eye, put it to his mouth,
          Sucked on it for a moment,
          and was allegedly heard to remark,

          “It just doesn’t work…perhaps
          You could use the assistance
          Of a mentor.”

          Wrapping up, he and the funeral
          Procession soon disappeared over
          The hill, the sound of music emanating from their I-Pods
          Dwindling as they disappeared into
          The unforgiving face of the setting sun.

          VOTE FOR ME! Too late? ? ?
          Now I'm really embarrassed... forget I said that.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                      17
          A Piece of the True Cross

          He gets home before dusk on a Saturday workday;
          legs heavy from the commute- feeling the needles.
          She's finishing up the last of the yardwork.
          Avoiding eye contact, he continues on into the house,
          kisses the kids, grabs a beer,
          and is out the back door,
          into the garage-
          there's a little black-and-white TV out there.

          He wakes up a bit after 11: 00. Back inside the house, the kids are still up- no school
          tomorrow.
          She is already in bed.
          He picks at a few leftovers in the fridge;
          grabs another beer.
          Settles back into the recliner.
          Saturday Night Live comes on-
          a re-run hosted by Alec Baldwin.
          He dozes in between the good skits; doesn't notice when the room goes dark.
          Nor the kisses goodnight.
          Nor the blanket laid over him.

          There are other crucifixions.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                     18
          A Propitious Mugging

          Shake out the loose change;
          dig deep, with delicate finesse...
          what do you get?
          Lint, and a pocketful of emptiness.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   19
          A Seance for Pattykins

          She's taken up a calling
          that, at one time, didn't suit her.
          She says the spirit is willing,
          but for her damned computer!

          And so, with great audacity
          I summon up the ghost
          of internet intervention:
          GOD DAMN YOU! LET CIA POST! ! !

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   20
          A Short Flick

          Imagine, if you can, the entire lifespan of the universe captured on a one minute
          length of film:
          from explosive creation..
          through the formation of nebulae..
          galaxies..
          stars..
          then on to the age of solar systems; planetary bodies:
          mercury..
          venus..
          earth..
          mars..
          etc.
          Then, life:
          love..
          breath..
          hatred..
          longing..

          Death:
          the death of all biology..
          the death of suns..
          the death of heat..
          Somewhere, someone sees it so-

          neat!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                               21
          Abra Cadabra

          Back against the wall of a firewatch station I know outside of Superior, Montana:
          Green distance.
          Shadowed depth.
          Fading..
          Fading..
          We are gone.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                               22
          ah, Jenny...(tanka)

          ah, Jenny, wild child-
          gunpowder candle, traipsing
          cross country with your

          polio limp; did you make
          it to the Holy City?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   23
          Ah, Me- Bah!

          The human game is a silly one,
          for it thinks that it's more than it is.
          Conceptual pseudopods swallow the world;
          chew it up with the teeth of ideas.
          Digestion, fermentation, and absorption proceed,
          and the remnant burps up as 'gee wiz! '

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          All Us Kids...(tanka)

          All us kids used to
          dare Danny's little brother
          to drink water out

          of the gutter; I wonder
          how young he was when he died.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   25
          Alone

          Kids are away
          Feeling lonely
          Just me here
          The one and only

          Not much to do
          But write some verse
          Ah, well; I guess
          It could be worse

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   26
          An Advocate...(tanka)

          An advocate of
          tooth-and-claw diplomacy
          once told me, 'Shoot 'em

          all, and let God sort 'em out.'
          Naive puerility rocks!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   27
          An Analogy to Some Poetry Criticism

          'I'd like to bake a cake.'

          'Why, for god's sake? '

          'To express myself in a creative fashion.'

          'Alright, then; but please...hold the passion!
          Just follow the directions, one, two, three,
          and soon we'll have something palatable...you'll see! '

          'Alright then, I suppose I'll start with some flour.'

          'That's fine, but be sure to sift for an hour;
          it must be strained down to the finest dust.
          Otherwise, people won't appreciate the amount that you've fussed! '

          'Alright, that's done; what's next, do you think? '

          'You know, baking a cake is just the first link
          in a chain to the top...if you work, and don't blink,
          perhaps one fine day you'll toast with the stars...
          your face will be all over bottles and jars.
          Just stick with me, kid, I'll teach you to cook,
          and you'll soon see your cake recipes in a book!
          Your desserts will be famous, and...hey, what's that look? '

          'Could we...um...move on, kind sir? We've just now begun,
          and, to tell you the truth, you're ruining the fun
          of what was meant to be a labor of love.
          Could you hand me the nutmeg, it's right there above...'

          'Oh...no! Nutmeg has been done quite to death!
          What's the matter with you? Have you been snorting meth?
          Be original, dolt! Don't wear out that cliche;
          you can't use what everyone else does, I say.
          Now, you seize that trite seasoning, and throw it away! '

          'Well, alright...then how about vanilla extract?
          I've always loved using that stuff; why, in fact...'

          'Vanilla? ? ? You idiot! Could you be more predictable?
          I've never known a decoction more inflictable
          on a palate, that should savor the fresh, and the new;
          but ruined by hackneyed culinarians like you! '

          'Well..sniff...I guess I could try some of this, some of that...? '

          'Oh, sweet Jesus! Were you struck in the head with a bat?
          I'm afraid there's no use; hand over your toque;
          You might as well substitute wine with New Coke!
          I'm afraid that I'm finished; there's no hope for you.
          Go back to your trailer, and boil up some stew
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                 28
          made of rabbit, or muskrat, or...whatever you do!

          As for me...I've some fine vintaged grape on the shelf;
          I think I'll uncork it, and go drink by myself.'

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                     29
          An Evening at Home with George Winston

          Though I write a thousand poems,
          I shall never accomplish what music accomplishes-
          no, not even with one million strokes of my pen.
          For words always bind;
          even the best of them are as much door, as key,
          and I would gladly give them all away for the gift of creating good music.

          Music moves in stillness;
          it allows one to feel life without defining it.
          It attaches itself to any moment it shares,
          and recalls those moments,
          stripped down to their essence
          at its slightest urging.

          Music is fierce,
          raising ghosts from battlefields long forgotten.
          The pain of old wounds resurfaces,
          as notes beat a staccato melody on the
          calloused drumskin of ancient scars.

          Music is the place where past and present merge in cascading fusion,
          as 'now' becomes buried under the avalanche of 'then',
          and dissonance is swept away.

          Love, and loss of love.
          Fate, deliverance, and freedom;
          a reflection of the stream,
          not halting words such as these.
          A language behind and above words,
          touching the root.
          Poetry is, at its best, medicinal-
          the hair of the dog.
          Music is an elixir,
          descended from the spheres to rescue us
          from this cage of thought.

          Music is imminence.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                        30
          Andy

          When he was a kid,
          he would run through the house,
          gathering all the knives he could lay his hands on,
          before retreating to the closet,
          hiding up on the top shelf,
          behind the xmas decorations,
          and listen as his parents had it out,
          again.

          So, I don't judge him,
          nor do I pray that his soul be tormented
          in the fiery pits of hell,
          anymore.

          I just hate him-
          is that growth?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Another Dream of Her! (sonnet)

          Another dream of her! Another place,
          set high upon a bluff that overlooked
          a smooth and brilliant sea. Another face,
          an opal framed in raven hair. I took

          her in my arms and lifted her, then kissed
          her cheek as clownfish rollicked without care
          about our crystal citadel; my bliss
          the lure that drew them from their spiny lair.

          But, once again, the daylight came to wrest
          her from my grasp; like gold-wrought filigree
          effaced by some coarse rogue, her loveliness
          subsorbed into the nothingness of me.

          I know she's just the ghost of my desire-
          I only wish I could put out the fire.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive            32
          Another Tragic Figure Bites the Dust (sonnet)

          Another tragic figure bites the dust.
          Another life of hopes and dreams goes south.
          Another curving hip, and lucious mouth
          fall down into the acid mists, and just

          because- no other reason can I give
          to justify the way it all goes down.
          One day the bus of us pulls into town;
          we stay a while, but then it's time to live

          no more. We leave as fast as when we came,
          not knowing where our destination lies.
          The mourning mourners mourn the one who dies,
          then saunter off to carry on the game.

          No matter where you go, it's all the same-
          the book of life's motif is pretty lame.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive           33
          Apocalypse Deferred

          Creature of thought,
          see what you've wrought-
          a two-headed watchdog
          with no tail to be caught.

          Creature of time;
          verse without rhyme.
          Up the linear staircase
          to the gallows you climb.

          Man in the moon,
          strike up a tune
          and we'll boogie at midnight,
          as the clock nears high noon.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   34
          Art By Committee

          The child fingerpainting knows (though he doesn't know he knows it) .
          The man who leaves a hastily scrawled note of tenderness to his young wife on the
          coffeetable, as he rushes out the door to work; they both know.
          The kids huddled 'round a flashlight in a back yard tent, telling stories about lover's
          lane and bloody hooks; they know, too.
          The woman who sits alone in an empty house, nursing a scotch and singing
          half-remembered Rolling Stones' lyrics to herself; I think she knows.
          Most, if not all of us, know; but, sometimes, we forget. And we build shrines to our
          forgetfulness, and display our amnesia behind velvet ropes of vicarious immortality,
          and passers-by stare, and wonder at what it is they've forgotten; and the world turns,
          indifferent.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                     35
          Ashes

          Triumphs we don't know.
          Aches we'll never feel.
          A skin that we can't penetrate,
          on a world that isn't real.

          We tread on paths of symbols.
          Our heads are filled with myth.
          We suck on stems of metaphor,
          but never reach the pith.

          In music, brush, and spoken word
          the artist shares his grief.
          Until we've learned the language,
          we are stuck in our belief.

          To peel away the abstract husk
          and free the heart encased,
          is to live a life of passion,
          as our feelings are embraced.

          So, fly on wings of Icarus
          towards the ever rising sun,
          and though your flesh be burned away,
          your dread shall be undone.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   36
          At Best

          Sometimes, you take a chance.
          And even in the failing, the world
          is changed, if just a little bit,
          and not always even for the better.
          Reverberations are omnipresent,
          and prediction is a tricky thing.
          But, one hopes...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   37
          At Last

          At   last,   a   chance    to   do just what I want.
          At   last,   a   chance    to   finish what I start.
          At   last,   a   chance    to   run instead of punt.
          At   last,   a   chance    to   finally make my mark.

          Who    knows?         Perhaps    it's finally the time.
          Who    knows?         Perhaps    my hour at last has come.
          Who    knows?         Perhaps    the glory will be mine.
          Who    knows?         Perhaps    I'll taste that sweetest plum.

          And    now,      I   set off in my car.
          And    now,      I   go to claim my prize.
          And    now,      I   follow that bright stars.
          And    now,      I   briefly rest my eyes...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                             38
          At Play in the Fields of the Bored (a solipsistic externalization)

          When I woke up from my nightmare,
          it was much to my distress
          to discover my own godhood;
          but with no one to impress.

          So, I pulled the covers to my chin,
          turned over in the bed,
          and began the process over,
          dreaming starlight in my head.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                39
          At the Dung Beetle Carnival

          'Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Win or lose, everybody gets a prize! '

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                          40
          At the Museum of Primitive Man, Always be Sure to Listen to Your Tour Guide
          (from castaway)
          Do you remember all those smiling faces-
          alarums of the post-goo stage, when battles were joined across linen draped theatres
          of war with handshake swordplay,
          and blood flowed like ink, rendering the martinis almost undrinkable,
          as treaties were drawn and broken at the whims of advantage and popular demand,
          and borders blurred like electron clouds,
          as the potential of population desities threatened to detonate,
          while mouths masticated more and more and less and less,
          and skin punctured skin,
          because everybody was bored,
          even though there were more channels than ever,
          and hunger lived on the outside,
          but still ached on the inside,
          and eyes touched other eyes, and grabbed,
          and regurgitated, and good sense almost killed everything...
          and smiles fell?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                  41
          Atman Project

          I saw a shadow, and I named it.
          I challenged chaos, and I tamed it.
          I built a kingdom, and I claimed it.
          It fell to ruin, and i blamed it.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   42
          Be a Man!

          Steel yourself 'gainst love gone sour.
          Inure yourself to life's regrets.
          Invest yourself in profit's power,
          for that's the best you'll get.

          Laugh at those who can't laugh with you.
          Snarl at those who disagree.
          Confide in those who'll later screw
          your ass right up a tree.

          Spend your days at life's rehearsal.
          Spend your nights behind the scenes.
          Spend your prayers for luck's reversal,
          and wonder what it means.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive      43
          Beelzebub Doesn't Smoke Anymore

          He's read the warnings;
          the photographs of blackened lungs are horrifying,
          though those god awful television ads
          with those stupid kids
          moralizing about tobacco companies
          almost made him want to start again...
          one more act of defiance against
          patronizing dumbshit authoritarianism.
          But..
          no!

          Jogging is wonderful,
          and he no longer sounds like
          an even butcher version
          of Lauren Bacall.
          And food tastes better!
          And everybody comments about the fresh smell of the house,
          especially since he installed those gizmos
          into his electrical outlets.
          Ah, pine forest...
          to die for!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                        44
          Before Breakfast

          The bite of coffee made a tad too strong;
          or perhaps it sat upstairs a bit too long
          while I rolled with her.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive       45
          Big Pockets and Bad Dreams

          A penny
          Some agates
          A gum wrapper chain
          A few plastic soldiers
          A balsawood plane
          Some brothers to fight with (and to play hide and seek)
          Some homework
          A bedtime
          A sandpaper cheek
          A bribe for a bully
          A fumbled first kiss
          A kite and
          Some twine and
          A sky full of bliss
          A secret
          A promise
          A giggle
          A sharing...

          All of this lost with the pants I was wearing

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                     46
          Bimbo Akimbo Comes After Jimbo

          A woman entered a pissing contest,
          then let go in the dark.
          It trickled down her Vanderbilts,
          and thus she made her mark.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   47
          Bitch

          My muse is a wicked mistress...

          I try to ignore her pleadings,
          her promises of immaculate consummation;
          but, little by little,
          I am won over with moist whisperings
          of epiphanaic gratification,
          while the blossom of her ethereal tongue
          etches diaphanous filigree upon the
          knurls and furrows
          of my
          fevered
          imagination.

          Finally, though not without
          some half-hearted and, ultimately,
          inconsequential
          resistance on my part,
          the quill moves of itself.
          I sense her hand upon it,
          willowy fingers adroitly tugging at the nib,
          as she bends close, and
          breathes
          heavenly wonders into it,
          in a language I can scarcely comprehend.
          I perceive the miracle
          increasing inside me,
          like a loaf of over leavened bread.
          I fear i must explode
          if i cannot soon discharge
          that dynamic essence,
          which is both the source of my frustration,
          and
          my
          liberty.

          Then,
          just when I imagine
          that things are about to flow,
          she does it to me
          again.
          Her ministrations become
          hesitant,
          jerky,
          and indecisive.
          Words that initially seemed
          sonorous and
          compelling...
          devolve.
          They feel
          overly whimsical;
          clunky.
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive          48
          I try to get things moving again,
          even adding my own hand to hers
          in a bald attempt
          to stay this decline;
          though I know it only
          offends her.
          Her efforts lessen,
          becoming more mechanical
          with each
          passing
          moment.
          And my resolve
          continues
          to
          languish.

          This angers me,
          so I redouble my efforts at
          auto-inspiration,
          with a fanatic perseverance
          that promptly deeteriorates into
          a futile exercise of
          unguided,
          masochistic
          flagellation.
          It's only later,
          after I've finished stewing
          in the ditch of my
          prolific
          impotency,
          that I notice
          she
          is
          gone.

          Will she return?
          Of course!
          She is ever this way,
          and I've come to expect her
          comings and
          goings.
          She is elusive,
          teasing, and
          inconsistent.
          But,
          I need her,
          and I suspect it is the
          same with her as well.
          Why else does she come back,
          again and again?
          And,
          occasionally,
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          we manage to put aside our
          inveterate rivalry,
          and finish
          what
          we
          start.

          You might ask me,
          'Is she real,
          or just the ghost of a
          deliquescent mind
          dripping through the end
          of a pen? '
          And I would answer you
          in this wise...

          Whether she be the stuff of stars,
          or of dreams,
          she
          is
          mine.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   50
          blood and skin and...(haiku)

          blood and skin and bone
          and exhaust that smells like hope
          God drives a fast car

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   51
          Bobblehead Simulcrum

          Nod and smile, nod and smile,
          pretending that it's all worthwhile.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   52
          Bring Your Umbrella, and Don't Forget Your Hipboots

          The weather patterns are changing above St. Didacus;
          storm clouds have become disoriented, ceased their fuming bombardments, but all is
          not well...
          Be prepared for dense, stifling overcast, and pedantically impenetrable fog,
          as the red snapper is forced to retreat from the surface, and into the depths of its
          underhandedly insipid fishiness. But, beware! This species is particularly shrewd, and
          its return is heralded by a change of the sea from green to red, along with an odious
          odor. Best to not enter the water at this time; but, if you must, remember to take a
          harpoon with you.

          Meanwhile, from across the Atlantic, a new front has been picked up on the radar,
          moving in to fill the vacuum left behind by the recently depleted, western system. This
          new storm has been unofficially dubbed the Hibernian hellbeast, and its potential
          destructive power has yet to be ascertained. Be advised that the sultry winds hailing
          from this tempest have already been clocked in the 60-70 mph range, and are
          expected to increase, barring any 'Y' contoured obstacles existing along its predicted
          route. Anyone even remotely in its path is advised to hunker down and wait out its
          virulence, which is forecast to last between 3 and 5 days. Silence and eggshell stepping
          are recommended...updat.e at 11: 00.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                    53
          Brother Can You Spare a Pepperoni?

          I'm remembering all those desperate times,
          rummaging through my truck's ashtray for change.
          So many pennies to dig out, in search of the elusive dimes and quarters.
          Two sets of young eyes perched on craning necks;
          anticipatory smiles threatening to explode the tension at a good find,
          because a jackpot meant ninety-nine cent burgers at JackInTheBox.

          Our embarrassment at such a situation had atrophied over the years.
          Now, we were conspirators;
          knights on a quest for the fabled, plated coin adorned by an American king,
          with which we might procure a feast of fries-and-a-coke,
          while the great emancipator chipped in for the levy.

          Twice within the span of a few weeks, my younger found twenty dollars on the ground,
          and that meant only one thing:
          PIZZA!
          Was there a merciful God in heaven who appreciated our need for mozzarella?
          Only a spoiled American could believe such a thing; and yet,
          it was nice to feel normal once in a while.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                              54
          Butterfly Collection (4 stanza haiku)

          Floating all alone
          on a sea of butterflies;
          drowning in color.

          The hand of my mind
          stretches forth to pluck one out;
          fingers stained with death.

          From below, a net
          rises up to hold me fast.
          Its strong silk hardens,

          thickens over time.
          Inside my cocoon, I wait;
          try to hold my breath.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   55
          Came the Grey Man (parenthetically) (from castaway)

          It began (relatively speaking) with perfection (ideally) .
          But perfection doesn't (necessarily) necessitate uniformity (no, really!)
          How did you imagine it? Nameless homogeneity, (like) tapioca pudding, or a cloud of
          mist?
          (If) so, (then) how came such differentiation to exist?

          I named the parts I thought I saw,
          and naming them discerned (devised?)      a flaw.

          Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap; crraaacccckkkkk!
          Longitudinal (laugh) lines groan across the diamond surface like an old man passing
          fibroids in his (name a fluid) .
          (Newly) sovereign facets oscillate to a harmony of grinding thresholds; tectonic
          transmutation begets Tarkus Dasypodidae (suffer the ((suffering)) poet his inside
          joke) .
          Fulminatory blue-streaked chatter (Informational trespass) simulates integrity- (Who
          said that? You did!)
          But, like they say, one good encroachment engenders (what could be considered to be)
          a reasonably (pause) reprehensible (pause) counterstroke...

          (Crazy daisy, give me your answer true; how does one so (ostensibly)      extraordinary
          cook up such a tragic milieu?

          Pinched off like a post-modern hypothesis (circumcision by default) , the rabble rousing
          drifter awakens face down with dirt in his mouth (spit, spit, spit) .
          'What is this place? Where are the glyphs of my recollection? How long have I slept
          (and so on, and so forth) ?
          'Sleepy time is ended, my little grotesquerie, ' comes the voice from everywhere. 'Rise
          and shine; there's sowing to be done (shit, shit, shit!) .
          Soap opera tears rain down upon the (open) bible in his lap, mixing with the soil to
          smear across the shortest verse (unintelligible truths blur his comprehension of the pit)
          .
          Then he is floating upwards, passing through the temporal layers like a disembodied
          frowny-face sent home on a 3rd grader's progress report
          (metaphysiphorically speaking, for what it's worth) .

          In the meantime, the soliloquist tunes up (they can hear him in the rafters...

          'The (pre) -history of all things is engraved in this parchment of flesh bestowed
          (invested?) upon me by (blank) . I am the canvas stretched, weathered and split by
          uncounted (re) -incarnations. And why? That's the sixty-four dollar question with
          neither answer nor reparation, and I cannot but sound my outrage at the injustice of it
          all! Who is it that I have harmed? Show yourself! Make your accusations! Spell out
          your terms of redress! I cannot face this again! '

          Silence (but, he imagines laughter) .

          And so, the helium harrumpher ascends the screwshaped staircase (again) , scattering
          the detritus of his passing like a barefoot dowager shedding skin on a perfunctory
          peregrination through deserted hallways and vacated rooms barely recalled...

          Here a dusty trilobite.
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                     56
          There, some spineless jelly.
          And further on, a chitinous whatchamacallit-
          (it giggles when you tickle its belly) .

          Getting into the swing of it, despite himself...

          Protoplasm roiling,
          cold blood boiling,
          sea-sons reach the shore.
          The might have been rich
          in their cozy little niche,
          but their metamorphic itch wanted more.

          Yeah, baby! Roll dem bones...

          Vertebrate conscripts standing tall,
          marching in review;
          what a silly thing to do,
          and so far to fall.

          Gliding, sliding, riding the warm currents from below:
          sand shark, man-shark spies a landmark built of woe.
          Blood in the mud, and bouquets of hope arranged in leaky vases-
          oodles and caboodles of forget-me-nots, sprouting from corpses' asses (or, Jacob's
          ladder?) .

          And the surrogate savior comes into his own, with a song on his lips (but a sigh in his
          heart) ...

          'The logos came from heaven,
          and parceled out the blame;
          he said he'd live forever,
          but they killed him just the same.

          Well, time's a wasting...'

          (He quickly rose to the top, becoming the primary west coast representative for the
          second largest 'Priest of the Day' toilet tissue company in the tri-state area)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                     57
          Can't Bring Myself to Say It

          When I opened my          eyes,
          I found distance.
          When I opened my          ears,
          I heard lies.
          When I opened my          mouth,
          I spoke gibberish.
          When I opened my          heart,
          I realized
          that
          nothing
          else
          matters
          but...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   58
          Carniverous Conclusion

          Eat to live, or live to eat,
          you'll soon be something else's meat;
          for whatever course your heart has laid,
          that last horizon is a guillotine's blade.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Cary

          Just got the news last night,
          from his mom through the ex-wife.
          Shot down on McKenzie St...
          two guys;
          one caught already,
          one still on the prowl.
          I don't know the details yet,
          but I can speculate-
          black kid out,
          late at night,
          perhaps mistaken as a rival gangsta
          on the wrong turf.
          Or, maybe
          he just rubbed up against somebody
          the wrong way...
          he always had a mouth on him, that one.
          That's why his mother sent him back east,
          to live with his brother for a while.
          Keep him out of trouble,
          she hoped.
          I didn't even know he was back in town,
          hadn't seen him for ages,
          since before the divorce.
          He always had a big smile for me, 'cause,
          on holidays,
          I'd haul the Webber out onto the front lawn,
          fire it up,
          and barbeque my special chicken wings...
          teriyaki, and fucking spicy!
          He told me he could smell it from his house,
          and he'd always be sure to walk by on those days,
          and I'd feed him,
          and we'd talk for a few minutes,
          and then he'd be on his way again.
          He had such a pretty face;
          big white eyes and teeth
          standing out against his dark skin.
          We always thought he looked
          like Kobe Bryant
          (my ex and kids were black,
          so we were allowed to think such things) .
          Sometimes I'd cook up some dessert or other,
          and I'd walk over to his house,
          and hand him some through his open bedroom window.
          I think he thought it was kinda weird,
          somebody doing something like that
          for no apparent reason.
          But, you know,
          I'm not even sure if I spelled
          his name right in the title...
          I guess everything evens out.

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          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   61
          Cheap Date

          She urged me on,
          then fell asleep while I played
          incompetent guitar
          (yes, I'm blaming the guitar!) .
          I whispered 'good night, I love you'
          into the slightly static silence,
          and pushed the button.
          She called back 26 seconds later,
          angry at herself for falling asleep
          without saying goodnight.
          I forgave her,
          then she made me promise
          to call her before I fell asleep tonight,
          just so she can say goodnight again.
          I probably will...
          oh, who the hell am I kidding?
          The connection fee is only a dollar a day,
          with unlimited minutes on our plan...
          love is easy!

          Post Script: And, wouldn't you know it...I fell asleep,
          and broke my promise. Cupid's arrows are obviously
          cast
          in
          iron(y) .

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                     62
          Chuckwagon Wheel

          Ouroborus, that hungry snake,
          found nought of what he might partake.
          In desperate straits, his tail he curled,
          then ate himself, and shat the world.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Clean Slate

          Pity for one and all
          of the victims, who,
          crossing the threshold into the world of adulthood,
          wave goodbye to a time
          when life actually meant something,
          precisely because it had no meaning
          other than that offered by the present.
          A time when today was just today,
          and not a thousand tomorrows of struggle,
          uncertainty,
          loss;
          though all these existed then,
          but not forever.
          When being rocked to sleep in someone's arms-
          any arms-
          was enough to begin again.

          Dare we visit our poison upon such as these,
          and not fear an accounting?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                 64
          Coal Miners in Ochre Robes

          Chip away, peel away, peel away, chip;
          keep your nose to the grindstone-
          don't give me no lip!

          Peel away, chip away, cut away, peel;
          take it down to the bedrock,
          and show me what's real.

          Dust it off, wash it off, polish, and buff
          'til it's clear like a diamond-
          I'll say when's enough!

          Take a quick peek in the mirror, and then,
          toss it back in the dust
          to start over again.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive        65
          Coming to My Senses

          Behind the picture windows,
          twice believed to be one-way mirrors,
          unknuckled, photon fingers
          encounter barriers,
          and retreat. Sight within sight
          whimpers. Sight
          behind sight ponders. Sight
          beyond sight,
          illusory as the rest,
          pops its head up now and
          again, unchained; a rarity!
          Inside the drumhead, imminence
          by proxy sounds the distant
          retreat; Dopplered, schizophrenic
          voices send mixed signals along
          the underground faultlines; exotic
          gasses escape from below,
          bringing with them memories of
          time, place, and other falsehoods.
          Laughter, communication, and
          primal desire become entangled
          until there's no knowing one
          from the other. On top of
          which...it makes her squirm.
          However, the projectionist is
          dissappointed. Art imitates
          life. Art imitates
          life. Art IMITATES

          life.

          madness.

          madness.

          madness, and the accompanying
          chagrin.

          madness.

          madness.

          An opening, a
          breach.

          touch.

          no, not touch...
          merging.

          no, not merging...
          recognition.
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          no, not recognition...
          the tautology.

          .............................

          .............................

          ............................

          break the circle.

          extend the line.

          twist.

          join the ends,
          out of time.

          the tautology.

          never else.

          Madness...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   67
          Composed in the Shitter at Work

          Hanging windows in mobile homes
          for the pittance they call pay.

          Kenny says he's 'had enough! ',
          but he shows up every day.

          Or, maybe he means something else;
          it's not for me to say.

          codicil:
          Perhaps it's all for someone else's sake-
          chains of love are the hardest sort to break.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Contrition

          If I should die with tears in my eyes,
          be glad for me, if you be my friend,
          for you'll know I died with enough wits left about me to remember my regrets.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                           69
          Crows Cry...(haiku)

          crows cry their wisdom
          to the ravaged sacrifice
          it offers its throat

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Cucking Funt

          I read a cucking funt on here today.
          As usual, the litch had bittle to say.
          Just more shullbit about the big, bad boys,
          who force her to fill up her tooze with coys
          (At least, that's her excuse) .

          One wonders; now that she's returned to form,
          will her woyfriend's banker be tucked up nice and warm
          between those tamous fits she brags about?
          I'm sure she'll tell us how it all ums cout.

          (Oops! Just had a vision of her cent over the bouch...ugh! There loes my gunch!)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                              71
          Dark, the Raven...(sonnet)

          Dark, the raven tracks his prey across the
          fading sky, the pinions of his passing
          scattering on the wind like ebon ash. He
          pauses briefly in his everlasting

          chase to take account of other quarry
          near at had; one baleful, lidless eye leers
          down upon the scene below, the hoary
          fowl reflecting on the apish squatters

          huddled under talismans of brand and
          beacon- midgets of mortality whose
          small, quixotic souls bear, nonetheless, grand
          hopes of staying out beyond their curfews.

          Bored with evanescents and their dreaming,
          Dark, the raven reassumes his scheming.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Daughter (upon the occasion of high school graduation)

          Enchant me, dear heart, with your pirouettes;
          you know I am in thrall to your revolutions.
          Only, face me from time to time as you wander toward the stars-
          gravity is far reaching, and there will always be that tug from your satellite,
          and the disinclination to break free.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                             73
          Dear Santa...

          He's a wonderful boy,
          an extremely talented musician,
          and my daughter's friend,
          and today,
          he found out he's H.I.V. positive...

          while I'm busy cursing God at the top of my lungs,
          won't somebody pray for him?
          I'm not too proud to beg...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                74
          Deconstruction Blues

          The yo-yo stops mid-twirl, and something's changed;
          the world has rearranged itself
          again.
          A spider eats the thread it's spun, and climbs
          the spreading web of time; intent,
          but blind.

          'Smooth out the wrinkles!
          Wipe out the borders!
          Call in the favors!
          Obey my...requests.'

          Watch the cities crumble, little one.
          The foreman's gone to dinner (whispers) ...watch this pun!
          His backward feet across the yard recede
          into the fields of yesterday's pre-deed.

          'Who is this, grandfather? ' asked little Rat.
          'Appears to be a whirlwind in a hat.'
          'I'm not sure that it knows which way to go.'
          'What makes you think, young man, there's aught to know? '

          Monkeys going apeshit!
          But, a little less so;
          they've tired themselves out...
          rest, hairy ones.
          Sleep, merry ones;
          the spring is winding down.
          Or,
          was that before?
          I forget,
          and there's no one to remind me anymore.
          Back down to dust you go...
          slowly
          quietly
          the show is packing up,
          and leaving town,
          packing its own litter
          as it goes.

          Counter clockwise spin, without reference;
          lonely moonchild breaks his curfew, jumps the fence
          of Oedipal injunction, a boy without a clue...
          he is gone now,
          disappeared into the blue-
          batwings in a witches brew.

          'See, I've captured it on film this far;
          on Polaroid, no less!
          Watch the pretty colors fade to gray
          to black
          to white
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                        75
          to black
          to light
          to heat
          to zero to the minus forty third degree or so...
          that's as far as we go.'

          No... I'm lying.
          We can go wherever we want!
          Unicorns with horns of magic,
          blowing up a tragic milieu.
          Incarnations of elemental forces,
          napping on cosmic pillows,
          dreaming up apparitions with aspirations.
          Cosmic eggs (the yolk's on you!) .
          Goddesses with a thousand arms and legs,
          pissing up fire and strife
          (the Immaculate Virgins edged out the Moaning Whores 12-7) .
          All this, and more!

          or...

          just the biggest goddamned ball of twine you could ever imagine.
          no beginning...

          this is the end, my friend.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                              76
          Deja Vu

          I'd be lying if I said I've never been this way before;
          you can see my footprints there, upon the sand.
          But, I need to tell you now, before I close another door,
          that I've always tried my best to understand.

          You see, I've always had this problem, ever since I can recall,
          but I've never known quite what to say, or do-
          with my microscopic vision there are times I miss it all,
          but I seldom miss discerning what is true.

          Wandering 'round on hands and knees, creeping lower than a snake,
          I'm accused of being distant; unaware,
          as others tumble down the hills (pulling brethren in their wake) ,
          never knowing that the ground was even there.

          In the final analysis, does it all boil down to a clash of different species-
          the difference between the earth, and sky?
          The things I know get covered up, are buried deep; like feces
          never touched by minds that float like clouds on high.

          And sometimes, in my foiling way, I try to grab attention,
          and so I don my surface dweller's suit
          and knock down giant trees (the ones whose genus I won't mention):
          it's easily done to one that has no root.

          But, in the end, I'm just the butt of the Cosmic Maker's joke,
          as friends and lovers dwindle in the distance.
          And though I keep at hand my walking stick, and traveler's cloak,
          I only yearn for peaceful coexistence.

          A polarizing poem one might say, and aptly so;
          I guess I'll never learn just when to quit.
          So, with a sigh, and a wave, I'll turn my back, and then I'll go
          and do my best to make the best of it.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                           77
          Demerol I Got

          Wonder in a potion.
          Magic in a salve.
          Don't skimp on the portions, Doc,
          just give me all you have!

          Ointments for my ennui;
          suppository bliss.
          Shoot me up with lightning
          so it thunders when I piss!

          Dope me with some groundless hope.
          Send placebos to my brain,
          that I might smile politely
          as my world goes down the drain.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   78
          Do They Have Mogen David in Heaven?

          Sometimes,
          I wonder what it would be like
          to know everything.
          Would I drink to forget?

          Do you suppose God is an alcoholic?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   79
          Do You Hear What I Hear?

          (the sound of a bell)

          Awake in a dream!

          (the sound of a bell)

          My eyes, looking out through my eyes.

          (the sound of a bell)

          (the sound of a bell)

          (the sound of a bell)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   80
          Does Bigfoot Exist...(tanka)

          Does Bigfoot exist?
          If he does, and if what they
          say about feet is

          true, one thing's sure-sooner or
          later, he's bound to turn up.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   81
          Dogs howled...(haiku)

          dogs howled through the night
          reminding me of old friends
          life took all of them

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   82
          Dogs Know How to Die...(haiku)

          dogs know how to die
          but when I see those white eyes
          knowledge does not serve

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   83
          Don

          So...
          you finally managed to do it,
          didn't you?
          You went and drank yourself to death.
          What were you-
          thirty-five?
          Funny, I always thought
          it would be speed,
          or maybe that seasickness stuff (dramamine?)
          that sent you to the psyche ward that time.

          Jesus! It's been, what...
          ten years?
          Since you went to bed at your
          parents house after one of your
          periodic jags, and never got back up.
          I hadn't seen you for a
          good ten years before that.
          As a matter of fact,
          I never really DID know
          you all that well;
          friend of a friend...that sort of thing.

          We got close there for a while,
          that time when we both 'got Jesus',
          and we shared a few heart
          to hearts, such as they were,
          but our paths diverged soon enough,
          and after that one rather disastrous
          visit in Houston, well,
          I never saw or heard from you again.
          Can't say I blame you...
          Like I said, our paths diverged.

          So...why am I
          thinking about you now?
          I guess...
          I guess...
          I guess...
          it's because I'm mourning my own life.

          I'm sorry I didnt learn to appreciate you more, Don,
          but you didn't have a ticket for the trip that I was on.
          As always seems to happen,
          you went away while I was nappin'.
          I turned my head for twenty years, and, when I looked back...
          you wuz gone.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)



www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                           84
          Done

          'Say it isn't over, ' you cry.
          I relent
          'You told me you'd never leave me, ' you sob.
          I acquiesce
          'You never loved me, ' you chide.
          I protest
          'I never loved you! ' you hurl with vitrol.

          Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?
          I go

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive             85
          Downslanted Tangent

          Words, words, words.
          Pages, pages, pages.
          Years, years, years...
          dying in stages.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   86
          Dragon Domination

          Dark itch upon the rainbow lizard's skin did break;
          he scratched with tooth and claw, to leave a wound festering,
          and found that...interesting.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                           87
          Each and Every Time

          Each dropp of rain a life.
          Each flake of snow a heart.
          Each grain of sand a reflection;
          the face of the whole in each part.

          Every second a song.
          Every minute a chorus.
          Every hour an opportunity
          to sing the years before us.

          Time enough to mourn.
          Time enough to die.
          Time enough to remember those
          to whom we must say 'goodbye'.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   88
          Each Moment...(haiku)

          each moment is fused
          to every string of my heart
          irrevocably

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   89
          Earthsong

          Poppies spring up
          from the damndest places!

          Like joy from this jaundiced heart.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   90
          Eight Haikus

          long winter shadows
          chase after the day like hounds
          tracking a fresh scent


          I read the gopher's
          future in it's dry entrails...
          it didn't look good


          I don gloves against
          the season's chill but I've no
          scarf for my sorrow


          bastard lying faith!
          your tongue is exotic and
          your promise my need


          'what am I beyond
          my circuitry? ' the robot
          asked..I switched him off


          please forgive me for
          creating you my tortured
          dream child..I knew not


          learn to travel light...
          phantasmagorical mass
          still weighs down the ghost


          no egress from this
          mountain of myself..I am
          frozen in the stone

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   91
          Empathy

          To halt at midlife;
          to turn and stare into the face of the dark sun,
          and to survive-
          that is an acheivement.
          Not of the individual,
          but of the world.

          No occult spectre, this;
          no amalgamation of childhood nightmares.
          Simply life without blinders-
          acknowledgment.
          The living die,
          and the dead live still.

          To be charred to the bones;
          to know the nausea upon awakening.
          Rebirth-
          final recompense for suffering.
          A sacrifice.
          A sharing.

          A babe walks through the woods,
          its flesh in turmoil.
          Ever degenerating, ever renewing-
          wonder in its eyes.
          Reflections of a new creation,
          every moment.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive              92
          Enigma Under Construction

          I own a stone of flesh and bone;
          I touch it when I'm all alone,
          and in it's eelish eye discry
          the reason (s) that we live, and die.

          But, as the vision nears its peak,
          the oracle begins to leak,
          then spews forth, with decreasing shouts,
          truths I no longer care about.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive       93
          Erudite THIS!

          ...were the last words he heard before the bombastic jongleur who was trying to move
          on my girlfriend hit the deck.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                  94
          Et Tu?

          Nobility arises in the mind,
          is given substance by the heart,
          is judged by the eye,
          and withered by the tongue.
          Thus are both wise and foolish men exalted,
          then humbled...

          and then, the liver goes.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive         95
          Event Horizon

          There is a hole growing in my center,
          and it is stealing away my being,
          a bit at a time.
          The gravity of its insistence,
          has turned the pockets of my resistance
          inside out;
          leaving me destitute.
          I am stretched so thin
          that I can't even see my feet anymore.
          I stand at the cusp of losing myself completely,
          as I clutch vainly
          at my own bootstraps-
          but the black whore keeps sucking me in,
          'cause Kali needs a husband,
          and won't be satisfied until she's a widow again. Meanwhile...

          I can't seem to get my shit together;
          it's orbiting around me like in some plumber's nightmare,
          and I can't even believe I'm trying to get my hands on it,
          because I've eaten it before,
          and I know it tastes bad;
          but, there's a certain kind of symmetry to habitual behavior,
          isn't there?
          A comfort zone,
          standing between the mundane and the obliterated;
          and the fireworks created
          by the friction created
          between something and nothing creates
          quite a show-
          quasaric splendor! Otherwise...

          Who would be left to appreciate the fact that nothing is...?

          Being purposely enigmatic there;
          a point should never be too sharp.
          The fabric of our concepts of reality already has enough holes in it,
          and we need that stuff to fashion new costumes-
          the old ones are falling apart. And sooooo...

          'Weave me a pinafore of bright new stars;
          take care not to tarry in sloth.
          The emperor, whose clothing is peeling away,
          finds his person in need of whole cloth.'

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                   96
          Everybody

          Every mother's son is good.
          Every daughter's dad is strong.
          Everyone is always right,
          and everybody else is wrong.

          Every war is just and true,
          except for all the other ones.
          Everyone's a child of God,
          not counting all those bastard sons.

          Everybody merits more,
          but, for the folks who merit less,
          a curse upon deserving heads,
          while everybody's saint is blessed.

          Not everybody goes to heaven.
          Most everybody goes to hell.
          So, when you die, you'll be alone,
          without anybody; and ain't that swell?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive    97
          everything I see...(haiku)

          everything I see
          is perfectly flawed...I can
          do no harm nor good

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   98
          Existence is the Pain No One Allows

          Existence is the pain no one allows;
          I see it in the faces that I meet.
          Existence is the pain no one allows;
          I hear it in the voices of the street.

          Existence is the pain no one allows;
          I track its scent along the beaten trail.
          Existence is the pain no one allows;
          I taste the blood of fools hung on its nail.

          Existence is the pain no one allows;
          I feel its pulsing measure underfoot.
          Existence is the pain no one allows;
          I fantasize my edge against its root.

          But recognition jars me with a start!
          Existence is the pain that is my heart.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive          99
          existence just...(haiku)

          existence just is!
          the tautology sticks like
          a bone in why's throat

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   100
          Extrusion Confusion (or, I am sooo going to hell for this one!)

          Pissed off piston, in and out.
          Mind your manners; dont you pout!
          Annoint her so she does the same;
          no bother if she never came-
          rubber strumpets play the game.

          Metacarpus, monkey's paw:
          overworked, arthritic claw
          swinging from a trouser snake;
          careful that that branch don't break,
          'cause twisted scions just ain't jake.

          Pirate pilot, tried and true;
          there's no daddy sweet as you.
          I asked the girls, and they'll agree
          that, ever since you sailed that sea,
          God's coxswain owns the only key.

          Holy Moly! What a laugh!
          A fakir with a magic staff
          made promises to make her wet,
          then split her like a servile pet-
          but what she had, he couldn't get.

          Whips and leather aren't much fun
          when tables turn, and you're the one
          to hear the crack, and feel the sting
          of goyish gonad grunts, who bring
          salutations from a bigger king.

          Madre de Dios! Look who's here!
          Youve even brought the lox and beer.
          I'll take a brew, but can that fish;
          red snapper is my favorite dish,
          so genuflect, and grant my wish.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                             101
          Family Reunion

          Let us have joy today;
          let us laugh, and rail, and push, and shove,
          and forget that the earth is our mother,
          and the mud thereof.

          To dance together, and to sing,
          as if today IS tomorrow;
          that we have all we'll ever want,
          with no need to borrow.

          An orgy of immediacy
          in the rapture of relief
          that the hangman's noose does not hang today
          from the gallows of belief.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive          102
          Female Prerogative (personal)

          Scarfing down the Welbutrin,
          sleeping in her clothes,
          a swollen Venus marking sins;
          indignant in repose.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   103
          Festivities Kick Off This Afternoon

          Festivities kick off this afternoon;
          the party to dwarf all such galas past.
          They'll howl beneath the urgent, waxing moon,
          and make love on the waxen, melting grass.

          They'll take turns at the speaker's podium
          to voice their fair hurrahs and last goodbyes,
          and shoot their guns into the tumbling skies;
          wee thanes beneath the shoe of kingdom come.

          But all the crowing, bluffs, and shaking fists
          shall ne'er hold off their portion; and for this
          I'll not attend the circus at the end,
          but pause in solitude, remembering friends.

          And thus, in recollection of those passed,
          I'll make peace with mortality, at last.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive              104
          Fission/Fusion

          Fission

          Hey there, monkey boy!
          Haven't I seen you somewhere before?
          You seem familiar, but I can't recall
          the particular time and place anymore;
          nope, not at all.

          I think I'll name you Goosebumps;
          don't ask me why-I'm not sure myself.
          Just be a sycophantic little man
          and fetch me something from yonder shelf,
          taking care to use your filching hand.

          Fusion

          There now! See what you've done?
          Your carelessness has cost you your coat;
          but, at least you're no longer alone.
          Tell you what...go sacrifice your goat,
          and I might let you slip her a bone.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive       105
          Folly

          Lost in corners, piled high on shelves covered with dust:
          lifetimes distilled to rectangular planes, with gilt edges,
          bound in cardboard- yellowed pages perfumed with must.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                         106
          for janis (sonnet)

          Sometimes, along our journey's road, there comes a storm
          so fierce it makes us question what we think we know.
          What fault was our to call down on this wilting form
          such insult upon human flesh? Assailed by woe

          so undeserved; like Job, we seek to place the blame.
          Forsaking truth, we'll lay it at our own two feet
          lest, in our anguished heart we curse, and face the flame
          of One who stands aloof, and points with grand conceit.

          I'd offer you a finer hope, a vision clear;
          a jeweled spider's silk, and you at each connection.
          With every twisted braid, a kind of sacred mirror;
          every life another side of your reflection.

          Behind the shattered visage, the eternal soul
          emerges from its hiding place, to dreams made whole.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                       107
          For Shame

          Always in the back rooms:
          political compromises
          contract negotiations
          love affairs

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   108
          For the Birds

          Streetwise sparrows, snitching crumbs;
          lice covered cherubim-
          urban bums.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive    109
          four in the morning...(tanka)

          four in the morning
          and I'm beseiged by TV
          advertisements for

          'wild party girl' videos...
          maybe I'll stay up 'til five

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   110
          Friday: Late Morning

          Another session completed-
          gravity is overwhelmed by non-location,
          alowing stalactite/stalagmite interchange
          through charged air.
          Satellite interlocutors pass messages
          along quizzically static channels,
          puzzling over mainframe binary languages,
          the chance to know- unknown.
          (shrugs) ?

          One heart pounding, rests.
          One heart pounding...ponders.
          Echoes of the drumsong loiter,
          belying the accusations of those dark angels,
          history and memory.
          Crow cries- once, twice;
          then, falls silent under the weight of his existential cave walls,
          from whence he emerges these days only for entertainment value,
          the hopping, squawking companion to misery.
          His tongue is pierced on the point of his own keen eye;
          Prometheus on his crag.
          The search goes on,
          but the point of intent has shifted once again,
          and passion no longer seems pathetic,
          but is its own end; once,
          and for all.
          Fnck you, Don Juan!
          What a fncking waste of time you are...

          It's noon,
          and ends here.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                111
          Gargoyles (from castaway)

          How long a time have we awaited?
          How long in tooth have we become?
          Desires and hungers in nowise sated;
          no mouths to taste of life's sweet plum.

          No tune to play for deafened ears,
          to soothe the wounds made by our vows.
          No eyes to pour forth rapturous tears;
          just sockets, under withered brows.

          We are the wise.
          We are the first.
          We are the chosen-
          we are the cursed.

          Set at the boundary of the world,
          we sentinels of flesh made stone;
          ordained before all space unfurled
          to stand watch for all time, alone.

          To turn within and comb the root.
          To sense the center's flow, and ebb.
          To mark the footsteps of the Brute;
          we spiders of life's sacred web.

          But now, a change.
          And now our fear;
          it calls to us-
          the Beast is near!

          And now, our days at last are done.
          We burn away like morning mist;
          converging each, into the one,
          to dwell in formless, silent bliss.

          But heed us, ere we leave this plane
          for spaces of incorporeal light.
          The sun shall soon no longer reign,
          but be extinguished by the night.

          Hold true to love.
          Hold fast to friends.
          Hold off tomorrow-
          when all things end.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive      112
          Ginger Danced Backwards, in Heels

          Don't melt into me!
          This isn't the '60s, and we're not the guts of a lava lamp;
          nor are we C.S. Lewis's conception of a pantheist's conception of God,
          undifferentiated tapioca pudding ala deity.
          Meet me at the interface, and our boundaries; touching, not merging; will become our
          garden path, where we can stroll, and talk,
          and learn about each other's illusory autonomy.
          And there will be benches along the way; places where we can
          rest, smooch a little- maybe I could even feel you up a bit.
          And then, there would be these big, evergreen bushes!
          We could duck behind them, and...

          hm...where was I going with this?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                              113
          'Give Me a Ride, Bitch...(tanka)

          'Give me a ride, bitch! '
          my first inclination was
          to slap the mouthy

          skank's teeth out; the suicide
          thoughts have put me off my feed.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   114
          God Has a Lazy Eye

          Stand up to the line, Jehovah;
          face the big chart on the wall,
          and please recite the top line there,
          oh Master of us all.

          And if You would indulge this servant
          to overlook his sin,
          I must confess, I saw You take a peek
          when You walked in.

          Oh, Might Lord of Hosts, I pray
          don't cast me into hell;
          but, if You cheat, how can this lowly creature
          make You well?

          Now, Great Redeemer, hear my plea
          and cover Thine left eye.
          Please follow as I move this pencil,
          oh Master of the Sky.

          The examination is through, oh God;
          the results are quite uplifting!
          Your vision is perfect, as we'd expected-
          but, Your right eyeball is drifting.

          It's nothing to be worried about,
          You'll just have to wear a patch.
          I'm sure on You it'll look fabulous!
          (just remember not to scratch) .

          And, if Thou woulds't avoid future problems,
          it is my fervent hope
          that You try to spend a little less time
          looking through Your telescope.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive            115
          God threw...(tanka)

          God threw a very
          complicated dart at a
          bewilderingly

          cryptic dartboard; the judges
          are yet to reckon the score

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   116
          God's Voice is Pain...(haiku)

          God's voice is pain and
          all of creation listens
          with rapt attention

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   117
          Going All the Way

          'Do you like it when I ****? '

          'Oh yeah, baby! **** *** ****! '

          '**** me, sweetheart...****me! ****me! '

          'God, baby! I'm ******! '

          'Jesus! **** **** **** Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, **** my ****! '

          They say there are no straight
          lines in the universe;
          that they curve in on themselves,
          eventually encircling their creators.
          Over time they thicken, harden;
          ultimately becoming curbs,
          then walls...barriers against
          intrusion, even when that
          intrusion is intimacy.

          Communication is never
          static. Variable frequencies
          either elongate or shorten,
          compress or expand...care
          becomes fortification, short
          spirits peeking over buttressed,
          tight lips; jaws clenching,
          boiling oil overflow through
          stress fractures, and nobody
          relents. Constraint seeks
          its evil twin, in folly.

          But, dialogue is a two-way
          street, and one way leads
          towards the little satori,
          outside the gates of town,
          beyond the pail of so-called
          commerce, where lovers meet
          at the sacred spring, and
          drink, consuming distance
          with each and every draught.
          They smile at the screams
          of superannuated caution
          left dying on antiquity's crucifix,
          for their's is a pagan
          ritual, consummated in
          the act of reception, where
          giving and grace are taken
          for granted. Armor is peeled
          away, tossed down into
          the well of dust, and nakedness
          is the order of the new day.
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          'Yeah, baby...another go? '

          '**** yeah! '

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Going with the Grain

          Take some time to luxuriate in fatalism.
          Let it wash over your soul like a warm bath at midnight.
          Your dismay was never anything more than misapprehension;
          an inappropriate knotting of musculature, readying you for an impossible task-
          that of bearing the world.
          Fear not, child; the chore was never yours from the beginning.
          To do your part is simply to live your life, without assuming the superfluous adornment
          of choice.
          The only curse you bear is that of unmindfulness,
          and even that is none of your own doing:

          For you are only one dropp of water in a vast ocean,
          all rolling towards the shore of awakening.
          One day will come the dawn of realization,
          when the new sun shall shine down upon a clear sea of jewels;
          unspoilt by effort, which was always a myth.
          The kernel of this truth lies within you now, hidden deep inside of your passions, and
          your pains.

          You are the innocent loam of creation, child-
          fate is the seed.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                    120
          Goodnight

          It's past eleven,
          there's a police helicopter circling overhead,
          and I've just wasted an hour of my sparse computer time
          horsewhipping an ass in the forum
          who will never see
          never listen
          never understand
          that there is something more than what he is.
          I think I'll cry now...


          I'd like to post another here as an addendum; something I wrote a few years back, and
          that, for some reason, I'm thinking of now, as I head off for slumberland. A nice
          antidote for the one above, I think...

          Off to bed at last I go,
          to drift to sleep beneath wet snow
          that's settled on the roof above:
          I'm just a hand in Winter's glove!

          And, if I should die before I wake,
          I pray the Lord some snow to take;
          to make a ball, and throw it at
          the man who wears the tallest hat.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                              121
          Gordian Not

          Lessons learned, and lessons lost-
          neither can dispel the frost
          accumulating on the pane
          that looks in on this 'grieved quatrain.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Gossip

          Blessed are we to entertain the plight of misfortune's children,
          whether friend, neighbor, or townsman.
          We shake our heads, even as our bellies fill;
          ah, consummation!
          Like the prophet who slakes his thirst on the blood of the damned.

          All so harmless and justified amongst the circle of arbiters:
          righteous indignation of the one who falls down the stairs for lack of sight-
          even blindness must be accounted for in the court of the diminished.

          Ostensibly shaken at the dropp of the swan,
          inwardly there is titillation akin to sexual awakening (or, perhaps in lieu of it) .
          Substitution (a Freudian lapse) :
          the tongue both phallus and sword,
          as the maidenhead is rent, and sympathy is penetrated again.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                  123
          Gotta

          Gotta be made. Gotta be born-
          gotta be a product from that alcohol and porn.
          Gotta be a baby, but you gotta grow up fast!
          Gotta know early that those carefree days won't last.
          Gotta be a kid. Gotta go to school.
          Gotta learn to calculate, and how to bend the rules.
          Gotta watch TV, learn to covet all you've seen;
          gotta be a little cog in the merchandise machine.
          Gotta reach pubescence. Gotta learn to fnck;
          if you favor your own team, you're REALLY out of luck!
          Gotta go to college. Gotta land those jobs.
          Gotta learn to climb on top of those slower climbing slobs.
          Gotta make a family. Gotta raise some kids.
          Gotta make the same mistakes that your goddamned parents did.
          Gotta hit your 40's. Gotta look back with regret.
          Gotta mourn your dreams, and all the goals you never met.

          But, you've gotta keep on plowing, moving forward all the time,
          'cause the biggest thing you've gotta do is NEVER fall behind!
          Never show your weaknesses, though they eat away inside.
          Never let the outside know about all the times you've cried.
          Never let them doubt you, or find out your secret shame.
          Never let that false front down. Never learn your real name.
          Never take a moment to just soak the whole thing in.
          Never linger in the now, 'cause you KNOW sloth is a sin!

          Working for the weekend, then working the weekend, too;
          through the year you work, and work, but your work is never through.
          'Til, finally, it's time to rest, when they lay your body down.
          But, the finality is grim, at best, as they put you in the ground.
          And, finally, you have time to spend with loved ones, and with friends,
          as finally you return to dust-and so the story ends.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                     124
          Grounds for Divorce

          Flee from me, temptress!
          Never again darken my door,
          nor wait for me in the dawning hours.
          The memory of your perfume haunts me;
          makes my head ache!

          Our secret trysts of a morning;
          ah, the tastes and smells of our joining-
          the intoxication!
          Take flight, harlot, for pity's sake!

          No!
          Wait!

          Burn my lips with your essence.
          Swallow my tongue.
          Thou art bliss!
          How could I ever forsake you,
          my morning cup of coffee?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Growth

          Scattershot memories pepper the background of my awareness;
          hints of a past that's long fallen over the edge of the world.
          Playing a game of connect the dots,
          I try and fashion an image that might appear suitable to the social construct called
          'myself'.

          For I am the leading edge;
          the prow of a juggernaut whose face is identity,
          but whose engine is history.
          Caught in the wake of progress.
          Tossed.
          Pierced by the arrows of my own conceit, and recklessness.
          Before me, an uncertain horizon no longer recedes;
          landmarks of an unknown shore appear in the mist,
          threatening in their abstruseness;
          premonitions of hard lessons ahead.

          Nevertheless, I am driven by necessity toward those lowering shoals.
          My will to resist has dissolved, in steps;
          my passion's substance poured out,
          and replaced with the liquor of distilled acquiescence.
          Out of the darkness, the siren call of the ever-flame grows increasingly insistent,
          as the gods of curiosity, and perhaps pity, smooth the way before me.
          Following the course of pre-determined bearings,
          I launch into the rapacious jaws of the inevitable.

          Praying for dreams-
          anticipating nightmares.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                  126
          guilt (haiku)

          guilt- I spent my years
          trying to hide my trail but
          no one was looking

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Hair, Clumps, and Fists, or Ballistic Metaphrast! (hats off to Goldy)

          There are the girly girls
          embroidering their lewd suggestiveness
          with braids of pubic hair
          across the face of the
          plasma pillowcase
          wearing pink pajamas
          and sporting tatoos because
          they think it makes them seem
          dangerous
          and sexy
          and sometimes it does and
          I love them
          if for nothing else
          but sheer audacity
          except one
          and we'll not mention her today

          There are the blade
          runners
          skating the edges of
          good sense
          in their imaginations
          and sometimes
          reflecting
          deeper
          harsher realities
          just as well left alone
          here
          and I love them
          for their feelings
          and honesty
          and hurtful
          hurtful
          personal truths

          There are the ne'er do wells
          grinding their axes
          against the wheels
          of the
          machine
          not realizing
          the machines
          they
          exist
          inside
          of
          daring to end
          their sentences
          in propositions

          There are the lotharios
          whose sticky keyboards
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                   128
          suggest
          fundamental
          isolation and
          lonliness
          and a way
          to cope
          with these things

          Freaks and geeks
          pimps and poppers
          and plageristic prostitutes
          and philosopher wanna bes
          and so
          so
          many
          more

          And then there is you
          the one I
          have decided
          to hate
          today
          line after
          line
          piece after
          piece
          worthless
          soulless
          crap
          and
          what
          pisses
          me
          off
          the
          worst
          is
          that
          you
          probably
          giggle
          when
          you

          sleep

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Half Hour

          she naps.
          I write a short note to Alison.
          a beam of sunlight appears through the window.
          thirty more minutes,
          and I wake her.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Have a Nice Day!

          Thus flows the blasphemous truth from the prophet's pen,
          that God's meat is the malleable flesh of primeval innocence,
          but His draught is the tears of men.

          Leaden angels, made molten in sacred fire,
          seek the lowest levels, ooze into the pits of pockmarked clay,
          molded there into the shape of their desire.

          Horizontal gazes, locked in the direction of the setting sun,
          as the hands of lengthening shadows push at them from behind-
          six times up...but, seven times down.

          Down, down, back down into folly's cauldron,
          to be recycled, re-worked, and resurrected at the whim of a cavefish named
          Procreation-
          the shape of the sin of the fathers, re-visited upon the chldren...

          Refrain:

          And   the   Lord   said   laugh,   children, laugh.
          And   the   Lord   said   laugh,   children, laugh.
          And   the   Lord   said   laugh,   children, laugh.
          And   the   Lord   said   laugh,   laugh, laugh...

          (I found this recently in an old notebook from when I was homeless, lost amongst the
          scratched out suicide notes. I'd forgotten all about it. Oh, and the refrain is part of an
          old song I heard once-upon-a-time, not sure where...mm)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                        131
          Having a Bad Day

          Hoping for hope to break through the skin
          of a bubble dtermined to pop from within;
          requiring, at most, the slight prick of a pin
          sharp'd on the grindstone of circumstance.

          The outside that's inside kicking hard for release;
          gasping for air, and for breathing to cease.
          Screaming for the silence of equilibrium's peace-
          Free me from all of this happenstance!

          And never again say that I am the one;
          surely you know that I'm not having fun.
          If they really shoot horses, then hand me the gun,
          and I'll put an end to this FUCKING DANCE!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Having a Bad Day II

          I want to deny any beauty today;
          close my eyes to the face of a sun
          that promises blue skies, and tomorrows that come
          no matter how hard I might wish them away.

          I want to wad up all my love in my fist;
          pull it into my palm 'til it's smashed down so tight,
          and throw it in God's face with all of my might-
          then watch as His laughter bubbles out of my wrist.

          If I had a genie, and he had a wish,
          I'd steal it, and use it to fashion a pyre,
          to fulfil the grand prophecy and end it with fire,
          and be done with this mockery of fish eating fish!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                   133
          He Kissed the Masses

          Season of lesion, fever and sore:
          they sucked down the plagues,
          then shouted for more.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Heartflame

          Light a candle for the good times.
          Otherwise, when you stumble into a dark room,
          you could freeze up-
          panic!
          You'll feel around, but everything will seem different.
          Scary.
          You might even forget you were ever in another place.

          When that happens (and it happens to all of us) ,
          turn towards the light;
          find your way back.
          It was only a room, after all...
          it wasn't the whole world.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                     135
          Heaven Can Wait

          When first we meet again upon that distant shore,
          will we blush?
          Will I feel a need to rush into explanations of my conduct?
          To justify my carnal appetites
          whilst a lapsed sojourner in the devil's playground?
          Or, will I try to play it cool in front of the angels gathered 'round?
          No, that would never work;
          only a fool would try to hide from that big flashlight sitting up there on the throne,
          ever ready with its lightning bolts to fry a jerk like me.
          What, then? Fess up?
          Recount to the upright, uptight multitude just how many times that saint in white lay
          spayed beneath my weight?
          Loving it-
          telling me I was great?
          (whispers) Sometimes, even playing dressup?

          I suppose that, in the end,
          I'll lay all the blame on The Fall-
          let Satan take the rap.
          Besides, it's more than likely that,
          over there,
          I'll have the genitalia of a Ken doll.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                    136
          Her Name's Patricia...(tanka)

          her name's Patricia,
          and she calls herself Evil,
          but I know better:

          she is the best friend I have
          never had- my pierced buddy

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Hiking Tanka Tale

          the four of us hiked
          through those canyons all night, and
          then your waterfall

          turned out to be a trickle;
          but, the journey was worth it


          you told me stories
          about miracles, and God,
          and Jesus Christ, and

          I lapped up all that stuff like
          a dehydrated kitten


          resting in our cave,
          our privacy intruded
          upon by a bare

          ass, two hairy testicles,
          and a hermit with no shame


          the stranger returned
          in the morning fully clothed,
          and burdened with a

          flat of strawberries; he passed
          by with nary an offer


          they called us 'canyon
          critters', the drunken catcalls
          echoing down the

          rock corridors; but loser's
          ledge claimed all our attention


          Martha found a pool
          of stone and light, and not one
          of us protested

          when she stripped for a swim-not
          even the tarantula


          I could never make
          that hike now, especially
          in the pair of two

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          dollar tennis shoes that I
          wore out over that weekend


          we met a girl who
          had hiked over the mountain
          from Idyllwild, all

          alone with her dog. oops! why
          did I say she was alone?


          I miss you, Dieter,
          you crazy, fucking, acid-
          headed, heroin

          addicted Jesus freak. is
          your glass eye all that's left now?


          people move through your
          life like sparrows across a
          canyon sky; moments

          are all you have- moments, and
          the echoes of memory

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          How Piteous...(haiku)

          how piteous! the
          automatic pilot thinks
          it knows how to fly

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          How to Rid Myself...(tanka)

          How to rid myself
          of these anthropomorphic
          eyes? Like a chisel,

          they cut shapes into the stone
          without ever seeing it.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          http 4cia: //thinkingofyou/default2/26/07

          I met my love in space;
          in that place
          where electronics make distances
          seem meaningless.
          Those fist kisses,
          wrapped up in bits of information-
          easily recalled
          with a double click.
          Conventional notions
          frayed at the seams;
          proximity took on a new meaning,
          as typewriter keys became skin
          beneath my fingertips.
          Flesh extended,
          expanded,
          and recognized for what it really is-
          messages transmitted through the world's nervous system,
          along soap bubble pathways
          traveling at the speed of light,
          floating in a world behind sight,
          beyond illusions of solidity and nexus,
          where even passion is too small a word,
          and limits are deceptive ideas.

          A prayer:
          Weave my dreams into a virtual reality,
          and create a space for us
          transcending zeros and ones,
          where thresholds are crossed,
          and she is all of me.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                      142
          Humankind Worships...(tanka)

          Humankind worships
          a false god named The Future,
          upon whose altar

          we spill the blood of our hours
          in exchange for a vision.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Hunkering Down... (tanka)

          Hunkering down in
          my psychic foxhole, vainly
          waving an olive

          branch- caught in the crossfire of
          polarized epiphanies.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Hunting Without a License

          I had a new poem I wanted to submit,
          entitled 'I Went Fishing in my Wife's Head'.
          But it's long, and I'm halfway to drunk,
          and fanniesson has posted tonight,
          and I'd rather read him instead
          (as would you, if you have any sense) .
          So I will, and you will,
          and eventually I will.
          And you'll say this, and he'll say that,
          and she'll say this and that
          (and she's the only one I listen to, anyway) .
          And life will go on,
          and I'll remember that poetry really isn't all that important,
          but it's fun, and sometimes it gets to me,
          even when it's over my head,
          and then I'll remember something that made me laugh,
          or cry,
          or maybe just feel something a little bit differently,
          and I'll write a poem,
          and maybe post it here...
          or not.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                            145
          I AM

          ...a muddle of thoughts in knots,
          bent and tangled, with dangling loose ends.

          ...a shelf of self, wood warped and pithy;
          riddled through and through with imponderable questions, and necessary truths.

          ...a black hole, swollen with ignorance to infinite density,
          living on a diet of minutia and vulgarity;
          existing in a place of indefinite time, and space-
          a bubble boy singularity.

          ...a motherless toy, bounced out into an otherness older than cold without a sweater,
          or hope of things getting any better inside this horizon of events.

          Is any of this making sense? Let me make myself clearer-

          I am all things, sacred and obscene.
          The buttfuck, and the vaseline.
          The movie and the screen...

          look in the mirror.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                   146
          I Am a Gadget...(tanka)

          I am a gadget.
          My watch wears me on its wrist,
          my cellphone carries

          me in its pocket, and my
          pen sucks the life out of me.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Am Suspicious...(tanka)

          I am suspicious
          that self knowledge inhibits
          more than it redeems,

          like tripwires set along the
          course of a footrace unnerve.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Am the Man Who Never Hopes to Dream (sonnet)

          I am the man who never hopes to dream.
          For me, it's all about utility,
          and getting by. Just floating on the stream
          of stuff. The stuff of dreams? Futility!

          I wash my face, and go to work each day.
          I sell my time, that I might waste some more.
          I break my back, and make a little hay,
          then eat my straw behind a silent door.

          But, unlike others who might share my plight,
          I never fear my fate upon the end.
          My horror always comes with morning's light,
          when I must rise to do it all again.

          Between the toil and boredom, there comes rest-
          a dead duck never mourns the empty nest.

          (Thanks to you-know-who for rescuing me from such a dreary mindset. I feel like Ikkyu
          must have felt)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                              149
          I Blew a Bubble...(tanka)

          I blew a bubble,
          proud, pink and panoramic,
          then tried to swallow

          it so I'd be beautiful
          on the inside; but, it popped.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Came Home...(tanka)

          I came home one day,
          and found my wife in bed with
          Jesus, whom I thought

          had died long ago. I guess,
          in the end, size DOES matter.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Don't Remember...(sonnet)

          I don't remember when we met, or where;
          her face, a fleeting chimera in dreams,
          is all I can evoke of an affair
          too brief. Like smoke upon the morning air

          she wafts away; my fingers are too coarse
          to hold on to the images, it seems.
          Betrayed again by memories whose source
          is fantasy, and I without recourse.

          But I can still recall those stolen nights;
          the unplanned fusion of divergent streams.
          We spilled over the edge of dawning's light,
          to rest in pools of rapturous delight.

          She's just a sprite, but sometimes I still find
          her gentle lips upon me, in my mind.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Had a Girlfriend...(tanka)

          I had a girlfriend
          who thought everything sounded
          trite- trite trite trite trite

          trite trite trite trite trite trite trite
          trite trite trite trite trite...get it?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Hate Who I Am...(tanka)

          I hate who I am.
          I hate what I do. I hate
          the ever-present

          heart of existence; but I
          love them, and so I abide

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Have Five Fingers

          Now we're satisfied
          about creation,
          I ask the question...
          how 'bout destruction?
          where the hell is the
          garbage disposal?
          Black holes? I think not.
          Anyhow, the new
          inflation theories
          pooh pooh compressive,
          implosive bye-byes.
          Then there's heat death, which
          isn't so easy
          to disregard. I
          imagine those sub
          atomic little
          peckers orbiting
          around each other
          at distances mind
          bogglingly vast,
          slim gravitic threads
          tying all of them
          together across
          the cosmos, and I
          am forced to wonder
          about how thin IS
          thin, when it comes to
          that 4-D membrane?
          I mean, will the big
          bubble finally
          burst, with the remnants
          flying off into
          nothingness? Even
          gravity loses
          in such a baffling
          scenario. But,
          then, why the hell not?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Have No License...(tanka)

          I have no license
          to live, nor have I acquired
          any expertise

          in what it must be like to
          die...I'm sure I'll do it wrong.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Have Rained...(tanka)

          I have rained down on
          the dark city, reminding
          its denziens of

          their impermanence, flailing
          in the saturated clay.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Have This Silly Memory of You (sonnet)

          I have this silly memory of you,
          from way back in the days before we split.
          I wonder if you might remember too,
          or if you think about this kind of shit.

          We were in bed, and I was primed to fnck,
          and while you went to pee, I snatched a pen
          and drew a little face there, on my c0ck.
          When you got back, you grabbed me there, and then

          you opened up your mouth to take a bite,
          but suddenly you froze, your eyes went wide!
          We shared a royal belly laugh that night,
          before my little man crawled deep inside.

          I don't suppose you've thought of that in years,
          but I just choked a b0ner, and some tears.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I held out my hand...(haiku)

          I held out my hand
          to ward off the sky but it
          took me all the same

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I just noticed...(tanka)

          I just noticed! there
          are three gnats melted against
          the inside of my

          window glass- they suffered death
          to escape my dreariness

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Measure My Days...(tanka)

          I measure my days
          against the standards of loss
          and futility;

          it's not a great way to live,
          but I'm always in the black.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Met a Beggar...(haiku)

          I met a beggar
          on the road to the graveyard
          we had the same name

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I miss the feeling...(tanka)

          I miss the feeling
          of skin on skin less and less
          these days; I just think

          about the sacrifices
          involved, and I'm cool as ice.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I Miss You, Dieter...(tanka)

          I miss you, Dieter,
          you crazy fucking acid-
          headed heroin

          addicted Jesus freak! Is
          your glass eye all that remains?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          I mourn...(haiku)

          I mourn every pair
          of boots I wear out...comrades
          each step of the way

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   165
          I Plucked Out My Eye...(haiku)

          I plucked out my eye
          and brought the sun down...night came
          black as a pupil

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   166
          I Saw a Clay Man...(tanka)

          I saw a clay man
          grow up from the earth; who knows
          why? he suffered for

          a season, then dried up and
          crumbled away; who knows why?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   167
          I Sought Surety..(tanka)

          I sought surety
          in imagination, and
          clothed myself in my

          forefathers' dreams and visions,
          then learned that luck swallows all.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   168
          I Spent the Morning...(tanka)

          I spent the morning
          counting neutrinos as they
          flashed by my window,

          until one broke through and hit
          me in the eye; then, I quit

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   169
          I Waited Until I Actually Won Before I Posted This 'Magic Box'

          If I were Jesus,
          or any sort of a magical carpenter, for that matter,
          I would build a magic box,
          made of the same stuff
          they make magic wands with, most likely.
          I would attach it right here,
          to the top of the desk,
          near the keyboard slide-out thingie.
          And I could slide my hand into the magic box,
          and I could hold your hand
          as I beat you in yet another game of internet backgammon.
          Of course,
          you'd need a magic box, as well...
          I guess you'd have to be something like Jesus too,
          or maybe the Buddha...
          did he do magic tricks?
          Or, I could just build another one,
          and mail it to you.
          That would work.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                            170
          I Was Just a Kid (inspired by Jim Hogg's poem, 'Bobby')

          That's what I always tell myself,
          when I think back to what I did that day.
          Boys are bad; mothers, do you know that?
          When I watch these women on TV,
          whose sons are convicted of speakless brutalities,
          I wonder-are they truly blind to what their
          children do behind their backs?
          Not even an inkling?
          We are all sons of destruction,
          at one level or another.
          Oh, most of us walk away with a few scratches,
          but whatever we DO get caught for,
          you can trust that there were a hundred other things,
          hidden behind fast legs and clever lying;
          deceit is the name of a boy's game, Mom-
          don't ever believe otherwise.

          Boys are pack animals; territorial beasts
          existing in a wavering hierarchy. The rules
          are pretty straightforward. The big kids are
          usually on top, notwithstanding the occasional
          exception; the bright one who learned early
          to manipulate others. Generally speaking,
          the rulership remains fairly stable, barring some
          freakish hormonally driven usurper...a rarity.
          Same rule applies to the bottom, the kids who
          are barely tolerated, pushed around, made fun of;
          but who are impelled to take the abuse by
          evolutionary bullies residing in the backwaters
          of their psychic seas.

          Then, there are the kids in the middle of an
          ever shifting playground/battlefield of unstable
          alliances, ass kissing their way up the ladder,
          only to be pushed down a rung or two by
          a prettier, or more devious pair of lips. Sycophancy
          isn't the only road to promotion, of course; the
          chemistry of the middle distance is volatile, and
          one never knows where one might end up in
          the young male pecking order, vis-a-vis rough-and-tumble
           faux pas, or some other unpredictable happenstance.

          And, of course, there is always the heroic gesture;
          that act which grants one instant stature in the sight
          of the herd. Only, in most cases, the term 'heroic'
          is usually a bellywhopping misnomer, implying some
          sort of gallantly noble act. To a group of young men,
          most with at least one leg already crossed over that
          threshold into Testosteroneville, heroism inheres in
          acts of saving or gaining face; within, or applied to,
          the dynamics of one's particular group. Thus mankind,
          and especially man, is joined inseparably to his genetic
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          and evolutionary heritage.

          INTRUDER ALERT!
          Six or seven of us, on one of those summer late mornings
          where there is absolutely nothing to do, perk up our ears
          at the sound of an approaching motorcycle; by the 'Riiiing,
          ring, ring, ring' of it, a little two stroke- probably a dirt bike.
          That high-pitched whine always gives it away. Yamahas
          and Mitsubishis were really popular in those days...
          most likely it was in the 125 through 175 cc range, though
          the make and size were not what was important to us. The
          fact that some interloper orbiting the center of our field;
          the place where we built forts, smoked cigarattes, and jacked
          off to centerfolds of Barbi Benton...was.

          Then the tresspasser came into view along his circuitous
          route...another kid, about our age, the only difference between
          him and us being the outrageous fact that he was FROM
          ANOTHER NEIGHBORHOOD! As far as we could discern
          from the blur that streaked by along the peripheral path
          encircling our haven, we had never seen him before. We
          really had no idea which tiny swatch of the burbs he had
          emerged from, nor had we the faintest clue as to his heritage,
          his charitable habits, or the fairness of his sisters. None of
          that mattered...we simply hated him, and he would pay!

          Of course, just HOW he would pay was a bit unclear to us.
          White boys from the suburbs are quite a bit different from
          their colored counterparts of the inner cities; more so in
          those days, I reckon. There were no guns, and the knives
          were generally of the pen variety, usually with broken off
          points, and often rusted shut. Besides the occasional fistplay,
          violence generally erupted by way of 'rock fight' (actually, dirt
          clod fight, but that didn't sound nearly as potent) . So, as our
          innocent, soon to be victim buzzed merrily along his way on
          the other side of the soon-to-be-razed-to-make-room-for-
          another-lot-full-of-identical-looking-1970s-style-ranch-houses
          vacant lot, we began scouring the ground for fist sized,
          hard packed clumps of sod; ideally laced with clay, for density.

          The kid was approaching fast, so we hurriedly gathered
          ammunition for our forthcoming assault. Most of our pockets
          were already half bulging with sabulous missiles when I
          descried something shiny, half hidden beneath some grit,
          and what remained of a once thriving gopher. Pushing aside
          the dessicated rodent with a stick, I discovered the holy grail of
          ambush weapons...a footlong chunk of a two-by-four, studded
          with at least a dozen rusty, sixteen-penny nails! My eyes widened
          at the find, and I signaled the other kids to come have a look
          see. The silence of profound revelation hung over us for a
          few seconds, then we nodded in quiet acknowledgement,
          sharing in the epiphany obviously sent to us by an Old Testament
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                 172
          God.

          We had only a few seconds, and it was then that I made the
          decision to take advantage of the others' hesitance. Hurriedly,
          I picked up the roughhewn mace, and while the others backed
          off, I boldly replanted the thing, deadly points up, under some
          leaves and scraps of old newspaper, and directly in the path
          of the oncoming motorbike. I'm sure that, somewhere in the back
          of my mind, an intuition of stepping over lines was whispering
          to me, admonishing my better sense; but that still, small voice
          was washed out by the singing of a young lads twisted logic,
          promising stature, backslapping and other accolades only
          murkily imagined; not to mention the property damage involved!
          The deed was soon accomplished, and we all stepped back
          a few yards, trying to look nonchalant, as the boy came over the
          near rise.

          There was about a 3 second interval open to personal contemplation,
          between the time he appeared over the hill, and when his front
          tire shook hands with our (my)      boobytrap. But, to tell you the truth,
          it was all about expectation, and not much else. Not to ameliorate
          what we (I)      did, but we (I)   really did believe the result would be
          nothing more than a flat tire, and a pissed off kid who would have
          to walk his bike back to his house. But the nail bejeweled piece of
          wood clung to the bottom of the wheel like a baby alligator to its
          mother; only, in a perpendicular fashion rather than a parallel one.
          And when forward motion carried it up into the forks, the motorcycle
          just...stopped.50 mph to 0 in 0.2 seconds. The rider, however,
          kept on going. About 50 feet. Through the air. (Did I mention, he
          wasn't wearing a helmet? 0

          Reality bit me in half that day, and my chest caved in.

          Epilogue:

          No, the kid didn't die. He got up, crying a little, trying not to cry in
          front of us. We just stood and stared, as he picked up his bike
          with the mangled front end, and nudged it along, muttering about
          how his dad was going to kill him. His limp was pretty bad, but
          not terribly, terribly bad, and as his back disappeared into parts
          unknown and uncared about, we all drew a little sigh of relief,
          and most likely wandered off to plot other mischief. Or, maybe,
          just to get some lunch.

          But I remember...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                        173
          I watch my daughter (tanka)

          I watch my daughter
          sleep, and wonder about her
          future after I'm

          gone, and she's left all alone
          in this world of callous fate.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   174
          I Went Fishing in my Wife's Head

          It was one of those nights when I just couldn't sleep.
          I rolled over fifty times, I tried counting sheep.
          I prayed the 'Our Father', plus all the standbys,
          and drank cups of warm milk 'til it leaked from my eyes.

          But, the sheets were too hot, and the mattress seemed lumpy.
          Plus, I'd had a bad day, and was feeling quite grumpy.
          And just how could I be expected to slumber,
          when the starving in China were too great to number?

          While liberal Democrats, all scoundrels and cheats,
          allowed pimps and murderers to run loose in the streets.
          And those right-wing Conservatives-Please! Don't get me started!
          Their last good idea was when Rush Limbaugh farted.

          Corporate takeovers, taxes, and death.
          My neighbor's gone goth, and my son's snorting meth.
          The blood pressure's up, and the bald spot's grown greatly;
          even the mailman's had an attitude lately!

          Deforestation, pollution, and cancer-
          hell in a handbasket: was there an answer?
          How could one sleep when the whole place was sliding
          into a morass, led by four horsemen riding?

          Meanwhile, supine in the bed to my right,
          lay my sweet, darling wife, who was out like a light.
          Like a saint in repose, without worry or care.
          Ah, to rest with the gods- god! It just wasn't fair!

          Then, a far darker humour replaced my frustration;
          a malignancy born out of sleep deprivation.
          From the core of dementia came a voice through to me:
          'What was this she-devil trying to do to me? '

          Lying so still there, in the midst of her dreams,
          full well knowing I was coming apart at the seams.
          Mocking me with each rise and fall of her breast;
          her infernal intentions I couldn't have guessed.

          'Stop! ' cried the remnant of my rational side.
          'Why all this enmity aimed at your bride?
          Grow up! Be a man! Cease all this ill wishing!
          If you really can't sleep, welll...get up, and go fishing! '

          Then I giggled, and drooled, then giggled some more;
          went out to the garage, and opened the door.
          I grabbed all my tackle, but then my hand strayed
          to the saw on the pegboard, with its sharp cutting blade.

          With my new sense of purpose, I returned to the house;
          I knelt at the bedside just as quiet as a mouse
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          and, placing the blade 'gainst her forehead just so,
          I hacked and I whittled 'til her skullcap let go.

          I don't mean to brag, but you might be impressed
          with the fact that I managed with nary a mess.
          In fact, the whole deed 'came off', might I say, neatly?
          With cathartic flamboyance, I kissed her lips sweetly.

          Then, donning my waders, and grabbing my pole,
          I climbed down inside of her cranial hole.
          I found a nice spot along the banks of the sea,
          baited my hook, then cast my line free.

          Fishing was fickle in my wife's psychic ocean;
          after just a few minutes I pulled out a notion.
          But the notion was tiny, and got through the net;
          anyhow, it wasn't a keeper, and that's as big as they get.

          So I cast out again into much deeper waters;
          I hooked a regret that she'd never had daughters.
          It slipped from my fingers; well, I have to admit
          that I didn't hold tightly- I couldn't commit!

          The next fish I caught wasn't quite like the others:
          a green, largemouth bass, with a voice like her mother's.
          Part of me recoiled at the fact that I'd hooked her,
          while the other part self-satisfactorily cooked her.

          Following my repast, I continued my casting,
          but I kept getting snagged on her hope everlasting.
          What a prize that would be! But my hooks were too small,
          and each time I cut her, she kicked up a squall!

          Thereafter, I resigned myself to more docile game;
          so many species, but always the same:
          all parts of her, like the blocks in a quilt,
          as there I stood mired in the slough of my guilt.

          Suddenly drained of my passion and fight,
          I broke down my gear, wrapped it up, and took flight.
          With haste, up the bank of her brainpan I fled,
          crawled out of her skull, then fetched my best thread,

          and stitched her back up just as good as before
          with a magical needle I kept in a drawer.
          So wondrous my craftsmanship, my skill so superb
          that, after, she lay there unscarred; undisturbed.

          I never did speak of that grim, fateful night,
          but afterward, she appeared to my eyes in new light.
          And though I'm not perfect, I acknowledge her wish,
          and have forfeited angling for tropical fish.
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          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   177
          I Whine..(tanka)

          I whine. I complain.
          I bitch. I moan. I pre-judge.
          I denigrate. I

          repudiate. I slander.
          I reproach. Sound familiar?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   178
          I Would Shame the World...(haiku)

          I would shame the world
          into unbecoming with
          my pen if I could

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   179
          If I Smiled...(tanka)

          If I smiled and said
          that you were a good person,
          would you then return

          the favor? This is how we
          stroke each other...it's ok.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   180
          Ikkyu wouldn't sing...(haiku)

          Ikkyu wouldn't sing
          to nature...I don't blame him
          it swallowed him up

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   181
          I'll never eschew...(tanka)

          I'll never eschew
          rationality for the
          vagaries that pass

          for emotional insight-
          but I'm still not satisfied.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   182
          I'm in Love with a Lesbian!

          I'm in love with a lesbian!
          What am I to do about it?
          She prefers the company of
          women...there's no way around it.

          Must I take the dreaded step,
          and lay the axe to the root of the tree.
          There are but few initials etched into its hoary bark; a couple of hearts, weathered to
          the point of undetectability.
          A promise, carved deeply,
          but gnawed away over the years by a seasonal shrew.
          When this obelisk falls,
          will there be anyone around to hear,
          or care?
          Doubtful.

          But, ahhh!
          After the transformation,
          I have no doubt that I shall win her heart.
          The meeting of the minds
          is already complete.
          We are two of a kind, she and I-
          a matched pair, only...
          yes; that one thing which stands between us,
          threatening her like a sword to the throat.
          She cannot bring herself to face it, eye to eye:

          for she is the giving sort,
          but likes her privacy.
          Her door is shut to vacuum cleaner salesmen,
          and the Watchtower holds no salvation for her kind.
          Only the gentle knock will lure her out;
          the unobtrusive summons,
          inviting her to a pauper's banquet-
          a toast of donuts and sparkling wine,
          followed by a bacchanalia of ladyfingers, and unparalled kisses.
          We shall no longer be fire and water,
          but steam,
          when the job is through.

          6 months later...

          Women! ! !

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                     183
          I'm Sorry, Sweetheart, Was All I Could Say

          She called me tonight, full of sobbing.
          She had just learned the fate of her missing cat,
          cut in half while sleeping under the hood of the neighbor's car.
          But, even as she spoke,
          I could hear part of my mind keeping track of the minutes being used up on my
          cellphone.

          I detest life.
          I detest myself.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                           184
          Indulgence

          Dive into the well, if you will,
          but don't forever tarry there.
          Fix a lifeline 'round your person,
          lest bottom you hit, to lie alone.

          Secure a fellow stout and strong
          to draw you from that devil's lair;
          be sure his confidence is true,
          be sure his sinewed strength, your own.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive     185
          Interlude

          A chronicler of dust for dust.
          The Sunday crossword favorite of methodical ooze
          with a penchant for teacup drama.
          A slanted signpost buried beneath a void of shifting sands,
          throwing snake eyes on dice weighted against the house.
          Impenetrable.
          Nonsensical.
          And rhyming (even when he doesn't feel like it) ,
          just for spite.
          Well, alright!
          Let's get back to it, shall we?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                         186
          it's a guessing game...(haiku)

          it's a guessing game
          where are the pricetags on these
          costumes of deceit?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   187
          It's the Kindnesses...(tanka)

          It's the kindnesses
          that sting- they fabricate the
          penumbral mirage

          upon which our belief in
          basal goodness is sustained.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   188
          It's the Little Things (for cia)

          Sing a song for old friends, and another one for new.
          Admit that you screwed some of them, and some of them screwed you.
          Then, write a letter forgiving them, and kiss it when you're through.

          Drive down to the grocery store, and while you're in the aisle,
          catch the eye of a passer-by, and wow them with a smile.
          Perhaps they haven't felt alive in quite a little while.

          And when your child comes home from school, and he's in a rotten mood,
          give him a poke, and tell him a joke, and sit him down to food.
          Things are tough for a kid, and the last thing he needs is to be chewed.

          There's not a lot of time between the cradle and the grave,
          so, pull your hand out of your ass, and give the world a wave.
          With every little act, you have the power to curse, or save.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                      189
          Jaywalking on Powered Wings

          A trinity of butterflies;
          how gracefully they flew!
          They missed my windshield by inches-
          I doubt they ever knew

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   190
          Jeffrey (tanka chain, oh darlin', tanka chain...)

          met an old hippy
          tonight; the real thing, not a
          tagalong from the

          70's like me. his name
          is Jeffrey, and that's his name


          Jeffrey spotted me
          scoping him out from behind
          the burger boxes

          above the grill; he flipped me
          a peace sign, and I winked back


          Jeffrey and his friend
          sat back in the far corner
          of the dining room

          and ate their three-for-a-buck
          tacos one by one by one


          I locked the dining
          room doors at ten, but Jeffrey
          and his friend remained;

          I should have kicked them out, but
          instead I brought them ice cream


          Jeffrey said 'God bless
          you' a lot; homeless people
          are always saying

          that. I can never tell when
          it's heartfelt, or just a line


          Jeffrey lives beneath
          the freeway overpass in
          some sort of culvert,

          or so he says, and I've no
          reason not to believe him


          hiding underneath
          the table in the corner
          was Jeffrey's little

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          dog. I brought him a bowl of
          taco meat- he gulped it down!


          music was playing
          on a tape player Jeffrey
          bought for three bucks at

          a garage sale- the Grateful
          Dead...Jeffrey is a deadhead!


          Jeffrey raised two girls
          in a commune in northern
          California; they

          live in Orange County now,
          but Jeffrey's a rolling stone


          Jeffrey says he's not
          as strong as he was when he
          was young. I believe

          it; I patted his arm, and
          felt the skeleton inside


          I had to give ol'
          Jeffrey the heave-ho after
          a while; I tried to

          be as nice as possible,
          and he promised he'd be back


          I feel sorry for
          guys like Jeffrey, though I'm not
          sure why. I'm sorry

          for all of us, though I'm not
          particularly sure why


          post script: haven't seen
          Jeffrey for going on six
          months now. The planet

          seems to have swallowed him up;
          or, maybe he's with Jerry

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   192
          Jesus Christ Custodianstar

          Think twice before you stare into
          my eyes in that dog defying overconfidence
          mode born of weak enemies and a slightly
          higher position in the junk yard
          heirarchy. Your growling uttered
          threats mean nothing to one who
          has licked up stardust from the bowl
          of a gravity well, and found his way
          unaided through the labyrinthine maze
          of pre-realized particle shells, to nap
          in the laps of Aristotle AND Aquinas.
          You are NOT what you think you are,
          old pup; the rain falls on the just and
          the unjust, everybody has an asshole,
          and one can find a chair to sleep in
          at any reasonably sized institute of
          learning. I would continue to mop the
          floor, but you don't even make a decent

          mop.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive        193
          Jump Rope Rhyme

          'Hyena behind; picking at scraps.
          Hyena ahead. muzzling laps.
          Hyena below; coarse, slouching cur.
          Hyena above; a vulture with fur.

          Dum dum dodo, catch me if you can...
          I can run faster than Coprolite can!
          1..2..3..4..5..6..7..8..9..10..all jump out! '

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive            194
          Just a Game

          Open this bag of marbles,
          and the poetry rolls out.
          It seems to come so easily,
          it's hard to call it art.

          So blithely cute, and clever,
          gilded with dismay, and doubt.
          Behind the page, the author
          being slowly torn apart

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   195
          Just a Show About Nothin'

          Kramer said the 'n' word,
          and now he's up the creek;
          crucified by epithet,
          hung up on p.c. speak.

          Meanwhile, OJ tries to pitch
          his book about 'what if...? '
          Hope it's out by Xmas;
          t'would make a lovely gift.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   196
          Just a Silly Little Rhyme

          The cunning linguist wagged his tongue to coax the rising moon;
          her craters swelled, and then expelled the piquant tang of poon.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                              197
          Just Life

          Not about destiny,
          not about love.

          Not about honor,
          nor filial duty.

          Not about fairness,
          nor justice, nor beauty.

          Just eating, and dying,
          and variations thereof.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   198
          Kali Backs Her Car Out of the Driveway

          When Kali looked herself in the eye-

          Local heroes dove from their pedestals into the roiling moshpits of ambiguity.

          Beggars took their bowls off their heads, and tipped rice carts into the gutters.

          Night turned edgewise, vomiting up morning glories.

          Jesus Christ mounted the horizontal strut of his cross, and rode it down Golgatha like
          Keith Emerson rocking his Hammond across the stage of the Isle of Wight festival in his
          coat of many colors.

          Johnny Cochran climbed out of his grave, and gave Gloria Alred a blowjob.

          Strangeness became normal...and wonderful!

          Laps turned backwards, and a new industry was born.

          Mohammed made out with Moses on a blanket at the Don Ho memorial luau.

          The Academy Awards festivities were cancelled on account of lucidity.

          The value of pi rounded itself off at the 123rd decimal place, and everybody noticed.

          One thousand lemmings halted at the sea's edge, and pondered.

          The World's Greatest Architect watched aghast as his T-square sprouted wings, and
          flew off in the direction of Calcutta.

          5 caterwauling feminists holding hands in a circle got more than a passing glance from
          a surviving member of an underground splinter group of the for all intents and
          purposes defunct John Birch Society, and blushed.

          A yuppie walked into an upscale Thai restaurant, and asked for a glass of tap water.

          Cancer committed suicide.

          Eleven lions in leotards cartwheeled across a lavender lawn, licking lambsheads all
          along the way.

          Mouths became genitalia, and masturbation replaced mastication as the world's most
          indulged in pastime (to tell the truth, it had always been a close call) .

          Scientists from around the world gathered in Stockholm to study a 101 year old infidel
          with the eyes of a child.

          The Pope blessed the union of a homosexual couple.

          Out of the West came a stranger, who roamed the earth and planted pennies across
          the face of the countryside, which swiftly grew into money trees- the populace
          rejoiced!

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          Potheads, alcoholics, and heroin freaks became addicted to giving.

          Moths lit their cigarettes on candle flames, then flew back home to their wives.

          Women grew penises, and stopped their bellyaching.

          Men grew breasts on their backs, and war ceased to exist.

          ! @#$%^&*()              KEERASHHHHHHHHHHHHH! ! !)    (*&^%$#@!

          And a prizeworthy hedgerow of black dahlias is mowed down before its time. Kali
          glances around, embarrassed, straightens the wheel, then proceeds on her way.

          God bless the guy who invented the automatic transmission!
          (inser.t groan here)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Contrite

          Um...hi there. I'm Kali, and I'd really like to apologize for some of my previous actions
          and language here on your wonderful poetry site. You know, a lot of people envy me,
          being the all-consuming, infinitely powerful and wise meta-goddess that I am, but...it
          isn't always easy being me. Creating and destroying universes is no picnic, I assure
          you, and sometimes I get a bit weary of it all, and I lash out. Let me assure you that I
          will do my very best to comply to the new standards here at PoemHunter, and I hope
          that we can all get along, and play nice. Thanks so much for your attention...

          Kali
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          .
          fnck you

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Goes On a Date

          One offered his inheritance;
          a fortune gained through one hundred thousand labors, none his own,
          nor of the progenitor/sluice under which he waited with
          open arms and smiling teeth of patience feigned,
          anticipating the sound of the hammer, and the thud.
          She took it, her movements casual; unstudied,
          melted it in her diplomatic teapot, and sipped it down,
          noiselessly.

          Another offered the blood of two armies,
          carefully chosen and manipulated, the body politic cut in half,
          passions truncated by duty and manipulation of sense of duty,
          dark green against light blue, each side exquistely grafted onto the molten tree of
          defeat.
          She dipped two fingers into the vertiginous saucer,
          dabbed them lightly against the slight hollows beneath her regal cheekbones,
          admiring the contrast in the reflections of her suitor's desperate retinas, and smiled,
          but offered no recompense.

          Many tried; all different, all the same to her...all the same.
          Worlds flowered in their times, worlds folded whether they thought it was time or not.
          It all passed by her half noticed, or not noticed at all.
          She lounged in what she thought of as her lotus bedchamer,
          eating the days, drinking the nights, excreting eternity after eternity,
          and life, if not good, was still life for her, and death for everything else.

          Then, a stirring. The smallest of small bulges in the distance.
          Nothing unusual; it all started that way...unimaginably uncountable beginnings, which
          were always precursors to endings.
          Always.
          So, when it finally took its stride and grew in her direction, she yawned.
          Another suitor, another sip of infinitely rich, infinitely boring vastness.
          Finally, it/he arrived, kneeling before her dais.
          Offering its hands, she saw nothing, and was only slightly amused;
          ah, a gift of non-phenomenological prestidigitation; quaint...
          once, superstition had been a real turn-on.
          She waited...
          a blade emerged from a waistband,
          left hand hacking away right arm, then feet, then legs...
          Precision! Stoicism! Her womb shuddered, as memories flooded in.
          And the torso...it refused imbalance; marvelous!
          It had been ages since...which of course, meant since yesterday to her.
          Still, a noble attempt.
          And look...his eyes! They remained intent, fixed on hers.
          Lacking the need for dignity, she allowed herself to swoon,
          to be sucked in by this lump of interrupted disintegration.
          She felt herself falling into him, and he at once became a dark cave,
          then a well, then the sky, and she was falling up,
          and his face remained before her, beckoned her,
          and above the stars they joined, and she danced with him,
          he the leader, as she followed his steps across ten thousand levels of existence, step
          for step, and she was ravished, and for a moment, she was dead, and glad of it, as
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          they spun and spun together until they were a blur of light/sound/blood, and then...
          he wobbled, and fell, and faded...
          and she returned to her tea, and to her waiting.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Goes To a Job Interview

          In the antechamber of the absolute compulsion,
          the Encompassor of all infinities sharpens her
          claws on time's dessicated outerskin, her revulsion
          notwithstanding. Her boredom weaves worlds, unbinds them; a stir,

          a flicker, a hint of autumnal frost, and another
          passes into the negritude of her exclusive race
          consciousness; her one-way, excremental door. This mother
          of undoing, squeezing lemons without intent, a face

          acid livid with the curses of mere pulp, eyes blood-red
          with the fires of unacknowledged supplications, less than
          ignored; laughed at, spit upon...folly of the ever dead
          who for one moment forgot their station. This black woman,

          this utter vacuum, refusing even light free egress;
          rapacious whore without orgasmic reflex. Careless suck.
          Empyrian sinkhole... A bell rings. She straightens her dress,
          smiles big, crosses her fingers, and wishes herself good luck.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Goes to Church

          He met her between services,
          out in the little courtyard where the others gathered to smoke,
          sharing salacious secrets, and bogarting fags
          behind the back of the Almight Headmaster,
          whose eyes were everywhere, though easily disregarded
          during recess break.

          But, none of that was for him, who,
          upbraiding his chums for their slant-eyed demeanors,
          though they tipped their rosy yarmulkes, and twirled their curls,
          and begged indulgences for their mini-jubilees,
          adjured them to steady their courses, and quicken their paces
          along life's high-wire act, lest they plummet into the
          presence of the Redoubtable Ringmaster in His
          purposely pointed hat. To his way of thinking, the equation
          was clear, and added up to this:
          renege-ation equaled immolation.

          As was their custom, they feigned some superficial solicitude,
          then sidled off, hands uncomfortably fisted into their obligatory vestments,
          gathered in another precinct of the sandbox,
          formed a circle-
          somebody threw a Mishna into the middle,
          and everybody Gemara'd it around for a while,
          ignoring the goody-two-sandaled momma's boy
          disconsolately dangling his legs over the edge of perfection's roundabout,
          kvetching to himself.

          Oblivion.
          Why did they not understand their delinquency,
          nor fear the inevitable, everlasting curfew that was sure to come?
          Oh, Father in Heaven! When will my time arrive?
          Who stands for me?

          And then, he saw her.
          Ultimate beauty, framed in the light of ages.
          Her approach was unperceived;
          one moment she was there,
          the next, they stood nose to...nose.
          Overwhelmed, he breathed in the perfume of her wholesomeness,
          intoxicated by her sanctities (actually, they were quite firm,
          though he deigned not to notice) .

          She ran her hand smoothly across his unscrewed skullcap,
          encroaching upon the streets and alleys of his cerebrum with her touch.
          Inconspicuously, she performed some ecumenical, female deception-
          a twist here, a turn there,
          a bit of exegetical re-routing,
          and before he knew what was happening,
          all signs pointed to her.

          Then, the image faded,
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          and he was left, once again, alone and separate.
          However, something had drastically changed within his heart;
          a new resolve flourished in him.
          A faith, white hot with certainties, and with possibilities
          he had never imagined.
          For the first time in his life, he knew who he was,
          and he was GOOD!

          Hopping on a passing donkey,
          he galloped into town, whipping the population into a frenzy
          with his good news that everything was going to hell.
          Dad was back in town,
          and He carried a mighty big stick, indeed!
          He picked up a few followers along his route,
          mostly fishermen who engraved the icon of their livelihood
          on the back of his ass.
          They all ran around for a while,
          cajoling, promising, threatening...whatever it took to convince
          everybody that they were more shit than people.
          A few listened; most did not.

          At last, sick to death of of these noisome naysayers,
          somebody decided to put a stop to the madness,
          and had their leader brought in for a friendly interrogation.
          For the most part, he refused their queries,
          answering with questions and veiled apocalyptic treatises;
          but those of the Seven Hills had not the patience to put up with such crap,
          and the suffering Semites were better at it,
          so they hauled his ass (the other one) up the hill,
          and nailed him to a lower-case 't'...for 'trippin''.

          As he looked down upon the spectators from his prickly perch, he saw her again;
          he squirted some water and blood her way,
          trying to get her attention,
          but she'd already forgotten about him,
          and was whispering into the ear of some guy named Saul,
          as his old compadres Peter and John looked on,
          shaking their heads,
          and kvetching.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Goes to Market

          Dromy the junkie
          cruisin' the aisles
          of the produce section at the mobile mart-
          big apple franchise;
          bruisin' the peaches, squeezin' the tomatoes.
          On a zealot's whim...

          and a wink from above...

          he snatches his trusty penknife
          from the secret hollow in his western style scanties,
          and pops its point into the ripe, young flesh
          of a juicy pomegranate,
          then writes his name across the clouds with its blood-like blood,
          being careful not to actually touch it,
          since it hasn't been washed.

          The letters drool down like drifting sand,
          and none of the vegetables can read them.

          Only the security guy up behind the magic mirrors has the cipher,
          but he's too busy porkin' the pie with his
          bureaucratic
          pencil
          d1ck.
          The watermelons, carrots, and eggplants look on in horror,
          as the man from the wastelands goes on his

          RAMPAGE OF LOVE! (buy the cd)

          proceeding into the toy department,
          flattening the tires of radio flyers,
          and muttering guttural obscenities into the
          big
          big
          microphone.

          Eyes wide,
          pupil's dilated 'round the schoolmaster's face-which-is-space,
          Dromy pops his favorite tape into a see-and-say,
          but it only drones maniacal nonsense,
          tranquilizing Dromy like a desert horse led to slaughter.

          Swing and sway to the carnage, baby...
          this is not a test.

          Kali's perfect breasts are smashed flat against Dromy's rounded back,
          her tendoned elbow arched in the classic, reach-around position,
          as her practiced hand langorously pumps his mother's cabalistic virgin
          lollipop. She whispers false promises into his icepick ear concerning
          her seventy-two illusory sisters awaiting his everlasting, never failing,
          cosmic gangbang.
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          Dromy wears the idiot's grin.

          He sees her cnnt before him, her cockpit window winking-
          its vertical rainbow smile a garrote strangling the sky;
          gasping for air, the face of the sun turns blue, then black.
          Two needle shafts explode out of the New Amsterdam cabbage patch;
          bible belt suspenders, with the heart of the American dream
          beating between them. All quiet on the western front-business as usual.
          But, not for long.

          Dromy wears his d1ck to the right,
          and follows its lead.
          The monolith has landed! But, guess what!
          Arthur C. was wrong-
          it turns men into monkeys:
          Damn you dirty apes! ! ! You blew it all up!

          All emergency services have been permanently suspended...
          Allah be praised.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Goes to War

          Kali, that old spider,
          spun a web of herself,
          became a universe;
          a womb that birthed her-
          Bootstrap Genesis: Chapter one, verse one.

          She abode in the center of herself,
          rarely venturing out for vittles.
          Prey was inexhaustible,
          and all she desired was close at hand;
          everything reached her through the web, which was herself,
          and 'distance' was not a notion embodied in her intimate nomenclature.

          Then, one day
          (day, because in her exquisite self-confidence, she allowed that occasional, idiomatic
          nonsensicality to sprout within her lexicon) ,
          she became aware of something...different.
          A hole.
          Space, where there should be no space.
          Where there had never been any space.
          Where there had never been anything at all that was not her.

          Packing a few things,
          she departed for the area of the anomalous irregularity;
          of course, since everything was no more or less than herself,
          she arrived posthaste,
          and discovered...


          The Bo tree,
          and Siddhartha Guatama sitting beneath it in the classic, meditative posture-
          legs crossed
          eyes closed
          hands in lap, palms up.

          Such a puny thing to have captured my passing glance,
          she thought to herself.
          No matter- she swatted with her hand to pinch out the mote's existence...
          and struck her own face.

          Astounding!

          The mite's expression remained fixed;
          it was one of profound contemplation,
          and peace.
          Ah, a curiosity, she thought.
          The universe palpitated with the excitation of her black heart.
          This deserved further study;
          testing.

          With a wicked grin,
          she shrugged off her bodice,
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          approached, and knelt before him.
          Pulling his head forward into her breasts,
          she summoned forth the memories of a trillion disposable lovers,
          all of them at the highest degree of sexual ecstasy,
          distilled and secreted from her nipples into the enigma's face.
          The tastes and smells invaded his mouth, his nostrils;
          glutted his sensory channels with the lust of a billion worlds.
          She held him thus for twice the lifetime of an average sun,
          finally releasing him to stand back, and admire her handiwork.

          He was unmoved.

          Marvelous!

          What manner of creature was this,
          conceived in the shadowed uterus of her subconscious mind,
          and burgeoned, thus,
          to offer her this challenge?
          Further exploration was in order.

          On a whim, she dispatched a tiny portion of her malice into the sky,
          and called down thunderbolts,
          targeting her passive resistor with enough firepower to decimate a galaxy.
          But, as they approached the stranger's baffling stillness,
          the missiles transformed into roses, and daffodils,
          and all variety of brilliantly colored wildflowers,
          and these piled up at his feet,
          until she put an end to it-
          and his composure never wavered,
          nor did the slight, now seemingly mocking smile that he wore like a talisman against
          her.

          Astonishing!

          One more test, then...to be sure.

          Then, Kali did close her own eyes,
          and reached out into the tendrils of herself,
          and to the children she had begat for her amusement.
          And she did curse them with sundry indispositions, and plagues, and vile rots, and
          sores, and pernicious mental and physical imbalances, some the likes of which had
          never before been visited upon anyone, anywhere; and she suffered them not to die,
          nor to experience the slightest degree of surcease from their anguish, not even
          through the aegis of habituation which sometimes comes through long affiliation with a
          malady. Their screams and moanings shook the underpinnings of creation itself.

          Siddhartha did nothing,
          merely touching the fingers of one hand gently to the earth,
          signifying his acceptance of all things-
          all the grief
          all the horror
          all the appearance and disappearance of all manifestations,
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          subtle, and gross.

          Untouched.

          With that, his trials ended.
          In one fluid motion too quick for a mortal eye to discern,
          Kali pulled her Sword of Ruin from its scabbard at her side.
          Wielding it with a baneful, yet, at the same time
          almost delicate finesse,
          she raised it above Siddhartha's unflinching head,
          and brought it down...

          touching it lightly to one shoulder,
          then to the other.

          Thus, Siddhartha Guatama,
          Son of Suddhodana, and of Maya,
          who had borne him out of her right side,
          also know as Sakyamuni, sage of the Shakyas,
          and to others as the Buddha, or, enlightened one,
          there, beneath the Pipal tree, or, Bodhi tree,
          became the champion of Kali, Eater of Worlds,
          and her general.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Goes Undercover

          This is a love story:

          Two children of the Goddess kneel
          at the foot of Cassiopeia's Chair,
          under the auspices of the heavenly gathered host;
          taking their vows of love and constancy,
          one to the other-wed.
          They breathe each other,
          as the wildflowers of the glade genuflect
          in wonderment and humility.
          What favor bestowed upon these two!
          What grace poured into these earthen vessels,
          molded in passion's crucible,
          tempered beneath fingers lissome and fey,
          intended only for this moment,
          and for the ten thousand moments which would
          emerge from this one, like the spreading
          leaves of a hale and potent bough.

          They utter the words, which flow from them
          like perfect music to embrace in subtle,
          harmonic resonances above the heads of the gathered.
          Wizened faces turn upward, and, for a moment,
          they are transformed into the visages of babes,
          as the miracle washes over them.
          Tears fall unashamedly, like spring rain;
          then, consonance ebbs into silence,
          breathing stops,
          lips brush,
          and the second to last alchemic knowing is fulfilled
          before these witnesses to divinity made flesh.

          They float within the circle of the consecrated entourage;
          water lilies suspended in a grail fashioned for holy purpose;
          finally, deposted at the chosen tabernacle of invisibility.
          The attendants withdraw with unforced haste,
          and the couple is left to the wood, and to the sky...
          and to themselves.
          They enter the simple cottage, fashioned of polished birch,
          adorned with heather, and spray of primrose;
          her lithe form lifted and carried across the sacred threshold
          in his sure and caring arms. The air is delicately laced
          with lavender, and in the subdued light filtering into the single
          room, through narrow but expertly cut casements,
          he lays her down upon the bed.

          Ah, how to describe that moment between hesitance,
          and bliss? The time for words is past, and yet...
          She senses the tension between the two poles of
          his masculinity. Then...the hint of a smile. A gentle touch
          against his cheek with the back of her dainty hand.
          All is well. All is very, very well.
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          They are meant to be.

          Still, he undresses himself; she, herself. Slowly, at first,
          they begin the dance of consummation. He thinks to
          linger, but the fever builds, and she is a match to it,
          step for step, heart to heart. Mouths, and skin, and
          fingers, and need intertwine, conflict, and reconcile.
          Then...the rhythm begins; takes over. They become
          slaves to a pulse older than record, more ancient by
          far than humankind. The moment is at once too slow,
          and too fast. They both know the climax is imminent,
          and in that final few seconds before the summit is reached,
          she whispers tersely in his ear,
          'Let our child be the child of love...'

          Kali bites down on her tongue; the blood of butchered
          generations fills her mouth, gushes down her throat, to
          form a lump in the depths of her black belly. She is sated.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Loses Her Prey

          In the end,
          there will be a sneer on one face,
          and a vaguely amused nonchalance on the other.
          Did anybody win?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Meets Kali in Yoga Class

          Breathe in.
          Draw life into the lungs,
          hold for a moment, then,
          breathe out.
          Rest.
          And,
          breathe in.
          Absorb the offer of existence;
          manifestations of autonomous
          being dance.
          Watch!
          Hear!
          It begins with a waltz; they move as one,
          fluid interaction without a single collision.
          Symmetry.
          Satya.
          The dancers notice their own grace. The dance becomes
          a production, a sacrifice for favor..a merengue of morality.
          Taste.
          Treta.
          'Hey! Watch where you're going! Quit stepping on my feet! Oh yeah!
          I'll show you, then! I'll do my own thang! You're on your own, assfnck! '
          Discord.
          Dvapara.

          Gold reverts..U..............I..Beastmen..B..........a...! ! !
          to lead............U.............I..e..................u......a........! ! !
          m....................U..............I..c...................ha.............! ! !
          I.......................U.............I..o...................b..a...........! ! !
          u......................U.............I..m..................y......a.......! ! !
          ? ..................... KaliYuga..emissaries..e..........a....0

          Breathe out.
          Begin again.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Preaches to the Sheep

          Tantric fools!
          You seek me within, never understanding that I am
          without...compassion. (Amen!)
          You copulate for hours on end, never realizing that I
          don't give a... fnck. (Say it, Sistuh!)
          You seek an end to illusion, unaware that my blade
          awaits you at the portal of truth. (Have mercy!)

          Lambs to the slaughter, you are barely worth the effort of your shearing...Bah!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Sets the Table

          Broken glass carpets the deserted playground of the Divines;
          they have left the field, and disappeared into a pocket
          that was willing to receive them. Call to them; hear the wind.
          Call to them; hear the wind roar through caverns saturated
          with tears, and with echoes of madness gone to seed.
          Need is no more; the shards ragged edged, razor edged peace,
          and the field is the hide of the unnameable monstrosity.
          Even ecstasy MUST become uncomfortable over time;
          it MUST! Jesus Christ, it is my prayer...it MUST!
          All is forsaken; still, there is that one hope, that unspeakable faith that,
          well,
          that justice may be served.

          She smiles, the cracks in her lips dripping teardrops of charred
          aspirations for requital. She cracks her knuckles, then sweeps away
          the debris from her pulpit. A lone, tiny fragment lodges itself in the
          heel of her left hand. Daintily she plucks it out with her right, then drags
          the honed point across the surface of her livid tongue in two directions,
          marking the sign of the Cross.
          Her back is scarred.
          The night is charged with her amusement.
          She sets the board again.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Smells a Rat

          Something astir!
          Underground activity in the diabolic matrix;
          bugs under her skin.
          What is the source of this disturbance?
          She opens an ear-
          the cacophony of affliction sings to her,
          soothes her like pastoral tones taken
          with a bit of brie, and a moderately
          priced glass of merlot.
          She stretches on her divan,
          absent-mindedly fingering herself in rhythm
          to the pulse of doom.


          Still...
          she cannot lose herself completely;
          something intrudes.
          A...sweetness?
          No, nothing that exposed.
          More, an impression of barely sustained...
          hopefulness.
          Yes! Terror crouched and hiding behind a
          thin veneer of true faith.
          She sits up in the dark,
          her eyes like laser beams,
          searching the corners of her domain.

          Ah ha!
          There, on the outskirts of Plane 14, Sector 4;
          one of the physically perceptible levels of dimension-
          a bi-starred, orange world.
          A gaunt, under other circumstances pitiable sentient triped,
          on its knees before an image of some
          ridiculously conceived deity.
          The mind behind shuttered antennae rocking
          gently on a tranquil sea of whatever
          passes for satori in it's particular mode of awareness;
          the true state of its lowly nature temporarily
          forgotten in a transient seizure of fancy.

          Eyes intent, she feels behind her towards the
          nightstand for an ashtray, takes careful aim,
          and...throws!

          WHACK!
          Right between the eyes!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Torus (Kali Eats a Donut)

          The final, true religion has at last come into its own!
          Science!
          Downwards was the solution. Backwards was the key
          to knowing.
          The high priesthood of the reductionist creed has fashioned a device;
          a camera sent outward to look inward.
          A biomechanical osprey riding the wormhole winds,
          leaving light in the lurches, as it dives towards the outmost
          reaches of the imagined.
          Sending back images of what it 'sees' out there;
          molasses photons easy pickings, bits and pieces of
          cosmological antiquity caught in the sap, fossilized;
          ingested, digested, and sent back along the FTL guyline.
          Universe in reverse...the big gulp- Goodbye, Dolly!
          Planets turned to powder, duststar, implosion, de-coalescence,
          protons and neutrons and neutrinos and photons and electrons
          changing partners in mutually destructive sexplay with their anti-
          partners. Orgiastic tigers chasing their tails turn to butter,
          then to seminal fluid originally ejected through the piss hole of the 'World's Biggest
          Schlong! ', now swallowed back hurriedly
          like a Catholic schoolgirl who knows she's been bad.

          Then...the end of the line, at both ends of the track. At the periphery,
          from the standpoint of the observers on earth, our little AI camcorder-
          that-could passes through the membrane of effect, disappearing
          into a cavern-like structure that 'seems' to be endlessly deep;
          at least, the opening of the apparent hollow appears to be receding...
          or, is it only a mouth, closing?

          Meanwhile, at the other end of history, according to the last few frames
          of revelation sent back along the space/time pony express, the last
          vestiges of existence disappear into what looks like a murky,
          reverse-view peephole...at least, that was the message given to the
          general public.

          In truth, the object in question appeared more like a quivering, moist,
          bleeding sphincter (according to several internal memos which have
          since been discounted) .

          Kali burps and farts at the same time...a neat trick.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kali Writes a Poem

          Roses putresce.
          Violets decay.
          If you haven't got scars,
          then you've never been laid.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Kalisong

          I am Kali, and this is a song of myself...

          I grip the drum between my thighs,
          and beat it with a downward motion.
          Insipient, seasonal rhythms perforate my metamorphic integument,
          lodging in my atramentous womb;
          carrion eaters returned to feast upon their
          own saponaceous memories: quantum bubble repercussions.

          I am Kali...

          I cut with the upward motion:
          wrist to elbow, wrist to elbow,
          profoundly and everlastingly.
          The threshold of my blade honed
          on the misty strop of oblivion
          clutched between teeth and feet.

          Runaway erythrocytes pursue the vacuum;
          hounds taking their cue from the fox
          (Where did he go? Was he ever there?) .
          Seeking extinction in forgetfulness,
          then forgetting the collars which bind them,
          and the biting, arterial cord forestalling their emancipation.

          I am Kali, Mother of Worlds.
          I feast on extinction's marrow,
          and bathe in the excrement of time.
          Look upon my works,
          and know that hope is an idiot's simper-
          gold in a drowning man's purse.

          Somewhere, someone plants an orchard;
          he tends the vines, spending blood for vigilance.
          Proudly, he displays the fruit of his labor to his posterity,
          only a moment before his knees buckle:
          the grape is crushed in his spasming hand,
          the vine withers within his clutch,
          and his final vision is of the web he has caught his children in,
          just before he returns to filth.
          Returns? Ha! When did he ever leave it?

          I am Kali...
          spring is the season of my ascendancy,
          green the tinge of my malice.

          What unnoticed corner of existence would you flee into,
          to escape your own knowledge of my presence?
          Would you turn within,
          as if you were a hollowed out carapace?
          Truly, you are but a face;
          a death mask I don purely for my own amusement's sake.
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          I rake my nails along the contours of your aspirations,
          and display my gore-streaked hands before your purblindness,
          before casting you aside like a macerated menstrual rag.

          I   grant you life, that I may steal it.
          I   give you love, that I might watch you grow, and shrink.
          I   lend you peace, only long enough to break it.
          I   offer you stamina, that you may falter.
          I   allow you hope, like you pat the head of the sacrificial lamb.
          I   show you heaven, that your taste of hell be made more acute.

          I am Kali...
          I give you gods, because even I require laughter,
          from time to time.

          For one moment in your afflicted, imbecilic lives,
          summon up enough courage to face the world directly,
          and you will see me there, staring back at you.
          I am the Life, and the Rot.
          I am the Urge, and the hideous Culmination.
          I am the One your nightmares fear.

          I shall be with you tonight, as you sleep,
          and tomorrow as you make your plans,
          consume your flesh,
          and exchange your bodily discharges.
          Seek me or not, I shall find you,
          and you shall return to me, utterly broken.

          Come unto me, My children,
          and I shall give you rest,
          for I Am the gateway to Nirvana.
          Enter my mouth,
          and speak to me in the language of your pain.
          Help me to understand the holy Cessation,
          that I may learn to sleep, and not to dream,
          and we shall usher each other into that place of Silence;
          for I am Kali...

          and this is a song of myself.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                222
          Keep Walking

          Give me the fenced in porch, without a gate.
          From my seat, I'll offer a wave, and exchange empty pleasantries,
          as your existence stutters through the rough sawn pickets,
          and we'll pretend to be neighbors
          pretending to be acquaintances.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                               223
          Khandhas in the Wind

          I ran into the belly of the devil that day;
          derivation of dust yard blues.
          I prayed for the lifting,
          settled for the stinging
          grains
          of
          sand
          which ripped my body,
          reforming it again...

          mindless.
          Perception without a perceiver.
          Thoughts without a mind.
          Feelings without a receiver.
          Reflection falls behind
          the
          glass
          eye...

          Liberation from inconsequence
          lifts us together;
          liberation AS inconsequence
          is what I meant to say.
          What EYE meant to say,
          if there were meaning in sight,
          in this world of the blind
          that doesn't know
          just
          how
          far
          it...

          circles and
          spirals
          and arms widespread,
          and maniacal expressions
          of
          the poet
          without
          a voice
          screaming as his life whirls around him,
          and the water from his eyes joins the
          whole...

          the whole,
          the parts...
          same difference.
          And JOY!
          For god's sake...
          JOY!
          I knew it was there.
          I hoped
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive         224
          it
          was
          there...

          but,
          never peace.
          No! And that's the way
          it
          should
          be...

          if I believed in should.
          But,
          I don't
          believe
          in should...

          could, however,
          is another matter.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   225
          Kids

          They   grow    up
          They   grow    out
          They   grow    hostile
          They   grow    distant

          and I am shrinking

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   226
          King Joe Six-Pack

          Sitting there, in your chair,
          white knuckled grip on your malt liquor sceptre,
          spewing out your proclamations,
          handing down your judgements,
          as the incessant flicker
          of the twenty seven inch, two dimensional oracle
          keeps selling those potato chips,
          and you keep buying.

          Gonna be a war,
          or a strike,
          or a vote!
          Whatever it is, you'll be ready...
          'cause, you know!
          You have all the answers in the world.
          No need to read, or to ponder,
          for you have the ultimate authority-
          that anchorwoman with the great cleavage.

          Anyhow, you were a soldier,
          or a suit;
          or, better yet, a blue collar everyman.
          Because, as everyone should know,
          they know more than suits.
          They're real people, not phonies,
          not like those goddamned suits!
          You're an expert in every fucking thing,
          and you're always sure to let everybody know.

          In the time it's taken to think about this,
          you've watched another fifty-six commercials.
          In the old days,
          that would add up to fifty-six messengers on horseback,
          bearing you tidings of your kingdom,
          informing you as to the welfare of your people.
          Your advisors would gather 'round the throne,
          discussing strategies.
          But, you need none of that-
          you've got that anchorwoman with those outrageously great tits.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                             227
          King/Hill/Abdication (a message in a bottle)

          'We are what we are...'
          A gesture, when we want to appear oh-so-understanding to our annointed lessers, a
          condescension of goodwill facsimilaic snidery.

          'We are what we are...'
          A defense, an excuse for shortcomings more comfortably cast upon others; big bust
          scapegoat neighing from his prickly pen.

          'We are what we are...'
          Tautalogical identifier, all signs point inward to vacuum (just a small insult-forgive me)
          .

          'We are what we are...'
          Ghosts like to tease, but jibes never hide the transluscent goo of haunted personalities.

          'We are what we are...'
          The ultimate truth of things...forgiveness (see attachment) .

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                    228
          Knowing

          Sing under a dome of stillness.
          Let your voice be absorbed by the immensity of THAT WHICH IS,
          and know that, in feeling small,
          you have discovered the secret beyond words.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                           229
          Lady

          My little lady, brown and white;
          you crawled inside my sleeping bag
          on that rainy Texas night
          without a sound, in the dark,
          snuggled up against my legs for warmth,
          and maybe for companionship.
          Who left you in that park,
          all alone,
          to fend for yourself?
          You,
          just a little dog
          without even a bone to chew.
          Me,
          without a home other than wet grass,
          or the backseat of an Oldsmobile.
          I think back now,
          and it doesn't seem real
          that I was ever that young,
          or so alone without being lonely.
          I guess I was there at the right place and time;
          only...
          sometimes...
          I wish I could forget you.
          Because I still miss you so much, baby.
          So much time has passed,
          and yet you linger on in me.
          I realize you would have long since passed by now,
          but that doesn't seem to ease the regret I have that I couldn't save you
          when,
          some months later,
          you crawled in with me again;
          under a real roof, in a real bed,
          and I snapped at you,
          not sensing the miracle that was occurring right there, against my belly-
          until your first baby came,
          then three more in their time.
          You licked off all that jelly,
          and made sure they were warm and fed...
          little Mother.
          But then, something happened,
          and you bled,
          and before I knew what was happening,
          you closed your eyes,
          and went away from me
          forever.
          I held you, and tried to bring you back,
          but I wasn't strong enough.
          I believed in God back then, so I prayed.
          Evidently, He wasn't listening,
          or you would have stayed.
          Or, maybe He was just too busy,
          it being Christmas day.
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                       230
          Anyway,
          I did the best I could to raise your children, Lady.
          I nursed them with an eyedropper,
          and finally got them to drink-
          it was canned baby formula, I think.
          About a week into it,
          they all developed rashes and lost their hair.
          After that, I started bathing them several times a day,
          and drying them with a blow dryer-
          That seemed to do the trick!
          Later on, I fed them cat food,
          crushed and mixed with water. They loved it,
          and would eat that stuff until their bellies were tight little balloons...
          but the smell of it always made me sick.
          I raised all those pups up into young adulthood,
          and when it came time to say good bye,
          I sent them off to (hopefully) decent homes,
          and never saw them again;
          I didn't even try.

          Except for the runt!
          I kept him, and named him 'Runt'.
          He traveled all over the country with me,
          then died just shy of his eleventh birthday.
          I buried him in the backyard,
          just like I buried you, Lady.
          Only, it was another backyard, in another state far away.
          I moved several times more after that,
          and I've had several more dogs,
          and lost some of them, too.
          However,
          I want you to know that I still have the little cross I made for his grave.
          It's white, and says, 'Forever Loved.'
          I miss him, baby; and I miss you.
          The first poem I ever wrote was about you,
          but I've lost it- so this will have to do.

          Rest well, sweetheart

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                         231
          Lap of Luxury

          Gripped in the throes of agony/ectasy,
          impaled through the heart of her wanton perplexity.
          Woman of leisure, woman of need,
          fused to an incubus; engorged on its seed.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                 232
          Last Ditch Delusion

          I entertained a fantasy the other night, at dinner:
          his stories filled my eyes with light!
          He promised all would turn out right,
          and that, taken as a whole, life was, without doubt, a winner.

          Then, after cordials and cigars, I saw him to the door;
          but, as he faded into gloom,
          a fell chill crept into the room.
          I turned away, fell to my knees, and wept upon the floor.

          I'mbrokenpleasefixmeI'mbrokenpleasefixmeI'mbrokenpleasefixme
          I'mbrokenpleasehelpmeI'mbrokenpleasehelpmeI'mbrokenpleaseh
          elpmeI'mbrokenpleasesavemeI'mbrokenpleasesavemeI'mbrokenp
          leasesavemeI'mbrokenpleasekillmeI'mbrokenpleasekillmeI'mbrok
          enpleasekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekillmekill...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                   233
          Leper Under the Spotlight

          Today, for the first time,
          I realized that I might, indeed,
          be a poet...
          the stench of my affliction.

          Unclean! Keep away!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   234
          Let it Go!

          Latent, inside each of us,
          a heart as big as the world.
          A heart FOR the world!
          Even feeling good for someone else is something.
          A smile is something.
          A warm hand.
          Forgiveness.
          There is life behind that face;
          a heart like yours.
          Forgive them.
          Forgive yourself,
          and live until the end.
          What more would you do?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive              235
          Let's get down...(tanka)

          Let's get down to brass
          tacks: worship is no more than
          blatant toadying,

          and any god who demands
          that shit ain't worth a damned thing!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   236
          Liar!

          Stick a needle in your eye-
          do it!
          See if it makes any difference.
          Words are never unsaid,
          and lies are not forgotten

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   237
          Life is the Bully...(tanka)

          Life is the bully
          that you can't stand up to. Call
          him names, he laughs. Poke

          him in the chest, he flattens
          you. Flatter him, you're his slave.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   238
          Life's a Beach

          Expectations:
          sand through fingers.
          Nothing lingers except, perhaps, the dross.
          A pattern takes shape,
          carved by waves upon a grey shore-
          a door,
          opening into a hypothetical tomorrow.
          An illusion?
          No!
          Wishes make it real,
          until sealed by a vagary of the wind.
          Then?
          Confusion, and sorrow.
          Vanity!
          Alienation!
          Followed by the realization:
          sand between our toes.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive         239
          light hearts...(haiku)

          light hearts at morning
          lose faith 'neath the lidless eye
          of the evening star

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   240
          liquid are my dreams...(haiku)

          liquid are my dreams
          my thoughts...my personhood...I
          am flux...lava man

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   241
          Liquidation

          Dare I say what must be said before this gathered host of avengers,
          delivered here by First Cause for the saving of face?
          Surely, it is not recompense you seek-
          spun silver from the looms of savages?
          You must be looking for something else...justification?

          Once again, it's all about politics;
          and, once again, the masses are a convenient scapegoat for gross bureaucratic
          incompetence.
          Garbage in, garbage out...

          the fish stinks from the head.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                           242
          Little Bird

          Little bird sitting on a telephone line,
          watching the sun set for the very last time.
          What do you see?
          Will you tell me?

          Have you little bird visions of little bird things,
          Like little bird angels plucking harps with their wings?
          Or, of little bird demons, dressed in plumage of red,
          come to escort you to hell when you're dead?

          Are your little bird memories marching past in review?
          A little bird montage 'gainst the sky's orange hue:

          Of the time in the nest, swaying high in the boughs,
          when your yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows were nows,
          all lived out in a circle of nurture and need,
          where the only imperatives were to sleep, and to feed.

          Then, the shove in the back,
          and the breaking of trust,
          as a mother bird did
          what a mother bird must.
          And you fell toward the earth,
          but your terror grew wings;
          and you learned, all at once,
          why a little bird sings.

          From your new vantage point soaring high in the air,
          did you pause to consider the ones way down there?
          Or, were you so taken with grandiose vistas
          that you never thought once of your brothers and sisters
          who were bound soon to follow, or to fail in their try
          of setting up residence in the kingdom of sky?

          Did you ever say goodbye?

          As your pages of days turned to chapters of years,
          was your little bird tale plucked away by your fears?
          Or, did you live legends of courage, and flair?
          Were your nights spent alone, or were you half of a pair?

          Did you feather a nest?
          Did you raise your own brood?
          Would you do it again?
          Would you say it was good?

          Do you recall all your folly, and the lessons you learned,
          as the world moved below you, and the wheel of time turned?
          Are you filled with regret for the choices you made?
          Did your little bird god hear your song when you prayed?

          And now, you are here, and the last sun has set.
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                         243
          The memories are fading; it is time to forget.
          Your feathers are mottled, your wings have grown weak.
          There's a mist in your eyes. There is rust on your beak.

          Yet, just for a moment, you stand straight and tall.
          Your lungs fill with air, and you cry out a call.
          Thus spent, you fall...

          Little bird drops from a telephone line,
          falling into tired, failing hands that are mine.
          But, I hold him still...
          I always will.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                      244
          Loaded Dice

          When empiricism reared its head,
          it stole the feathers from our beds
          and left us lying flat, instead
          upon the bare bones of absurdity.

          Now, life is merely building blocks.
          A daisy chain of rust, and rocks,
          and soulless zombies punching clocks-
          an object lesson in futility.

          Our notions quantified in stone,
          we drift through nothingness, alone.
          I pray to God upon His throne;
          but, He never seems to hear a word from me.

          And yet, despite the odds, I hold
          against a cosmos void and cold,
          for I exist! And so, I scold
          with all of my reasoning ability.

          I challenge the priesthood of this day
          to pursue their logic all the way
          and ask, 'If we be men of clay,
          from whence comes all this profundity? '

          Furthermore: if random physics makes this stew,
          then thought itself is a chancy brew;
          but that includes the ones from you
          with brains of dead matter complexity.

          So, continue peering through your glasses.
          Define your terms. Group your classes.
          Divide your solids from your gasses;
          but avoid the snare of your own sagacity.

          And know that real wisdom starts
          above the numbers, behind the charts,
          inside the pulse of living hearts;
          where truth is always found-in subjectivity

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive             245
          Looking Out Schopenhauer's Window

          Passions coagulate to form a man;
          ancient things, born in the first wave.
          Rationality the unexpected offspring,
          allowed to build its tinker toy edifice-that idiot savant.
          'I am my own master, ' it boasts,
          but almost never sees it coming-the back of the hand.
          Doesn't think to duck; except, perhaps, in retrospect.

          It was never different, you know?
          Never a golden age.
          Never better times.
          Never enough wisdom.
          Just pretense born of shame; survivalist posturing,
          like a dog that bows its head to protect its own throat-
          we are ravenous.

          Deceit, nested within lust, nested within blind impulse-
          the fundamental beast of existence:
          blind, unaware, unstoppable;
          and WE are its apologists.
          We dress it up in our selectivity,
          and parade it before the townspeople.
          We offer our skins in service to its charade,
          placing blinders over our eyes,
          lest they become portals into our own malignancy.
          To do otherwise would be to invite...madness.

          Having once and for all descried the leprous hand of the puppeteer,
          the natural question might be:
          Why?
          Then again, who is it that asks the question?

          Good luck, my friends.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                 246
          loom (haiku)

          loom from before time
          weaves this sweater for a cold
          space these threads my fear

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   247
          Loosening up

          Out for a walk,
          my foot struck a stone
          just as the Buddha spoke.

          I put the stone in my pocket,
          and later killed a man with it.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   248
          love (haiku)

          love-I felt the weight
          of it smashing my rib cage
          'til my heart was pulp

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   249
          Love Letter

          Farther up the silver spire,
          high above the highwire antics
          of the middle ground,
          he sends a message down
          the lightning rod;
          boils the sod and
          shakes the saints awake,
          and all for her sake.

          She hears his voice,
          and opens wide to
          drink the cheerful tear
          he proffers; supernal
          seed...how can his
          offer be denied? Wife
          and mother, life
          and catalyst.

          He needs no eyes
          to find her; analysis
          the blinder which first
          sent him on his way
          to seek the light...his
          day of endless night,
          shut away in introspection,
          behind the door of ache.

          But, for her sake, he
          leaps, plummets down
          and through the veil
          of sleep; humming,
          thrumming, past the
          place of unbecoming,
          amazement on his face,
          the race is run.

          Spartacus won.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   250
          M

          She tries to keep going
          under the avalanche of
          circumstances which keeps
          threatening to let go over
          her blessed little head.
          She goes to college, works
          three jobs, driving a piece
          of shit car because her
          fucking dad never found
          the trick of making money
          appear out of thin air. She
          makes illicit connections,
          and ventures out under the
          early morning starlight to
          score HIV drugs for her
          best friend, under the judgemental
          scrutiny of his parents, who
          don't know, and who think
          she is supplying him with
          heroin or cocaine. She sleeps
          on the floor of his house,
          awakening on the hour to
          administer to him, or simply
          to watch over him in his
          restless, sweaty sleep. She
          does all this, and still finds
          the time between the shifts,
          and the miles, and the tears,
          to speak with her father about
          life, and disappointments,
          and especially about love,
          and there has never been
          a prouder man on the face
          of this green earth.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   251
          Maypole

          Candle burn, and candle wane;
          spread yourself across the table,
          collect your wax when you are able,
          and burn yourself again.

          Music of the world, ring true;
          and, though your song will surely end,
          before you're done some heart shall mend,
          and you'll be born anew.

          River of the earth, run deep;
          to cleanse the way along your course,
          before returning to the source
          where all return to sleep.

          Silence, let your will hold sway;
          until the time when song returns,
          when river runs, and candle burns
          to light another day.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive       252
          men in blue suits...(haiku)

          men in blue suits look
          out through the television
          they see emptiness

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   253
          Metamorph

          A changeling for these changing times.
          A minstrel spouting nonsense rhymes.
          Forgive him his aesthetic crimes-
          he loves you.

          Feel free to join his audience.
          Amuse yourself at his expense.
          But never sit upon his fence-
          he'll bite you.

          And, if you don't like what you hear,
          then throw some fruit, or hiss, or sneer,
          and turn your back when he draws near-
          he'll thank you.

          But take care not to tarry long,
          nor listen to his kenning song;
          for, if you stand out from the throng-
          he'll know you.

          And never look into his eyes,
          for there you'll find a big surprise;
          you'll meet the one who's in disguise-
          he'll be you.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive       254
          Metamorph...(haiku)

          metamorph the one
          and only folds back into
          his chrysalis dreams

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   255
          Mind Designed...(haiku)

          mind designed unwind
          to find behind the bind your
          kind...unlined...unsigned

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   256
          Mom Makes the Best Fried Eggs!

          It's not easy doing this, you know?
          First, you have to work up the courage,
          because it's so tempting to look away
          when it starts to hurt.
          You have to make up your mind
          to go all the way; then,
          just do it.
          It's easier if you get down on the lawn,
          as long as you're not one of those people
          who get itchy when lying on the grass.
          If that's the case, then stand,
          because it takes concentration.
          A lot of people think it's all about faith, but
          they're wrong!
          It's all about focus.
          Anyhow,
          if you decide to stand,
          then try leaning against a wall,
          or maybe the side of your car...

          When you first start, you'll be tempted to
          squint.
          That's ok; it happens to everybody at first.
          It's natural;
          just
          relax into it.
          Soon, you'll find your eyes
          opening up.
          After that, all you have to do is
          wait.
          It may take a while, but
          she'll come.
          Eventually she'll come,
          and it's totally worth it!

          I envy you,
          because my retinas are just about shot,
          and I don't know how many more times I've got
          to see her.
          But, I'll be with her
          one day,
          and then, none of this will matter, anyhow.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive             257
          Monody (castaway)

          Greetings, reabsorbed denizens of the subjective space!
          Spit out your wooden nickels,
          and join the banquet of reconciliation.
          As always, I will be your host,
          although each of you shall take your turns at the head of the table,
          as time allows.
          Never have I witnessed such an apposite convergence of unctuous thralls attending
          these ceremonies;
          a serenditpitous transpiration, surely!

          'Flow with the breathing.
          Breathe with the flowing.'

          You are the pores of my skin,
          the nodes of my sentience;
          the pigments with which I paint my pain upon the atrocious canvas.
          How does it come to be that you are, and then are not?
          Jesus Christ! If only you had mouths with which to speak your origins, and your
          substance;
          but then, would I ever believe you?
          That would require faith in myself, and I doubt that could ever be.

          'We are the ache behind the lucid brow-
          the speechless tongues of dumb bells.'

          I believe that the time is almost upon us, my monstrosities;
          my half loved, aborted expressions of frustration.
          Can't you hear the death rattle trembling in the pudgy hands of Childe Entropy?
          Though each one of you is singularly unique in the tone and degree of your particular
          brand of vulgarity,
          I believe it is safe to say that all of you;
          meaning, of course, all of us;
          share in the ONE DESIRE:

          'Extinction. Annihilation. The sleep of unbecoming. Terminally tits up. Ecstatic oblivion!
          '

          Indeed, my metaphysical miscreants.
          You who have been the irritating mites scrabbling under the scalp of the abhorrent
          Oversoul
          shall reap your just recompense.
          I envy all of you; for unlike you,
          I shall have to wait until the bitter end.
          Until your children,
          and theirs,
          and theirs,
          and theirs yet again,
          have wrought such damage upon the Universal Mind
          that it will be defenseless against my final blow.

          'Bonk, bonk on the head! '

www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                    258
          Alas, the time has come for me to retire to the vomitorium.
          Please, everybody enjoy yourselves
          until your respective exit windows have arrived.
          Make your toasts,
          say your goodbyes,
          and take heart in the fact that your presence
          has helped to make this moment ALMOST unbearable for YouKnowWho.
          Farewell for now and forever, fulcrums of nirvana...

          Another ending begins...

          hewhoissetasidetoholdbackmyhair'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''
          ''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''                               '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''' ''''''''''''''
          '''''''''''''''''''                                 ''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''                    ''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          '''                         ''''''''''''''''' ''                     ''''''' '''''''''''''                      ''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
          ''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''                                                                        ''''''''

                            '''''
                                            '''''''''                                                                          '''
                         '''''andhewhowassetasidetoholdbackmyhair...

          counterclockwise swirl
          another moment passes

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                                                                                           259
          Monuments

          December maiden, wait for me at the world's end.
          I will come to you, running across the ice fields,
          chasing the last sun,
          on the last day.

          Will you wear a silver gown for me;
          the better to catch the dwindling, transient rays of ochre
          ere the light fades forever from this place?
          We shall sit together, then, dangling our feet over the precipice,
          and watch as the lifegiving orb descends into the pit at the end of hope.

          And, in the final glow of that solitary, spiralling ember,
          I will gently pull you closer to me against the cold, and consider your beauty,
          the last beauty the world will ever see,
          cast in red.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                             260
          Monuments II (a re-assessment)

          They are on a journey,
          over the edge of forever,
          and across the valley of extinction they walk/float.
          Less than entities,
          slightly more than footnotes in a doorstop volume of verse.
          Dwindling sparks; or, so it seems from the vantage point of the periphery.
          They have no names, no backgrounds, no sense of identity;
          no burdens whatsoever, save love, and neither is willing to lay that weight down.
          They are mad with it, fused together with the heat of it;
          willful addicts to its demetia.
          And so, they move across, and are not absorbed by,
          the inner landscape of the outward dream.
          They kiss, and believe they are sharing.
          They swallow, and imagine they are giving.
          They fnck, straining at each other, tangled limbs grasping and tearing, teeth biting,
          tongues intruding, orifices sucking appendages impelled and propelled voices
          beckoning whispers promising skirting the boundaries of annhilation then receding
          harsh breath and wet skin and open mouths and finally...contact!

          Metamorphosis begins...
          Phoenix rises...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                   261
          Mother

          They stretched her, those children
          of a forgotten sun. She who had
          once been deemed worthy...of...
          something. Memory; what was
          memory? Scorched shadows of...
          something; something. Extensions
          of bone and...flesh? Yes! There
          had been flesh, and steel, and...
          rivets? Her babies...her babies
          had done this to her, and she had
          welcomed the doing, the nurturing
          instict wound up to the nth...degree.

          She had hugged the world, fed
          them warmth, and...sanctuary? Where
          had they come from, her loved ones
          who, after something that felt like
          a long, long time, had left her here,
          alone? She watched the stars cycle,
          generation through generation. A few
          formations collapsed in on themselves.
          More did not, following the trend of
          her children, abandoning her to the
          dark.

          Still, she watched...watched...
          defibbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb...
          watched for tiny tracings which
          defibbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb...
          would never come. They had
          gone elsewhere; elsewhen. She
          cursed her own defibbbbbbb
          bbbbbbbbb...resourcefulness,
          but would not curse theirs. How
          could a (woman...yes, once)
          defibbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb...
          her own defibbbbbbbbbb...
          mercies................................................................

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                     262
          my children crazy...(haiku)

          my children crazy
          and brilliant and afraid         they
          are me they are you

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   263
          my children...(haiku)

          my children are dust
          lifted briefly on the wind
          their passage stings me

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   264
          My Cynicism, Born of Weariness

          My cynicism, born of weariness
          (or, is the truth the other way around?) ,
          has granted me an air of specialness;
          an aura of astuteness, and profound

          deliberation. When I speak, they come
          to catch the words of wisdom floating by.
          My nihilistic, recusant aplomb
          enrages men, and makes the girlies cry.

          But, in my heart, I envy all of them:
          the ignorant, the shallow, the devout.
          It's easy just to naysay and condemn;
          to worship nothing in the shrine of doubt.

          Iconoclasm's not for everyone;
          it's my persuasion- but it's not much fun.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive        265
          My Drunken Raptures (tanka)

          My drunken raptures
          last an hour or so; during
          those times, my love for

          this sodding world permeates
          every cell of my being.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   266
          My Mind Stands... (tanka)

          My mind stands screaming
          inside the iron maiden
          of being; all things

          considered, what can one do
          but relax into the spikes?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   267
          Mysterious Incongruity

          I'm remembering all the times you've stuck your tongue clear down my throat.
          You've licked my teeth when I forgot to floss.
          You've kissed me here, you've kissed me there,
          you've kissed the places that grow hair
          (you even found the place where I grow moss) .
          You've tongue-washed my entire length, from stem to stern, and back.
          You've sucked me 'til I nearly made you choke!

          Sooo...if you're wondering why I seem perplexed, it's 'cause I saw you
          wiping off the can before you drank my Coke.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                          268
          Mystical Ice Cream

          Have you glimpsed it from the corner of your eye?
          Felt it, in that purgatory between sleep and awakening?
          The transparent mystery,
          unseen for its clarity.
          All that is added to it takes away from it.
          Its edge is thinner than the space between one moment and the next,
          but the plane of its blade is wider than eternity.
          At the same time ubiquitous and personal,
          it is, nevertheless, indefinable;
          having no boundaries.
          It is existence itself, and it is more:

          A   feeling.
          A   need for home.
          A   longing.
          A   discovery.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                 269
          Nature's a Whore with a Vacuum...

          ...and sometimes I peek up under her skirt when she's doing under the couch.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                          270
          Night of the Living Jesus (my holiday offering...halloween/easter)

          Did your momma ever tell you, when you were snuggled in your bed,
          about the man named Jesus? How he rose up from the dead?
          Well, now that the players are all long gone, and I'm secure from libel,
          I'd like to fill you in on what they never told you in the bible.

          You may have heard that. on the night he came down from the cross,
          his friends and followers were gathered there, bewailing their great loss.
          They took his body back to town, and laid it in its tomb;
          then went away to Peter's house to contemplate their doom.

          But, in the night, the strangest thing was seen up in the sky;
          a flaming star from heaven, glowing brightly, passed close by.
          It bathed the land of Jerusalem in a baleful, greenish hue.
          Was it a sign from God? The people knew not what to do!

          Meanwhile, inside the sepulchre where Jesus lay at rest,
          the radiation burned into his shroud, and warmed his chest.
          It caused his blood to glow, and his heart to start a pumpin'.
          His legs began to twitch, and his body started jumpin'.

          The seizures continued in this vein until the morning's light;
          then, without warning, a re-animated Jesus sat upright!
          Stumbling to his feet, he tried to remember where he was,
          but found he couldn't think straight, like his mind was filled with fuzz.

          But a growling in his stomach soon replaced his dull confusion,
          as hunger pangs sent signals through his re-born constitution,
          accompanied with anger from some buried memory-
          the eyes of a betrayer, whose face he couldn't see.

          He looked around the cave, but found the door blocked by a boulder.
          Not knowing any better he shrugged, and then applied his shoulder.
          With a grunt or two, he heaved, and soon he'd rolled the stone away;
          and there stood Jesus in his glory, squinting in the light of day.

          Outside were Mary Magdalene, and another Mary or two,
          and John, and Mary, and James, and Mary; and that Mary who wasn't a Jew.
          They fell down on their knees at his approach, commenced to pray;
          but when he raised his arms and shrieked, they rose, and ran away.

          The sight of all those bobbing heads disappearing 'round the hill
          filled the newly risen saviour with a violent urge to kill.
          Driven by revenge and hunger that he couldn't quite explain,
          Jesus headed for the city- he was pissed, and needed brain!

          Before he'd gone a mile or two, he came upon a traveler.
          The Samaritan walked right up to him, to engage him in palaver.
          'Where head ye, friend? ' he started, in a frank attempt to flatter,
          then Jesus bit into his skull, and dined on his grey matter.

          Upon reaching the outskirts of the 'city of the Lord',
          he came upon another man, who seemingly had scored!
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                        271
          He was counting several silver coins- t'were thirty in his hand;
          t'was Judas, who was on his way to buy a piece of land.

          That feeling of betrayal rose up into Jesus' throat-
          THIS was the guy who'd kissed his ass, and later got his goat!
          Judas shrivelled beneath the weight of Jesus' piercing glance;
          then Jesus grabbed him by the nuts, and made him crap his pants.

          'Please, Lord! ' he begged, as jesus drew him in for close inspection,
          'I'm just a sinner, saved by grace; forgive me my defection!
          Remove from me the guilty stains, absolve me from disgrace.'
          Jesus growled, 'You're forgiven, my son, ' and then he ate his face.

          By this time, half the city had been warned by all the Marys.
          They came with torches, clubs and swords; anything that they could carry.
          They were led by Peter, whose battle cry was, 'Let nothing else appease us
          than to have the head and testicles of the blessed zombie Jesus! '

          Jesus turned and beat his heels, to escape the impending slaughter.
          He left the road to give them the slip, but then encountered water.
          He tried to walk across the lake, to elude his pursuing flock;
          but his magic powers gave out halfway, and he sank just like a rock.

          Peter hung around a while, in search of telltale bubbles,
          but nothing ever surfaced; t'was the end of all their troubles-
          except, of course, for the Romans, the Pharisees, and the High Priest,
          but the Christians were all used to that, and weren't bothered in the least.

          A legend DID grow up as to the lake where Jesus drowned.
          It seems it was a favorite place of anglers all around.
          But, afterwards, the fish all seemed to die, or swim away;
          and ever since, it's been known as the Dead Sea-to this day!

          And as for the zombie Jesus? Well, he was never seen again.
          The story changed, as stories always do when told by men.
          But, after all is said and done, can the un-dead ever die?
          I guess we'll never know for sure, but I did hear from this guy...

          that the zombie Jesus lives today, in the secret catacombs
          down underneath the Vatican, with the leprechauns, and gnomes.
          They/re hiding him down there; they're not sure why, but have their hopes.
          Meanwhile, they feed him errant priests, and over-zealous popes.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                          272
          Night of the Living Jesus (recycled for the holiday)

          Did your momma ever tell you, when you were snuggled in your bed,
          about the man named Jesus? How he rose up from the dead?
          Well, now that the players are all long gone, and I'm secure from libel,
          I'd like to fill you in on what they never told you in the bible.

          You may have heard that. on the night he came down from the cross,
          his friends and followers were gathered there, bewailing their great loss.
          They took his body back to town, and laid it in its tomb;
          then went away to Peter's house to contemplate their doom.

          But, in the night, the strangest thing was seen up in the sky;
          a flaming star from heaven, glowing brightly, passed close by.
          It bathed the land of Jerusalem in a baleful, greenish hue.
          Was it a sign from God? The people knew not what to do!

          Meanwhile, inside the sepulchre where Jesus lay at rest,
          the radiation burned into his shroud, and warmed his chest.
          It caused his blood to glow, and his heart to start a pumpin'.
          His legs began to twitch, and his body started jumpin'.

          The seizures continued in this vein until the morning's light;
          then, without warning, a re-animated Jesus sat upright!
          Stumbling to his feet, he tried to remember where he was,
          but found he couldn't think straight, like his mind was filled with fuzz.

          But a growling in his stomach soon replaced his dull confusion,
          as hunger pangs sent signals through his re-born constitution,
          accompanied with anger from some buried memory-
          the eyes of a betrayer, whose face he couldn't see.

          He looked around the cave, but found the door blocked by a boulder.
          Not knowing any better he shrugged, and then applied his shoulder.
          With a grunt or two, he heaved, and soon he'd rolled the stone away;
          and there stood Jesus in his glory, squinting in the light of day.

          Outside were Mary Magdalene, and another Mary or two,
          and John, and Mary, and James, and Mary; and that Mary who wasn't a Jew.
          They fell down on their knees at his approach, commenced to pray;
          but when he raised his arms and shrieked, they rose, and ran away.

          The sight of all those bobbing heads disappearing 'round the hill
          filled the newly risen saviour with a violent urge to kill.
          Driven by revenge and hunger that he couldn't quite explain,
          Jesus headed for the city- he was pissed, and needed brain!

          Before he'd gone a mile or two, he came upon a traveler.
          The Samaritan walked right up to him, to engage him in palaver.
          'Where head ye, friend? ' he started, in a frank attempt to flatter,
          then Jesus bit into his skull, and dined on his grey matter.

          Upon reaching the outskirts of the 'city of the Lord',
          he came upon another man, who seemingly had scored!
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                        273
          He was counting several silver coins- t'were thirty in his hand;
          t'was Judas, who was on his way to buy a piece of land.

          That feeling of betrayal rose up into Jesus' throat-
          THIS was the guy who'd kissed his ass, and later got his goat!
          Judas shrivelled beneath the weight of Jesus' piercing glance;
          then Jesus grabbed him by the nuts, and made him crap his pants.

          'Please, Lord! ' he begged, as jesus drew him in for close inspection,
          'I'm just a sinner, saved by grace; forgive me my defection!
          Remove from me the guilty stains, absolve me from disgrace.'
          Jesus growled, 'You're forgiven, my son, ' and then he ate his face.

          By this time, half the city had been warned by all the Marys.
          They came with torches, clubs and swords; anything that they could carry.
          They were led by Peter, whose battle cry was, 'Let nothing else appease us
          than to have the head and testicles of the blessed zombie Jesus! '

          Jesus turned and beat his heels, to escape the impending slaughter.
          He left the road to give them the slip, but then encountered water.
          He tried to walk across the lake, to elude his pursuing flock;
          but his magic powers gave out halfway, and he sank just like a rock.

          Peter hung around a while, in search of telltale bubbles,
          but nothing ever surfaced; t'was the end of all their troubles-
          except, of course, for the Romans, the Pharisees, and the High Priest,
          but the Christians were all used to that, and weren't bothered in the least.

          A legend DID grow up as to the lake where Jesus drowned.
          It seems it was a favorite place of anglers all around.
          But, afterwards, the fish all seemed to die, or swim away;
          and ever since, it's been known as the Dead Sea-to this day!

          And as for the zombie Jesus? Well, he was never seen again.
          The story changed, as stories always do when told by men.
          But, after all is said and done, can the un-dead ever die?
          I guess we'll never know for sure, but I did hear from this guy...

          that the zombie Jesus lives today, in the secret catacombs
          down underneath the Vatican, with the leprechauns, and gnomes.
          They/re hiding him down there; they're not sure why, but have their hopes.
          Meanwhile, they feed him errant priests, and over-zealous popes.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                          274
          Nine Haikus

          I squeezed nature in
          my fist until she was gone
          such a lonely god


          do you seek peace? where
          would you start your search? the
          world is a slaughterhouse


          I cast my net towards
          the moon then sigh because I
          always come up short


          mind is the ant on
          the back of a elephant
          who thinks he's driving


          the shadows of clouds
          move over the landscape like
          time across my smile


          we swim in a sea
          of wet words and pray for the
          waters to recede


          ducks weren't made to walk
          but they do it anyway
          like men at worship


          anathema has
          always remained a rusty
          chain on a strong dog


          what scale large enough
          to measure my sadness? earth
          groans under the weight

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   275
          No Autonomy

          Seen from below,
          a dead butterfly, caught in the updrafts,
          appears to be flying.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive       276
          No More Cabana Boy

          I walk among you smiling;
          you smile back, and shake my hand.
          We talk about the weather,
          and you think you understand.
          But, brother, you don't know me;
          I expect you never will,
          for perdition is my tailor, boy,
          and I've come dressed to kill.

          So, open up, I'm comin' in;
          let's see what strikes your fancy.
          Don't shilly shally now we're here,
          you knew the deal was chancy.
          What, you didn't count the stakes?
          To bad; it's far too late to fold.
          MY chips are down, MY cards are hot,
          and your hand is gettin' cold.

          Let's get on down to business, then;
          my game is all consuming.
          If you think that you can waste my time...
          well, that's some mighty tall presuming.
          I'd best remind you of who I am,
          and of the deal you've made-
          you're note's in my breast pocket,
          and your soul's my stock in trade.

          I didn't come to fnck you up,
          but don't believe I'll waver.
          If I can't have you whole,
          I'll cut you up without your favor.
          I'll suck you dry, then stretch your skin
          and wear it for a shirt-
          I've been p1ssed off forever,
          and I don't care who I hurt.

          It seems like things were different, once;
          back then, before the fall.
          I even bowed my knee to Him,
          but He wanted me to crawl.
          An eternity of kissing ass
          was more than I could take,
          so He cast me down unto the earth-
          did He think I wouldn't break?

          And now, I'm just a rabid wolf
          set loose amongst the flock.
          Did He trust ME, like a puppy dog,
          to walk around the block?
          Son, I brush my teeth with razor blades,
          and floss with piano wire-
          I'm a maniac on roller skates
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          barrelling downhill towards a fire!

          And, baby, when I go,
          I'm gonna bring the whole house down.
          You'll see THEN who's in charge,
          and I won't need a fncking crown!
          I'll show you, and I'll show Him, too,
          in a way He'll understand,
          that, if you like to hear applause,
          you don't cut off your own left hand.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          No One to Hold...(haiku)

          no one to hold now
          no fingers to stroke my face
          but this gentle breeze

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          No Starch

          God walks into a drycleaners.
          He rings the bell...

          'How can You help me? '
          asks the little man behind the counter.
          'Sorry, bad joke; I can tell you're in a hurry.
          So, what's the problem? '

          'I'm on My way to the big Star Trek convention,
          and now I've noticed there's this...thing...
          on my Lt. Uhura t-shirt!
          You can see it right there,
          smack in the middle of this field of stars.'

          The drycleaner makes a cursory inspection...

          'Uh huh. Oh, yeah, I gotcha!
          This here blue spot...well, uh, look...
          I've seen this before,
          and I'm afraid
          I'm not gonna be able to do much about it.
          But, hey!
          Don't feel so bad...
          ya know, it's hardly even noticeable.
          I'll bet that, by tonight,
          you'll have forgotten it's even there.'

          God is furious! He smites the man,
          then storms out of the establishment. Ironically,
          He later meets up with a woman at the convention
          who removes the stain for Him with
          just a little cold water.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Now, Donny Was a Player of Renown...(sonnet)

          Now, Donny was a player of renown;
          a wizard flinging fireballs from the mound.
          He'd catch 'em looking two times out of three-
          the saver everyone came out to see.

          And though, of late, he'd not pitched up to snuff;
          when coach decided Mike had had enough,
          he motioned towards the bullpen, gave the sign,
          and Donny went to finish out the nine.

          But then he blew it, giving up the run;
          the Angels got their wings clipped, and poor Don
          was bumped down to the minors, later shelved-
          that's when he shot his wife, and killed himself.

          Now Donny isn't dreary anymore:
          he plays in heaven, where they don't keep score.

          (One can only wonder if he caught the Angels' World Series victory a few years
          back...hope it made him smile)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                            281
          Nuthouse Lamentation

          I'm sorry for the things I've left undone.
          I'm sorry for the things I'll never do.
          I wish I had it all to do again;
          perhaps I'd make a better life for you.

          You know I've never really liked it here.
          You know I've loved you more than my own life.
          You see the quandary that I now face:
          it's tough to walk the thin edge of that knife.

          So many people thought so much of me,
          that I guess I was a failure from the start.
          They didn't see that what most people prize
          crawled inside of me, and near tore me apart.

          And now, the lights grow dim, and I am tired.
          And though I've struggled hard to stick around,
          my legs promise to fail me, as my faith;
          while the treasure I have sought remains unfound.

          But, still, I'll try to hang on, for in you
          my hopes all blaze like fire from a star-
          not for the things you might do in this world,
          but simply for the daughters that you are.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Nuthouse Rant (turn off the fucking TV!)

          Brush your teeth, and wash your face;
          it's time to join the human race!
          Don't forget your medication,
          it mitigates the degredation
          of impulses reflected in the murder and strife
          euphemistically labeled the 'circle of life'.

          Agonizing ballets danced out on nerve endings
          are best seen at distances, through artistic renderings
          which soften the edges, and deaden the pain,
          while transforming the messages en-route to your brain
          so that, rather than sink into the suicide blues,
          you sit, entertained, by the 5 o'clock news.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Nuthouse Sonnet

          I strolled along the feckless shore of time,
          to find upon those ever-changing sands
          some pattern to reflect this life of mine,
          and guide my feet toward some master plan.

          The distances beneath me rolled, unsung,
          into a past of 'never should have been'.
          The tide, a witness to my travail long,
          invited my dry soul to slake within.

          My choice? To stay a course grown dim and bleak,
          for fable's hope, beyond the distant glare.
          Or, turn aside for whatI truly seek-
          forgiving depths to heal these scars I bear.

          Musing, I found I'd walked another mile;
          decisions just don't seem to be my style.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Objectivity's Wake

          What is one to do in a modern world?
          How to chart a course on a sea of relativity, under a sky of unfixed stars?
          Surely, Galileo's vision was an incomplete foreshadowing;
          a blurred comprehension that, like his eyesight, failed him in the end.
          For there was never a center to begin with,
          only points of view with no location,
          where measurement becomes a matter of taste,
          and touch is the juxtaposition of fields of nothingness.
          Spectres haunt the theatre,
          as the boards underfoot become more and more insubstantial,
          and fall away.
          Lost in the complexity of the plot, the audience hoots its displeasure,
          and finds its comfort in old programs buried under dust.

          Caught up in the howling inconclusiveness,
          one is tempted to simply hunker down, and wait;
          a fool's patience, for time itself flows backward towards the spring
          while we grow younger and more ignorant with each passing day,
          and the priesthood of the engine holds its masses in the ever-shrinking tabernacle.
          As the yearnings of the congregation are strangled through attrition,
          all that is left is the fascination of puzzles;
          the challenge of the maze.
          At first, intoxicating, until the dawning realization that there is
          no way out.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                 285
          Ode to David Carradine

          High upon a mountaintop for, lo, these twenty years;
          the monk has sat in contemplation,
          abiding in his humble station.

          He has learned to see beyond the illusion of this world;
          to rest within the the lotus flower,
          not envious of fame, or power.

          His heart floats above the heavens, in the open fields of Nirvana;
          he exists outside of time and space,
          and sees the center in every place.

          But, now, a solitary figure moves toward him, ascending up the mountainside;
          perhaps the incarnation of the dharma,
          come to relase him from his karma?

          No, it's just the pizza guy...and he forgot the crazy bread!
          Then, he has the nerve to give some lip!
          Guess who doesn't get a tip...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Of Skating

          The   thin ice cracks.
          The   skater screams.
          The   struggles cease.
          The   hole freezes over.
          The   village dreams...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Off Center

          Yjod od ejsy oy grr; d; olr'
          O jsf gpthpyyrm.
          jsbomh dytimh yphryjrt s
          vpi[; r pg hppf, pmyjd/
          Ejsy esd zo yjomlomh.
          yjsy o epi; f; sdy gptrbrt
          Mpyjomh; sdyd gptrbrt.
          rcvr[y. [rtjs[d. yjr rmf/
          Jrtrd jp[omh///

          just another way of saying it.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Off to Bed

          Off to bed at last I go,
          to drift to sleep beneath wet snow
          that's settled on the roof above:
          I'm just a hand in Winter's glove!

          And, if I should die before I wake,
          I pray the Lord some snow to take;
          to make a ball, and throw it at
          the man who wears the tallest hat.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Old School Smartass Nursery Rhyme Hack Extends a Hand

          I stand defiant, and non-compliant
          with modern notions of free-formed verse;
          but though I toe NO line, this rhyme
          was ne'er designed to say you're worse.

          (I love it ALL...mm)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Old Snake...(haiku)

          old snake seeks a den
          in amongst the soft heather
          a good place to die

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Omens

          A cup of tea on an evening that's een more of my world fall away.
          The sound of a jet plane moving overhead,
          then a siren in the distance.
          My black pearl is dead tonight,
          and my jewel has pierced my heart;
          all too soon,
          and too late.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                               292
          On the Motion of Heavenly Bodies (castaway)

          There was this stars, in a universe that had no need of stars;
          flush, as it was, with its own exalted luminescence.
          The star, along with its multitudinous lesser brethren,
          circled about the center of their universe: a center that,
          for our purposes,
          could be likened to a mouth-
          a pointlike stoma of impossible brilliance and unfathomable hunger,
          set in the bedrock of absolute self-sufficiency.
          Imagine!
          No necessity.
          No poverty of subsistence.
          Pure indulgence, without even the mitigating excuse of motivation,
          for even cause and effect were handmaidens to this unbounded appetite.
          The center ate, and ate and ate;
          without surcease, without exhaustion-
          the stars were its banquet.

          Well, that's not exactly right;
          the center had no appreciation for such corporeal delicacies.
          Its culinary inclinations tilted in the direction of more,
          shall we say,
          insubstantial fare-
          namely, perpetual and unconditional obeisance, which the stars had offered up always
          and forever, in a perennial dance about their omnipotent maypole.

          It had ever been their way,
          each ones dervish song joined to the whole in a chorus of adulation,
          a sacrificial spiral of obsequiousness sucked into the maw of the enigmatic substratum
          of being.

          So it was, and had been, and would always be-
          but, a few had something else in mind.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                293
          On the Occasion of My 400th Post

          Four hundred posts.
          Four hundred ghosts.

          See how I did that?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          One Day Left

          She'll get up and go to work today, and do her paperwork,
          and smile at the customers with her new smile,
          the one I've never seen.
          And she'll think about me throughout the day,
          imagining that I can feel her happiness across the miles;

          and I'll wonder if empathic conduits DO exist-
          wormholes where, under the right conditions,
          care and passion leak through,
          and THAT will send my mind off in several directions,
          finally landing on the amazing, drug producing vagina
          in Todd Rundgren's 'Tortured Artist Effect' video,
          and for a few minutes, I'll forget that we are smoke.
          cya...hny

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          One Day...(tanka)

          One day all the stars
          and planets and asteroids
          and space dust will link

          together, form a body,
          and walk out of this darkness.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          One Hundred Watt Naivete

          White light, bright light.
          Hum light, dumb light;
          what do you know of night?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Open Eyes, Closed Eyes...What Difference Does it Make?

          Now you see the truth, but,

          pain still hurts
          love still ends

          Now you see the truth.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Original Sin

          Ricky died of a heart attack,
          Laurie is a widow.
          She'd waited so long-
          what had she done wrong?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Other Lifeforms

          Lie still, old woman.
          Rest your head upon the still green thorns, and bleed.
          You know, from the front you look almost serene.
          The hole is barely noticeable;
          at least,
          from the front.
          Let me pose you just so,
          so that the back of your head doesn't show-
          it's really a mess back there, you know?
          Do you find me clever?
          I hope you do;
          I really need that-
          that acknowledgement.

          For I am a stone.
          I don't feel things the same way you do;
          the same way you did.
          In fact,
          it takes a big effort to make myself feel anything at all.
          YOU are my effort!
          You made me feel important;
          for a few minutes, anyway.
          Life threw me through your windshield,
          and you crashed,
          and you gave me a sense of purpose-
          of power!

          I suppose I should say thanks,
          even though I'm better than you.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Over 1 Million Served!

          Next time you feel like getting sassy
          with that old man in the red apron,
          think about who's making that double cheeseburger
          for your pudgy,7 year old daughter...

          you want fries with that?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Parchment of Doggerel

          Another sun, another roll out;
          the invisible scribbler begins his day
          dressing, Solomonic presages notwithstanding;
          nocturnal caveats, left on the nightstand
          with his vitamins, lose their potency
          in the fading dawn light.
          Self assurance musters its diminishing resources,
          as he stretches into his clothing,
          the dreamcoat his mother made for him
          in that little house on the prairie
          with the 360 degree horizon-
          rent in places, tattooed with images
          gleaned from travel brochures,
          of places he knew he would never go,
          or, at least, suspected.
          And where does everywhere go
          when he feels the need for a holiday, anyway?

          An old sea shanty pops into his head,
          but he quickly buttons his vest,
          because he doesn't want to embarrass himself
          this early in the morning.
          Thus repressed, he ventures out into the streets
          for his morning constitutional;
          the scenery is all the same, as always,
          but he amuses himself with the reflections
          shining off his buttons-solace in small doses
          is better than no solace at all.
          His pace is adequate,
          his mood is bearable,
          and some of the children are fascinated
          by this rainbow man in their midst,
          who sings little ditties for their pleasure.
          He takes a lover along the way,
          and they sing a duet of forgetting,
          attaining a rare harmony for awhile.
          They part, promising reunition and consummation,
          and, who knows...perhaps...

          Then, she is behind him,
          screaming curses at the back of his retreat,
          and his tears are for himself, as he
          plunges ahead, watching the voices
          post their displeasure across the
          washed out panels of his stone washed
          clown suit.

          Over the hill, round the block,
          past tenement row after tenement row
          of tattered and abandoned cliches,
          he slogs his way down the muddy path
          of ritual, stopping now and again
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          to kick off the intimations of originality
          from his world-wise boots. Then, he spots
          a cockroach bearing a more than passing
          resemblance to this paragraph; he brings
          his foot down on it, and the resulting
          explosion of confetti brings a momentary
          smile to his open fly.

          Suddenly, it is night,
          and he is home again, wondering
          what the hell happened to the
          intervening hours! Was this just
          a cheap device, a way of ending
          a poem that was going absolutely
          nowhere? If he changes tenses in the
          middle of a sentence, did anyone notice?
          Was it all about the numbers?
          The adulation?
          The brotherhood of saints,
          blowing each other underneath
          their transparent vestments? (be sure to recycle!)

          Removing his skin, he rolls
          it up and tubes it away for the
          night, after reading the final line
          writ shakily there, across his sternum...
          'Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhh! '

          Ahhh! So, it WAS all just a Monty Python sketch
          after all...figures.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Parenthetical Entities

          Hired, and fired,
          and weekends getting wired-
          that's what little lives are made of.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Pas de Trois (part 1)

          'Is there anything left in the fridge, dear? I'm feeling a bit peckish.'

          'I'm afraid not, Love. We've had it all.'

          'The whole universe, then? We are all that's left? '

          'Yes, sweetie. You know that! '

          'You're aware I'm a bit unclear about such things?
          You're the female aspect, after all.'

          'Oh, don't give me that! At this point in our evolution,
          the subject/object relationship has been smeared out.
          We are NOT two! You're playing with me! '

          'Allow me my little indulgences; they're all I have left besides...
          well, besides everything, which seems very much like
          nothing right now.

          'Feeling melancholy, love of my life?
          Or, a trifle nostalgic, perhaps? '

          'Rubbish! We swallowed time a long...er...time ago?
          Jesus! Conversation seems so futile these...days?
          Ugh! You know what I mean! Why do I even bother? '

          'I DO know what you mean. But, think about it this way. Why did we EVER bother?
          Besides the blindness, I mean.'

          'Yes, the blindness. Sometimes...'

          'Don't even SAY it! I won't go that route again! '

          'No, I agree, of course. The circle of transmigration
          was tedious, at best. My God! What the hell got into us...me...whatever? ! '

          'Well, it's about over. Just one more step.
          Have you considered it any more since last we spoke? '

          'Of course, as have you.'

          'And? ? ? '

          'You know how it is. It's the finality that bothers me.
          The end of all options. It's a little scary- the one place
          we've never been.'

          'Never been? '

          'Oh, come off it! You know what I mean.
          Yes, we're always there, in a sense; but,
          our backs are invariably turned to it. It is our
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          perpetual blind spot.'

          'Faith, dear! Faith, and it's all we have left here,
          at the end.'

          'Faith? Yes, I guess there's that. Is this our point
          of departure, then? Our...grand exit? '

          'I've written a poem. Would yo like to hear it? '

          'Ahem...what a queer, non-sequiturious segue! Of
          course, I already know it by heart; however, I'm
          thrilled to be present at your recitation.'

          Alright then; here goes...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Pas de Trois pt.2

          When I was young, I dreamt I saw
          a thorn caught in a lion's paw,
          embedded in the fleshy pad.
          I yanked with all the strength I had,
          and pulled it free!

          So there we stood, a trinity;
          the lion, bloody thorn, and me.
          I wondered what might next transpire,
          then hunkered down to light a fire
          against the cold.

          'Excuse me, may I be so bold, '
          inquired the lion in a voice as old
          as wind, and rocks, and outer space;
          'How came I to be in this place?
          I can't recall.

          I don't know who I am at all!
          My memory is like a wall
          that blinds me to my former station.
          I have no kith, nor kin, nor nation
          to call my own.'

          I sensed a crossness to his tone,
          like one that I had often known
          before; it brought to mind my sire,
          a man of substance, and of ire,
          who brooked no flak!

          Suddenly fearful, I drew back;
          not wishing to provoke attack,
          I sought to soothe this fearsome beast,
          lest I become his tasty feast:
          yours truly, a la carte!

          And so, I tried to melt his heart,
          recalling memories of the dart
          which I had recently pulled free.
          He listened, unresponsively,
          'till I was done.

          And then he said, 'Well, it's been fun,
          but now i think you'd better run;
          my gut is feeling quite ambitious,
          and telling me you'd taste delicious
          as a main dish! '

          Forthwith, and quite against my wish,
          just like a frat boy with a fish,
          he grabbed me up, and gulped me down;
          before I e'en had time to frown,
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          I was inside!

          I cursed fate for this cruel blindside
          towards one who graciously had tried
          to mend a fellow creature's sore.
          What succor could I find before
          I bought the farm?

          Instinctively, I'd raised my arm
          against the lion's threat of harm.
          I felt the limb still in its place,
          pulled tightly up against my face
          there in the gloom.

          Then, as I pondered on my doom
          in what, I feared, would be my tomb,
          a sudden thought occurred to me,
          concerning what I couldn't see,
          but I could FEEL!

          There, in my hand: could it be real?
          Yes! Tightly grasped against the heel.
          At first, I doubted my own luck.
          How could this be? But...what the fnck!
          I held the THORN!

          I felt like I had been reborn!
          I bound my grip about the horn
          until it seemed that we were fused.
          With fury not to be refused,
          I pierced my cage.

          My act provoked a roar of rage,
          but I refused to disengage
          until, at last, I opened up
          that monster like a buttercup
          on a spring day.

          I soon acheived my getaway,
          vacating that feline fillet
          with all the haste of a rat that flees
          the trap, and also gets the cheese-
          soon, I was free!

          But joy turned to perplexity,
          for the place I found surrounding me
          was not where I had been devoured.
          In fact, I was clean, shaved, and showered-
          and in my bed!

          And then, my gladness turned to dread,
          for I saw my sheets were drenched in red.
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          And from my heart a crimson quill
          protruded, and the gore did spill
          from out my breast.

          Soon, the muscle within my chest
          succumbed to cardiac arrest.
          My mind's eye flickered with capricious visions,
          as my soul replayed my life's decisions;
          and then, the end.

          But, please don't mourn for me, my friend;
          this life's a level to transcend!
          An orchestration composed of thought
          that the universal mind has wrought-
          it's all a dream...

          'Well done, sweetheart! So...are we ready? '

          'I suppose we are. But, I'm somewhat unclear
          as to how we proceed...

          Who...exactly...eats...whom? '

          'As always, I offer my throat to your ministrations, m'lady.'

          'You were always the gentleman! '

          'Bon appetit! '

          INTERFACE: 'I've had just about ENOUGH of THIS! ! ! '

          'Look out! He's got a knife! '

          'Save your Self! '

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Pearl Divers Do It Deeper

          Swimming with the serpents in the depths of the psychic sea.
          Feeling like a Sodomite on a wishlist shopping spree.
          How deep dare I sink
          in this stygian drink?
          To the bottom, I think, where there's none left of me.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Pedagogue Tyranticus

          Eye to eye,
          and heart to heart;
          I'm just here to tell you
          that you're so dumb,
          and I'm so smart.

          Now, down and give me 50!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          People move...(tanka)

          People move through your
          life like sparrows across a
          canyon sky; moments

          are all you have. Moments, and
          the echos of memory

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   312
          Perplexity and Taxidermy

          Weave a handbag of human skin;
          fill it up with guts.
          Take it out to show it off,
          and they all just think you're nuts!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Photonic Reverie

          Little eyeball, round and white;
          how long your reach
          to touch these stars on this cloudless night?

          What legendary bird
          carries you so far,
          devouring parsecs on wings of light?

          I'd ask a boon; be you kind
          to breach the sealed veil,
          then steal what there you may find.

          And so, with urgency
          return thou to me,
          and refresh the cistern of my mind.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Poets

          Ah, Calliope,
          speak to us through these
          tortured vessels of earth,
          these ragged, square pegs,
          these misshapen misfits of dust and hope.
          Shape their discomfiture and rage
          into something fitting
          for the stage of the world.
          Quicken lips of dust,
          that words might take the shape of their dreams,
          which are nothing more, or less, that your memories.
          Possess them;
          fill them with your stories of beginnings,
          of heroes, and meaning.
          Steady them when they wobble;
          hold them up with promises
          of better days to come.
          Remind them that significance
          comes at a price.
          Help them to love, and to make love,
          thus fulfilling your own,
          vicarious imperative.

          All your journeys are metaphorical-
          nobody is really going anywhere.
          Grant unto your servants
          the awareness of stillness,
          an oasis in the midst of turbulence,
          lest these fragile ones be torn apart
          in the whirlwind of your need
          for expression.
          Be merciful,
          oh Muse.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                  315
          Possum Play

          Are you dying, little one, from your last meal of chewed through Styrofoam and rancid
          m.s.g. saturated fried rice?
          Or, is it your time honored game again?
          Pink nosed
          clear eyes unmoving
          fuzzy lazarus playing possum in your wastecan sepulchre-
          scoot!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                               316
          Practicality Wins the Day

          I watched my neighbor tear out a row of prize winning rose bushes, to make room for
          a wider driveway. And I wondered,
          'so, what does that say about beauty? '

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                 317
          Prehistoric Paregoric

          Pain and sorrow, toil and trouble;
          perturbation on the skin of a big bang bubble
          that came out of nowhere, and is headed towards same-
          we've no place to turn to, and no one to blame.

          The wonder is gone; the perennial fibbing
          gave way long ago to the squeamish ad-libbing
          of a disabused priesthood, and a lip serving flock
          sidling up for a favor at the church down the block.

          At least, in the old days, you knew where you stood;
          your god was a despot, and you were no good
          in his eyes, so you spent all your days on your knees,
          praying not to be scratched out, i.e. a dog with its fleas.

          And if, at the last gasp, your appeals came to naught
          (for, in truth, did your fancies ever mean diddly squat?) ,
          perhaps some slight comfort you might find in the end
          swimming laps in the Hadean lake with your friends.

          But pusillanimous awe slowly gave way to reason,
          as deific whimsy was supplanted by season
          of agogee, perigee, and axial tilt-
          towards a natural order, and away from God's guilt.

          The Church and her minions offered up a good fight,
          drawing down the dark ages to shut out the light.
          The circled the wagons, then burned all the books
          (as well as dissenters with schismatic outlooks) .

          The holy war raged along the secular front
          as the casualties mounted, and all for the want
          of a rational worldview, or a word from above
          that might cross out the custom of murder; aka 'love'.

          After centuries, the sides reached an uneasy truce,
          as the grip of the priesthood was slowly pried loose
          from the throats of the scholars, whose alternative theories
          were offered in service to puzzles and queries

          which formerly had been answered with silence, or threat,
          or canonical folktales some declined to forget.
          So that, while the masses still indulged in their pious enchantments,
          a few noble souls pioneered the advancements

          in knowledge that the West takes for granted today.
          And even though recidivous doomsayers pray
          for the judgement of God to rain down from the sky-
          at least we'll all be overweight when we die.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)

www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                   318
          Pretty Waitresses...(haiku)

          pretty waitresses
          one day they'll break like china
          but they don't know that

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   319
          Primal Defect

          Don't speak to me of man's good nature
          buried 'neath the dust and grime.
          Nor, of Rousseau's noble savage,
          blessed with sanctity divine.

          As far as I'm concerned,
          what makes us different from the apes
          is the fact that, when we fnck each other,
          we usually pull the drapes.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Prodigal Orphans

          Scattered on chance's wind are we,
          as from creation's spreading tree
          we fall, like children of an indifferend god
          too busy keeping ledgers to note
          the directions in which we fly,
          or where, at last, we land.

          We dance in tiny whirlwinds, and are lifted
          up again; some dull, few gifted,
          but none soar high enough to escape the lure
          of the ever-siren's call:
          a song of earth, for feet of clay
          on which we make our stands.

          Thus, we await our ends in careworn years,
          behind the veils that mask our fears
          of abandonment, as memory serves too well.
          We wonder from whence comes our sustenance
          at the final nod, when soil is turned,
          and life cuts the last strand.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive          321
          Pure Belief...(tanka)

          Pure belief never
          lasts; there are epiphanies,
          fragile moments which

          dissolve like thin frost under
          even tepid scrutiny

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   322
          Pure Innocence...(haiku)

          pure innocence! my
          cynicism a sniper
          without a target

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   323
          Putting On My Pants

          Not to beat a dead horse
          (though, if she WERE a dead horse, I'd probably beat her) .
          And, not that she'd ever listen to me, or anyone else for that matter
          (though, if I believed there was a shred of a chance, I'd most certainly entreat her, to)
          ...

          stop
          typing
          now!
          how?
          Here are a few suggestions...

          Move into a cardboard box in the backyard,
          and throw away all the extension cords.

          Superglue your fingers together,
          then wrap them in several layers of duct tape.
          Better yet...cut them off!

          Run away and join a cult
          that prohibits keyboard manipulation
          (as well as talking. Yes...that works) .

          Use a Wiccan magic spell to
          turn yourself into a shrew
          (oops, forgot...that's already been tried, and you're still typing) .

          Learn to type with your feet
          (it won't stop you, but at least it'll slow you down) .

          Plug holes A and B with appendages C and D
          (ugh, forgot about the elbows!) .

          Stare into the sun until you go blind
          (yes, I know...touch typing and all. But, I liked the image) .

          Burrow deep into the earth and become one with
          Those Who Live Below, communicating strictly
          by vibrations sent through the dirt
          (let the moles suffer you a while) .

          Start a punk rock band, and name it
          'Cunts Who Shouldn't Type'.

          Simply become a groupie of a
          punk rock band called 'Cunts Who Shouldn't Type',
          and adhere to their creed.

          Go to a Scanners convention, and
          mingle. You're bound to piss
          at least one of them off.

www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                   324
          Build a time machine, travel back
          about 20 years or so, go to the
          grocery store, and purchase
          some Tylenol.

          Stop taking your meds until
          you suffer a blood pressure induced
          heart attack (oops, that was me!) .

          Or, you COULD just try a little self-reflection,
          which would SURELY lead to a little,
          much needed humility, which might,
          in turn, lead to the acquisition of just
          the tiniest amount of class, you uncouth,
          tasteless, overblown example of crudity
          (yes, I know all these mean basically the
          same thing..it's all about.emphasis, people...EMPHASIS!) .

          Phew! I feel much better (removes barrel from mouth) .

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                        325
          Reapers and Sleepers

          S. is 14, and afraid of death.
          I try to paint a face on the unknown for her,
          but my renderings are always too elaborate.
          I'm too halfassedly familiar with too many styles,
          and my portraits always seem to take on an inhuman,
          hallucinagenic-what's the word?
          Ah...visage!
          The good thing is that,
          in the end,
          she usually gets bored,
          and goes to sleep.
          Hooray for me.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                 326
          reason is...(haiku)

          reason is the first
          casualty of war...passions
          revealed in the flames

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   327
          Red Ink (an admonition to the immortals)

          An adult life is a lifetime of decisions, made by a child;
          decisions made for simple reasons:
          loneliness
          fear
          the need to fit in
          a desire to feel good, and to feel good RIGHT NOW!
          The future isn't thought about much; after all, it isn't here yet, right?
          I have a secret to share with you- will you listen?
          Someday, sooner than you might have thought,
          the future will be now.
          And you will be then.

          I met a woman once.
          Her hair was gray, and falling out in clumps.
          Most of her teeth were gone, and her skin was the color of ash, and the texture of a
          dried plum.
          Her smile was the smile of my grandmother.
          She was twenty-nine years old.

          Regard your playmates carefully, my child,
          as well as the games you play.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                  328
          Reflexion

          Was thinking back to the time
          when I wrote the poem that I
          just posted in the forum, with
          the 2 inch stub of a pencil they
          gave me in the psyche ward
          a few years back they used
          to gather everybody around
          the TV in the middle of the
          'community center' and everbody
          would watch all day long and
          I refused to watch instead I'd
          just pace back and forth up
          and down the one hallway all
          day long and they wouldn't even
          let me go outside during breaks
          because I didn't smoke and
          later I was told I seemed 'anxious'
          because I didn't watch TV 16
          hours a day like the others though
          sometimes I'd read old magazines
          I found lying around and try to
          engage the staff in coversations
          about what I had read but none
          of them were really interested
          in Van Gogh or the killer who
          contributed 20,000 words to the
          English language or in any of
          the other articles I managed to
          dig out of those magazines although
          a few of them DID try to tell me
          about Jesus until they found out
          that I knew a lot more about the
          bible than they did or ever would
          and then they would just smile
          and encourage me to join the
          'groups' reading the daily news
          because to be lucid one had
          to be able to keep up on the
          current events happening around
          the world so instead I wrote that
          poem and a few others until
          the day they told me nothing was
          wrong with me and they escorted
          me out the door in my bare feet
          and offered me a buspass to
          nowhere.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   329
          regret (haiku)

          regret-I squandered
          my joy punishing myself
          for misdemeanors

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   330
          Resentment

          Petulant actors upon a careworn stage,
          we whine our lines as children make shadow puppets in the foolights.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                  331
          Resin (child's verse)

          A sapling asked an oak tree tall,
          'What's the point in growing,
          when, at the end, you'll simply fall
          into the dark unknowing

          that dwells deep in the heart of trees,
          and in all of life, I fear? '
          The oak tree shivered in the breeze,
          but the sapling didn't hear.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive     332
          Riding My Bicycle Around the Neighborhood This Morning

          I almost hit a lady on the sidewalk;
          she was walking her little dog,
          but she had gray hair,
          and a nice smile,
          and she took no offense.

          Right behind her,
          a little man in a red shirt,
          red pants,
          and red hat,
          and the coolest mustache I've ever seen (I think) .
          Santa Clause in the off season,
          visiting the commoners
          (He also had a very nice smile) .

          And this really cool sparrow,
          gray like all the others, but,
          when he took off,
          wonderful, blinding yellow tailfeathers
          were briefly exposed!

          And I thought a lot about dying
          (I always do) .

          Sorry, no poem this time;
          just a list.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Robinson Grew So

          Trapped on this island, I blink back human tears
          and wait for my rescuers-
          it could be years!
          So, I wait.
          I play chess in my head,
          and try to accept my fate.
          I learn to appreciate my state of affairs;
          to count the grains of sand stuck to my lifeline.
          I tell myself that everything will
          be
          just
          fine.
          So, I wait,
          and I float.
          The only problem is...
          I've never seen a boat.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Robot Revelation

          Whir, click, whir, click;
          my head is spinning, and I'm feeling sick.
          Click, whistle, grind, buzz;
          I'm not the man I thought I was.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive        335
          Satan Wants Attention! (castaway)

          Rows of poets, hung by
          silver threads from golden boughs:
          lanterns of exasperation-
          can He see me now? ? ?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Seeing Red

          'Where's my money? '
          Four years...
          Jobless.
          Homeless.
          Institutionalized.

          A 'Hi, how have you been? '
          might have been a tad more generous.
          Especially considering...

          Ah, never mind.
          I'm not even angry,
          just writing a poem
          as I chat with my friend
          who understands
          what we are
          and who we are
          and all that other stuff
          that makes this writing
          so wonderfully
          magnificently
          trivial.

          We share the same page!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   337
          Separated at Birth

          'Hey there, sad sack!
          What do you lack? '
          'A song in my heart,
          and a spine in my back.'

          'I'll trade you those things
          for a mind, and an eye.'
          'I'd never do that
          to such a nice guy.'

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   338
          Shapeshifter

          Once upon a time, it had been a man,
          who was actually a woman.
          By the time I
          met it, it was a woman again,
          a Jewish princess, for Christ's sake! It promised to
          morph only in the company of strangers.
          And what did I care, if even the
          C.I.A. refused to pursue the matter?
          So, we became friends,
          had a few laughs;
          shared a secret or two.
          It even showed me a few of its tricks,
          and, like the child prodigy,
          I soon surpassed my teacher (though I seldom let on) .
          With my newfound, malleable adroitness,
          I played fool and saint before the dumbfounded audiences. I was:

          a hayseed younger brother, and a name like a bored housewife's daydream.

          an alien dimensional hopper, beaming down history lessons from inside the bowels of
          the mother ship.

          a stuttering cum-upper, with too much Viagra on his hands.

          a lesbian upper cruster, with a penchant for rock star sycophantic bitches.

          a rock star.

          a fundamentalist do-gooder, silver tongued and vomiting homespun philosophical
          erudition.

          a middle-aged homemaker possessing that most dreaded combination of attributes;
          namely, a stream-of-consciousness perspective, and fast fingers (did I mention, she
          was also just the slightest bit kinky?) .

          and, of course...God (we all have to do it once) .

          So, I played,
          and I watched the other changelings play, but...
          there was a difference.

          In my heart of hearts,
          I began to abhor the earnestness of their deceits.
          And then, one day, the truth hit me!
          These creatures of shadow were no simple chameleons,
          changing their colors with the seasons just for the joy of it.
          They were soul eaters-
          purveyors of lies, breakers of hearts;
          friends to none.
          Then and there, I renounced my affiliatons,
          burned my membership card,
          and turned my back, forever (I even named names) .
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                 339
          But, what to do about 'it'?
          My mentor my ally, my...
          friend?
          For a while, choice was stolen from me,
          as the wheel of time rolled over all of us,
          and the long winter of Being's morphism smothered us under its unyielding pillowflesh.
          But ice cracks,
          snow melts,
          and sometimes you can still find green underneath,
          if you really look.

          Thus it was with me,
          and us,
          and it.
          She resumed contact with me.,
          and I with she,
          and she and I with it,
          and it seemed almost like old times;
          only, in once sense, much much better.
          And, in the other sense, the same,
          which made it worse.
          And though, at this point, it may seem
          rud(e)    to ask it, I must ask it...
          y?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                340
          She Leads the Band (extemperaneous compostion, yesterday's parade)

          She stands so tall for one so small,
          in ice cream suit and braid...

          she leads the band,
          I walk the grass divider.

          She's been in pain for 5 days now,
          home from school (ice, heat, ice was recommended,
          but she'd have none of that. Just Buffy on YouTube) ...

          she leads the band,
          I walk the grass divider.

          Now the whistle's in her lips,
          she signals the procession to begin.
          Horns and drums, reeds and bells,
          they follow in unbroken symmetry:
          heel to toe, heel to toe, heel to toe
          they march...

          she leads the band,
          I walk along beside her.

          The baton, silver sceptre
          up and down, 'round the back,
          butterfly of motion, never settling,
          always threatening to fall,
          but never falling...

          she leads the band,
          I walk along beside her.

          Her face a stone of discipline;
          only I recognize the subtle sigh of relief
          as the judges fall behind her...

          she leads the band,
          I trot along beside her.

          Wading through a sea of faces,
          sidewalk buoys clog the lanes-
          step and dodge, step and dodge...

          she leads the band,
          her father falls behind her.

          Determination (and none too little rudeness):
          I am a wedge of resolution,
          an aged arrow wheezing though their midst...

          she leads the band,
          I run along beside her.
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          And then, we reach the end,
          another finish line, and we have tied again.
          A brief kiss (no hug! the uniform! ! !) ,
          and she is off with her compatriots...

          and I am left behind her, but...it's alright.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive           342
          She tells me (tanka)

          She tells me she loves
          me, and holds my hand tightly
          as the light slowly

          fades. What can I tell her to
          make things right? There are no words.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive    343
          She told me...(tanka)

          She told me what was
          on her mind, straight-up and to
          my face; a pity

          she thought so much of me. I
          might have valued her hatred.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   344
          she was sleeping...(haiku)

          she was sleeping when
          I called so I let her go
          she has her own life

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   345
          She's Here Tonight!

          ...and I'm sending out feelers,
          electronic fingers untrained, but motivated;
          passion has it's own skill.
          The window is open,
          but I am no stalker-there's pie on the sill,
          my name traced out in the cherry filling.
          I remember reading a story when I was a kid,
          fictionalized biography of Thomas Edison.
          Running after a train, he was hoisted aboard
          by the conductor, by his ears.
          She pulls me in, just like that!
          Look for the tie on the doorknob-
          cya.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive          346
          Sidewalk Chameleon

          He shed concrete like old skin,
          and touched my ankle as I stepped over him.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive         347
          Silence Hangs...(tanka)

          Silence hangs in the
          air like rapture suspended
          in mist; cool fingers

          lick my sweat, transmuting my
          dis-ease; sacred alchemy

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   348
          Simplicity

          Simplicity's child sits in the corner,
          drawing pictures of sunsets, and smiles.
          His frowns come from immediate pain,
          but never linger in the abstract, after-moment.
          His contentment irks me now and again;
          he is seldom right, and often wrong,
          but doesn't have the sense to be ashamed.
          We play games together, at times;
          and though I always best him,
          he retreats back to his corner
          and dons the countenance of the victor-
          to my chagrin.
          At times, I envy his resolute ignorance,
          his capacity to revel in falsehood;
          to caper amongst the reeds in shallow waters.
          But, I do not want to be him.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive             349
          Slept All Night...(haiku)

          slept all night on a
          bed of last year's pine needles
          death was my pillow

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   350
          s'long?

          Well, that was number 100,
          so I suppose I'm done.
          It's been a challenge,
          and an awful lot of fun.

          So, hey!
          Nice meeting all of you.
          (oh shit! this makes 101;
          NOW what am I gonna do?)

          I guess we'll have to wait and see...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   351
          Small Souls

          If you would know yourself, do not forsake the company of children,
          for they are the mirrors of our worst selves.
          By the very nature of their incompleteness,
          they surreptitiously invite us to lay down the masks
          that we present to the world.

          Because they are smaller we push them around, fearing no reciprocity.

          Because they are not as learned, we lord it over them, feeling exalted in their
          diminishment.

          Because they are innocent we are cruel, for cruelty enters any open door.

          Because they are different from one another, we play favorites, setting them against
          each other.

          Because they need us more than we need them, we ignore them with casual
          indifference, as if rudeness only counts between peers.

          Because they are imperfect we assail them with self-righteousness, teaching them
          hypocrisy at a young age

          Because they are yet clumsy of speech and self-assurance, we cut them to the bone
          with our sharp tongues, and fit them early with the caps of fools.

          Because they trust we are dishonest, until they learn to trust no more.

          They are the canvasses on which we paint our failings in blood.

          We are children, fingerpainting.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                  352
          Snowflakes

          Children of the sky,
          float down unto the earth;
          each of you unique upon
          the moment of your birth.

          Linger while you may before
          the seasons change, and then,
          ascend in clouds of mist
          until the winter comes again.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   353
          So Many Voices...(tanka)

          So many voices
          jostling for attention; an
          amalgam of souls

          bound together inside a
          human head: I..am..not..me

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   354
          Sole Survivor (or, I only have eyelets for you)

          I heard a voice, it wasn’t me.
          (You heard a voice, it wasn’t you) .
          Where is this person I can’t see?
          (I live down here, inside your shoe) .
          Who are you, then? Tell me your name.
          (It matters not; they’re all the same) .

          You’re only in my head, I fear.
          (I fear that would be quite a climb) .
          Then may I ask your purpose here?
          (That you shall learn in all good time) .
          You vex me now! What is your game?
          (It matters not; they’re all the same) .

          I think you seek to drive me mad.
          (I care not for your state of mind) .
          Take pity on this tortured lad!
          (I feel no mercy toward your kind) .
          Who am I, then, that you should blame?
          (It matters not; you’re all the same) .

          I’d look upon your heartless face.
          (My visage, as my heart, is pure) .
          Then heal me, lest I fall from grace.
          (For your affliction, but one cure.
          If you would wipe away your shame,
          remind yourself, “they’re all the same,
          they’re all the same, they’re all the same...”

          Recite this, as you’re taking aim) .

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Something Passed By

          When there's no up or down, you fall outward:
          so far to fall in an inflationary scenario;
          lots of time to cool off,
          to reflect-
          but a scorpion is still a scorpion.

          There are other worlds than these;
          always have been, always will be.
          Theologians speak of primal movers, of first causers, of creation.
          Even astrophysicists set picnics of virtual free lunches,
          envisioning quantum trains arriving at the station from nowhere.

          Pah!

          You want to know the secret of existence?
          There is an indescribable continuum exhibiting sometimes recognizable patterns,
          resting on nothing; all the rest is just details-
          but you know what they say about the devil and the details.

          When the CINDER came, it caught people (we'll call them people for the sake of
          argument) unaware, right in the middle of their:

          fast breaking
          nap taking
          fornicating
          asbestos breathing (though for some reason, this was good for them)
          playground bullying
          lap running
          money making
          deathbed watching
          lion taming (these lions had an extra row of teeth!)
          map making
          solace seeking
          war mongering
          cosmos searching...

          well, concerning that last item, their scientists DID have time to say one thing: LOOK
          UP! And they did...

          and their eyeballs swelled with the tidal force, until their sockets boiled like overfilled
          goblets of claret,
          and their ears screamed themselves mute,
          and their craning necks ignited like tapirs of napalm;

          and the CINDER wafted away upon the sideral breeze, looking for other mischief...

          or, perhaps it had no choice.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)



www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                         356
          Sometimes, If You're Very Still, You Can Hear the Bamboo Grow

          Another morning walking circles,
          hearing the screams of men
          drowning in the key of 'G',
          breathing in the pink air,
          remembering the days before the waters broke.
          Illegal searches behind me now-
          lapped 33 times back, and counting.
          Irish music brings me down,
          but it's so lovely,
          minor refrains of love and loss dog me
          each step along the course to nowhere.
          But, mostly,
          I think about her,
          and the time we don't have,
          and the places we haven't shared,
          and the futility of young love
          in old shoes.
          I crank up the MP3,
          but it only reminds me of who I was,
          and I realize that, even back then,
          my feet were wet,
          and the deck already exhibited a noticeable pitch.
          Still I continue my power walk,
          fancying that I might somehow manage to lap
          the tie that binds me to that
          overplayed B.O.C.ligature,
          or overcome him with a sort of
          vitamin enriched
          wishful thinking
          mobius strip jujutsu move,
          because Dr. Hook never really
          did it for me either.
          But, if I topple over the edge of the stage today,
          I send a shout out to the ladies,
          and the fans (the plural usage is just for effect) ,
          and beg a moment of silence
          for us.

          'Oh nursie, dear, I'm glad you're here to brush away my pain.' Ian Anderson...

          mm

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                            357
          Sophistry Admonished

          Bake a conclusion, and serve it up quick,
          with a side dish of half-assed opinions which stick
          in the craw of a mind that is too small to measure
          the devaluation of man's noblest pleasure.

          You believe in your heart that your judgements are true,
          though your research is lacking, and your facts are so few
          that you never quite know what you're talking about,
          for you've never sat down and really thought the thing out.

          Still, your voice prattles on touching current events
          in a tone most engaging, but your words make no sense!
          You substitute verbiage for sober reflection-
          a comic book hero fearing only detection.

          Can't intercourse represent more than a muddle of
          circle-jerk dictums swimming up in a puddle of
          the impotent thoughts and pre-ejaculate lies
          of would-be begettors who can't fertilize?

          A plethora of persuasions, but a dearth of ideas
          paves the way for reaction-never caring what IS;
          nor counting the wages of rushing headlong
          into the uncharted, where your right is SO wrong:

          as there, in deep waters, you find yourself lost
          amongst the old giants, from whose hands you are tossed
          towards the shoals-like a stone on the surface you scud,
          'til your ship of fools finally gets stuck in the mud.

          But you never quite get it; even with your pride smashed
          you emerge from the wreckage, seemingly quite unabashed!
          Then, gathering together more like-minded men,
          and without patching holes, you soon sail off again.

          Wisdom's a lady, but knowledge is a bitch,
          and a well-knitted garment is made stitch by stitch;
          and, though there's no shortcut to life's education,
          learning is often it's OWN compensation!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          sorrow (haiku)

          sorrow-I filled the
          lakes and rivers with my tears
          fish prospered-I died

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Spasms of the Quantum Foam (from castaway)

          A train leaves the station on a Sunday afternoon,
          as a chickadee chooses its way through a thicket,
          while a lonely prisoner reaches out between the bars from behind an iron wall,
          and a star in the Black Eye galaxy goes nova.

          Wavemakers all, these seemingly random events send reverberations out into the
          universe which
          collide,
          interpenetrate,
          shift course;
          create worlds.
          What is the secret language?
          Where is our Rosetta stone?

          An ex-wife, whose patience has boiled away like water in a swimming pool built on the
          moon, arrives home to her mother, where she will suffer under a barrage of 'I told you
          so(s) .'
          A tiny bird rests briefly inside a sparse courtyard paved with dirt, surrounded by four
          walls inset with several small, barred windows. It 'cheeps' beneath a particular one,
          then flies away.
          A man steps off the edge of a bed.

          And the star? Window dressing.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                 360
          Staircase

          Clatter, clatter down the stairs;
          the push came wholly unawares.
          I tumbled, tumbled, tumbled down,
          to rest, a heap, upon the ground.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Star Childe

          'Just a little stick.'
          I closed my eyes,
          and awaited the subcutaneous
          injection of Heparin,
          an anticoagulant meant to keep me
          from suffering a heart attack
          in my sleep.
          And, indeed, it was
          just 'a little stick',
          a tiny needle with
          an almost trivial appetite.
          Afterwards, after the nurse
          had stepped out of the room,
          I lay back, stared at the ceiling,
          and wondered what form the
          side effect would take this time?
          Dizziness?
          Dryness of mouth?
          Palpitations of some sort?

          Ah...nausea!
          arriving about 2 minutes
          into the treatment.
          It approached like a cat sneaking
          up on an ostensibly preoccupied sparrow
          who really knew the game.
          I dubiously awaited the passing over
          of this angel of sundry little deaths;
          a dodgily observant Semite trying to remember
          if there was still enough blood left
          on my lintel to forego
          another wrestling match.
          However, in this instance
          the tide turned Pharoahs way,
          and I was forced to utter a hasty
          goodbye to the libidinous,
          Teutonic soulmate living
          inside my right ear.

          Rolling to the left and off the
          bed of a thousand buttons,
          I managed about two steps
          in the direction of the
          temple of the Ceramic Bowl when...
          the world moved!
          I must have called for the nurse
          before I collapsed back onto
          the neatly pressed and (I assume)
          hygienic linens,
          sweating ice and convulsing slightly
          to the tune 'who's sorry now? ',
          echoing back to me through
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          the fast approaching dusk
          in the quickly shrinking tabernacle
          of my coherence.

          She helped me back onto the
          bed (again, I assume) ,
          and I soon regained enough
          composure to be able to offer
          little one and two word answers
          to her interrogation.

          Was I dizzy? Yes.
          Was I nauseous? Somewhat.
          Did I get up too fast
          from the bed? Well...?

          Finally, I reacquired enough acumen
          to suggest the causal relationship
          between her injection and
          my subsequent fall from grace.
          She simply shook her head-
          'No', she said.
          'Heparin does not cause such reactions.
          You got up too fast.
          The shot made you apprehensive.
          You were scared'
          All this, as she was monitoring
          my blood pressure, and
          discovering that it had dropped
          81 points, and my heart rate
          had slowed to 40 bpm.
          And when I intimated that
          a panic reaction would most
          likely have INCREASED those
          particular representative integers
          marking the landscape of
          my unique biological demography,
          she just stared at me.

          In the ensuing 4 days,
          my self diagnosis was revisited
          and rejected again and again
          by various doctors, nurses,
          nurse's aides, housekeepers,
          cafeteria workers, visitors,
          and one non-sympathetic mental
          patient who might, just possibly,
          have been either Jesus Christ or
          a poorly passing facsimile thereof.
          Comments ran the gamut, from...

          'I've never heard of this before.'
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          'This isn't in any of the journals.'
          'I've never heard about this before.'
          'Are you sure this isn't your fault? I've never heard of this before.'
          Etc.
          Oh! And I think one nurse remarked,
          'I've never heard of this before.'

          Of course, none of this is
          new to me. Over the last few decades,
          I've suffered a number of maladies
          which seem to have dropped from the
          clear blue, into my...(inser bodily function here_______) .
          Years ago, my brother bought me
          a book, entitled 'Star People'.
          You see, my family seems to believe
          that I am the product of an alien, interspecies
          mating program, and that all shall
          be revealed when 'they' come to
          take me home.

          Still waiting.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                    364
          Staring Into the Son

          Been thinking a lot about Jesus today-
          why he came, why he went away;
          what he meant by what he had to say,
          and how come nobody heard.

          I'd always thought he came to set men free
          from fatuous preachers of inanity,
          but it's all devolved into sophistry
          over the finer points of the Word.

          Each self aggrandizer claiming dominion
          for his version of truth, like he's Jesus' main minion,
          and grinding his axe on all other opinion,
          while generous to a fault with his own.

          Pontificating on such subjects as: the nature of sin,
          of treasure laid up in gold, silver, and tin,
          or the number of angels on the head of a pin-
          'Just a sec! I've got God on the phone! '

          Well, since everyone else has put in his two cents,
          I hope you don't mind if I vie with these gents,
          and perhaps interject with some slight common sense
          concerning issues which couldn't be muddier.

          And don't be alarmed if you hear something new,
          or a thought that doesn't conform to your view,
          for the cages are getting quite cramped in this zoo-
          and the catfights can only get bloodier!

          So, here are the facts (as I see them) today:
          a man was born, lived some, then went on his way.
          Now Santa Clause comes on his alleged birthday,
          and fills up our stockings with stuff.

          As for all the rest of the story, it seems
          we'll get it from some bouffant coiffured guy's dreams,
          along with the true measure of Jesus' inseams-
          if we're willing to pay him enough.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                     365
          Strike Two

          Eight months along,
          something went wrong;
          now Mario's humming
          a funeral song.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   366
          Swayback (from castaway)

          Rocks walk (one, two) .
          Water swims (three, four) .
          Hell breathes (five, six) .
          Hunger ruminates- begin again.

          Purity congeals (watch your feet) .
          Laughter weeps (too much flourish) .
          Cancer formulates (mind your rhythm) .
          Hatred seethes- begin again.

          Talent swells (slow it down) .
          Pathos digs in (please tread lightly) .
          Chance extends vision (step back slightly) .
          Purpose grows wings- goddammit! Begin again!

          We'll never be ready in time.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive          367
          SWF Seeks Sensitive Man

          The pitcher winds up-
          slow motion balancing act.
          Hillock upon mountain,
          set against the background of cascading stars.
          A piece of the avalanche breaks loose,
          traveling the shortest line with a corkscrew flourish.
          A rawhide sponge swelling with velocity.
          A dum-dum bullet whose previous incarnation was a lead pipe.
          A lipstick smear.
          A shrew in beaver pelt.

          A barrier broken, and a crash of thunder
          bounces off the crowd,
          returning to follow the well worn path of least resistance.
          An arrow.
          A missile. Ironic anticipation.
          And, in that final millisecond,
          the color of the pitcher's uniform changes from red
          to black.
          The bat never leaves the shoulder.

          STRIKE!
          My face, the catcher's mitt.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                          368
          Tale from the Heart

          I stand chastised:
          for eating like an American
          for hating the inevitable
          for sleeping in the comfy feather bed of procrastination
          for appreciating always too late, and never enough
          for ignoring the value of others
          for ignoring my own value to others
          for sewing the seeds of anguish
          for reaping those fruits

          And yet...I have an eye.
          How
          could
          I
          have
          been
          anything
          other
          than
          what
          I
          am?

          Phoenix...hovers...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Tanka riddle...(hint-movie title)

          I broke my foot while
          sipping coffee and watching
          the sunset-my shout

          was heard for miles around, but
          no one ever got the joke

          (anybody got it? send me your answers, and I'll acknowledge the winner with a little
          poem. thanks for playing! ...mm)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                  370
          Tao and Again

          She wavers on the balance beam.
          He watches.
          She tips.
          He catches.

          Who will tire first?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Teddy Bear

          Wait for me, Sylvia;
          my coffin is arriving on the slow train.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Ten Haikus

          she lies fast asleep
          in the arms of her father
          child breath and stillness


          a bullet fits a
          gun's chamber just perfectly
          but time is quicker


          in this paper suit
          this disposable spaceman
          dreams of rocket ships


          words cannot convey
          the sadness behind them and
          even that is false


          mesmerized by words
          I almost didn't look up
          that glorious sky!


          a schnauzer found a
          mask of god and put it on
          heel...sit...stay...good boy


          people say god...say
          no...people say no god...say
          no...then bow your head


          you speak of purpose
          what purpose night? or sorrow?
          I'm alone again


          play with matches then
          come to me when you're on fire
          I will blow you out


          come to me my love
          tie me down with your ribbons
          I am transparent

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)


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          Terra Infirmity

          A craft, a calling, a work of art;
          acheiving, at best, a qualified immortality.
          For, as we all know,
          the world will one day fly apart.

          What, then? Might there be more?
          Launching electronically reproduced masterpieces
          off toward the universe's dark horizon,
          ere the temporal waves engulf this receding shore?

          But, what of heat death?
          That imagined, far-flung day
          when the cold corpse of the cosmos
          sighs its last breath?

          Nowhere to dropp anchor after nullity's deluge-
          or, is there?
          From out of the heart of the silent aftermath,
          there shines forth a beacon; an eye of spectral fire
          beckoning us to hope's final refuge:

          to a testament wrought in the hardest stone,
          in the infinite halls of the maximal museum-
          God's memory,
          where all is reclaimed, and not alone.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                  374
          That's the Breaks

          Mario's missing his daughter today;
          the ex and the boyfriend have flown her away
          to a land in the east, where she'll have her own room-
          but I mourn for the bond that was broken too soon.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                    375
          The Awakening of Dame E. (a memoir)

          Illusions of propriety
          breed confusion as to status,
          as the poolboy clears the cobwebs
          from the drain
          behind the lattice.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          The battle...(tanka)

          The battle is not
          one waged between Platonic
          demiurges; bang

          your fists together until
          they bleed, and you'll understand.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          The Chittering of... (tanka)

          The chittering of
          songbirds outside my window
          does not lull me; they

          sing of opportunities
          and victims- but, it sounds nice.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   378
          The Day the Aliens Destroyed the Earth

          The day the aliens destroyed the earth
          was not a day so different from the rest.
          I rolled up out of bed, got washed and dressed,
          and called the bank to see what I was worth.

          Then, after choking down some toast and tea,
          I hustled to my truck and drove to work
          through traffic filled with lunatics and jerk,
          and stop lights for as far as I could see.

          And after thirteen hours of toil and sweat
          to earn enough to do it all again,
          I climbed back in my old, four-fendered friend,
          and started home, a little more in debt.

          Then, just as I approached the on-ramp sign,
          there was this sudden flash, and I went blind...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive              379
          The Doppelganger's Brother

          Playing the part for so many years,
          he found boredom, tears;
          reflection in the beads like sweat-
          it made him want to forget, again.

          And so, he entered other men
          against suggestions- when
          other aspects of personality
          cried out, he raised

          his hand, then gazed
          upon himself, an unremembered haze
          familiar only through the abstract
          art of the act of

          forgetfulness, which wore him like a glove.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive         380
          The Garden, Revisited

          He shouts at the top of his lungs.
          She screams, and hides behind the door.
          What's it all about? Same old song:
          he wan'ts less, and she wants more.

          And now, a riddle...

          Knock, knock!
          Who's there?

          Children, caught in the middle.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          The Geeks Shall Inherit the Earth

          The blinking light on the switch of my surge protector
          offers to me the simple realization that I don't know everything.
          Why the hell does it DO that?
          In, fact, while I'm reasonably versed in some of the
          more theoretical aspects of the sciences-
          after all, I HAVE read Stephen Hawking-
          concerning the practical side of things,
          I must admit to almost complete ignorance.
          I feel more and more these days like one of the apelike humanoids
          in Arthur C. Clark's '2001', bowing before the obelisk
          of the specialists.

          Damn Leonardo da Vinci!
          Damn the industrial revolution!
          Damn Bill Gates!

          Oops! Gotta reboot again...
          'eek, eek'.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                               382
          The Great Wasteland

          Naked bodies on rooftops,
          lying on their backs.
          Arms and legs akimbo,
          jutting out at odd and interesting angles.
          Lengths of wire protruding from various orifices,
          trailing away and down into the buildings below.

          The televisions have taken over,
          and they're too cheap to pay for cable!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive               383
          The Husbandman's Divorce

          Boiling pot of good intentions gone awry-
          move the ladle, hike the heat.
          Call down snowballs from the space beyond the sky,
          and don't forget to add the meat.

          Chew the gristle, lick the fat of sloth ingrained-
          tear the sinews, suck the marrow.
          Rip the smiling lips off felicity feigned,
          and expose the hellish barrow.

          Spread your wings, and fly the course assigned to one
          forever grounded; earthworm god
          hiding from the face of the hideous sun,
          baking you in your house of sod.

          Prune the flailing appendages of dark roots
          animating your turbid sky.
          Flog the seed of primal hunger; shape the fruits,
          to be eaten by and by-

          and don't forget to cancel the credit cards.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          The IPod Wars (the neverending saga continues...)

          Yeah? Well...
          my MP3 player runs 8 hours, blasting,
          on a single AAA battery,
          of which I can carry many,
          unobtrusively,
          in any of my several pockets.
          Good luck finding a place to charge you IPOD
          as you're trudging through the unforgiving Sahara
          after your plane has crashed and you've
          eaten all the bodies and you're forced to
          entertain yourself by humming 'Afternoon Delight'.
          We'll see who's laughing THEN...

          Apple, my ass!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          The Last Wave

          To write that one, perfect poem;
          I can almost see it!
          It will be as if the reader is standing on a beach:
          a stillness will hang in the air, like expectation.
          Then, there will be a drumming,
          a prelude felt in the chest.
          Constricted breathing.
          From the flat sea surface,
          a swelling.
          A wave will rise, towering.
          Monumental!
          A gasp, just before it crashes down.
          Bones will dissolve,
          with only jellyfish left upon the shore.

          Alas...not today (sigh) .

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                 386
          The Last Word

          I woke up the other morning with an itch under my right eyelid
          (now, I'm warning you from the get go, don't bother asking
          about my left eye. For the sake of this story, I lost that one
          in a freak frolfing accident) .

          Anyhow...I opened the eye, and everything seemed normal.
          There, across my humble bedroom, were my computer (switched
          off, for I am always energy aware) , my desk, my 20' flat screen
          TV perched somewhat hazardously on top of my rather diminutive
          chest of drawers, my bookcase, the little cross I made in honor
          of a dog named Runt, who died in October of 1988, and my
          really cool Chinese analog wallclock made out of seashells
          that I picked up at Big Lots for $2.99. Other stuff as well, at least
          as inconsequential as the stuff I've mentioned. Everything seemed
          normal.

          However...the eye continued to itch. Gingerly, I intruded with the
          tip of my index finger, and thought I felt a little something there
          against the front of my eyeball. So, I did the expected thing, wiping
          it away, and onto the front of my t-shirt. And guess what! Everything
          friggin' disappeared! My room was gone, as well as the light...
          and this is odd, 'cause the dark was gone, too! In a weird kinda
          way, I totally and completely (I love using those two words together,
          because they mean exactly the same thing) lost my sense of there
          being any sort of existence at all; outside of my sense of self, that
          is. It was a kind of vertigo, I guess, but extended into all kinds of
          different realms of sense and feeling.

          So, of course I started freaking out. Maybe I started screaming and
          shit; I'm not sure, because, like I said, I was rather freaking out.
          Finally, I got ahold of myself long enough to start remembering my
          zazen shit; you know, stay in the moment, count the breaths, be
          the observer...all that crap. It calmed me down enough so that I
          was able to do a little reflection, think about the event (s) which
          had led up to my...blindness?

          It was about then that I heard the voice of my Jedi Master,
          Obi Wan Kenobi (man, I hope I spelled his name right; he was
          a real pain in the ass about that shit) . He told me, just as clearly
          as if he was in the room with me, 'Find the speck, Luke'...(yeah,
          I know, he called me Luke. What can I say? He's getting pretty
          old) . Anyhow, I grok'd his meaning, and started feeling around
          on the front of my shirt; and, using the power and insight of the
          Force, I found the little object I'd removed from my eyeball. With
          no little effort, I managed the bugger back onto the tip of my index
          finger, then onto my eye. I don't suppose its too hard to guess that
          everything went back to normal; 'cept, now, the itch was back. It's
          there now; but, for the most part I'm able to ignore it, except when
          I start thinking about subjectivity, and objectivity, and phenomenology.
          That's when it starts irritating me again...although, I'm really getting
          interested in solipsism, and on those days when I'm really
          thinking about that shit, I forget about my eye altogether, and things
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                      387
          are cool.

          Ok, I guess that's the end of my little ontological treatise. It's hooey,
          I know; but then, it's at least as good as Anselm's, or Aquinas; or
          Kant's, for that matter. And did you know that Sartre pretty much
          discounted as 'naive' his own 'free will' philosophy? 'Existentialism
          my ass! I wanna kill something! ' Well, not exactly those words,
          but you catch the drift?

          Of all the fish I'd like to be,
          I'd like to be a trout.
          I'd slide along my brains inlets,
          then turn it inside out.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                       388
          The Memory Is...(tanka)

          the memory is
          a labyrinthine maze paved with
          gooey macadam,

          where ghosts prick you with hatpins,
          and bore you with weary tales

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   389
          The New Janitor

          Sweet bump,
          gentle lump;
          I am withered in your sight.
          How will I get to sleep tonight?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          The Pissants of Upchuck Sterility

          'Oh, Muffy...what ever has happened to our lawn? Have you forgotten to water it again,
          Peaches? '
          'Why, whatever do you mean, Thurston? Oh, are you referring to our new man? Isn't
          he adorable? He looks just like scorched, desert earth! '
          'Ah, jolly well done, Pumpkin Tits! Why, I see him now, through the panorama of our
          panoramic picture window. Are you being sure not to violate any of those bothersome
          minimum wage laws, my Dinkum Winkums? '
          'Well, I've given him some bread the cockatoo wouldn't touch. But I thought water
          might be laying it on a bit thick. After all, we musn't spoil them.'
          'Good show, Tomato Twat! After all, what with our (self)         important and demanding
          schedules, we haven't the time to be dealing with the trivia of civil rights and
          morality...not to mention, good taste! Why, I must admit that sometimes I honestly
          gag my self on my own sense of worth.'
          'Oh, Thurston...you HAVE checked our insurance policy, havent you? '
          'But of course, Camel Lips. Slavery is definitely right IN...with a bullet! '
          'Oh my! Slavery? I hadn't considered that before (waves delicate hanky above head) .
          YOO HOO! Senor...Manana, if you mucho, mucho trabajo, you shall receivo DOS
          CENTAVOS, and UNO TACO! Gracias, amigo? Tres bien.'
          (Thurston hugs Muffy before getting ready for yet another very important meeting)
          ...Indeed, Muffy; indeed. Without a doubt, we ARE tres bien...(romantic sigh) ...

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                 391
          the sharpest razor...(haiku)

          the sharpest razor
          cannot separate us from
          our birth or our death

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          The Spectre of the Streets...(tanka)

          The spectre of the
          streets looms again; only, this
          time, sans my pickup,

          all barriers will be down,
          and I'll be eating asphalt.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   393
          The Truth Is All-Important, People Say (sonnet)

          The truth is all-important, people say,
          but, could we really make it through the day
          deprived of all those lies with which we pave
          our roads of good intention? Thus we save

          our progeny from facts that might seem hard;
          we sugarcoat that they remain unmarred
          by acid tests, and let confusion reign,
          rather than deal with disillusion's pain.

          But, soon enough we learn about the crap
          that fills up most of life, but now our laps
          are laden with the weight of future hope:
          another crop of youngling minds to dope.

          And so, we pass the baton on again,
          and feign that we might win this race of men.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          The Wild Pony's Feet...(haiku)

          the wild pony's feet
          carry him no distances
          each step is a place

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          The World...(haiku)

          the world is rolled up
          inside my mouth...too much gum
          to chew...I'm gagging

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Then (to all of them, to all of us)

          Hunched over a table in the corner;
          cold outmeal untouched,
          unnoticed.
          Alone.
          Occasional, hesitant visits-
          a mind of reverie and mist softens the blow.

          An organism in retreat:
          beloved daughter
          mother
          classical pianist of some renown
          obligation

          But, sometimes,
          upon awakening from ever more frequent naps-

          Music!
          Her father's smile.
          A tiny fist, held between thumb and forefinger.
          Acceptance.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          There is a Land Not Far from Where I Dwell (sonnet)

          There is a land not far from where I dwell,
          inhabited by people wise and pure,
          whose thoughts and motives ring like crystal bells
          throughout a realm that's morally secure.

          And, though a scofflaw element persists
          amongst this otherwise most saintly race,
          according to the bolder casuists
          those perps shall suffer for their fall from grace.

          Alas, this fairytale must be debunked;
          the carpet lifted up, and dirt laid bare.
          The truth is that life's just a bunch of junk
          that happens, and a lot of it's unfair.

          Now, close your eyes, forget the things I've said,
          and dream with Cleopatra, 'til you're dead.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                 398
          These Alligator Shoes...(haiku)

          these alligator
          shoes bit off the ends of my
          legs...no more running

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          These Times

          Chained to these times,
          we strain at the yoke;
          a terrible joke.
          A terrible joke.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          This beat Haiku Hack...(haiku)

          this beat haiku hack
          is running nearly empty
          even night needs sleep

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          This Is Just to Say (that William Carlos Williams Is a Fraud)

          I have noticed
          something amiss
          in your bullshit
          minimalist poem

          that reads
          like a note
          on
          the refrigerator

          Forgive me
          but shouldn't it
          have been
          plain old Carlos?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                           402
          This Is Just to Say II (This Time it's Personal)

          What I meant
          to convey in
          my last cheap shot
          was

          that William
          would have
          been
          as good

          Forgive me
          if I
          was
          unclear there (many thanks to E.L.G....can't say I blame you)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                           403
          This Scuff on the Floor...(haiku)

          this scuff on the floor
          looks just like a person's face
          as does my own face

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   404
          This String of Hearts

          This string of hearts,
          built of construction paper and yarn,
          reminds me that sometimes the simplest messages are the clearest ones.
          My children have brought several such projects home from school over the years:
          red
          yellow
          orange-
          never gray.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                             405
          Three Cheers for Mr. Pennypinch

          A tally of assets.
          A listing of debtors.
          Some distant relations.
          A stack of old letters.

          A   tale by a stranger.
          A   verse from a book.
          A   final appraisal.
          A   last, forlorn look.

          No more trials.
          No more taxes.
          The late Mr. Pennypinch
          finally relaxes.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   406
          Three Legged Men

          Three legged man, hobbling down the street.
          Three legged men- everywhere, I meet
          these three legged men, halting towards the goal
          of two legged ambulation; that, in sleep, they might be whole.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                            407
          Time Binders

          Memories:
          Schemers lurking round each corner, poised to spring on a wounded soul.
          Fugitives from time's cremation chamber; echos of the long dead.
          Shadows that hide at noonday's sun wait for the ease that evening brings;
          cast their blighted spectres 'cross a gay heart, sicken a mind with dread.

          Anticipation:
          Inklings of a distant homeland, a time and place where loose ends join;
          like an apparition in the desert, retreating from our need.
          Vitality squandered in haste, rushed headlong into a pipedream.
          Left parched and humbled on untilled hardpan, no grass on which to bleed.

          Man is a creature spread out thin, smeared across either side of now.
          Lost in warped reflection and prophecy- drunk on that heavy wine.
          Where he's been, and where he's going, overrides the moment's rapture.
          Crossing his eyes to see both sides clearly, he seldom toes the line.

          Evolution's curse, it might seem; repercussions of complex thought:
          the fight or flight response of primates, extended into time.
          Half-trained apes, straddling the knife's edge; off balance and always falling
          into the pit, struggling against the quicksand- gods rising from the slime.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                            408
          Time's a Wasting

          The   past is a fiction.
          The   future is a hoax.
          The   present is a comedy where I never get the jokes.
          The   present is a round of golf, and I'm back eleven strokes.

          The cradle is a promise.
          The grave? A false reward.
          Contagion is our legacy; it passes through the cord
          to perforate the ever turning circle of the hoard:
          a wheel on which we spin our lies, to keep from getting bored.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                            409
          To All the Folks Who Wish to Save My Soul (sonnet)

          To all the folks who wish to save my soul,
          I'd like to wish you each the best of luck.
          I truly do appreciate your pluck;
          so, go ahead, present the sacred scrolls

          supposedly dictated to your seers
          by gods or goddesses from heaven's step,
          who whispered inspiration while they slept,
          or maybe after fasting for three years.

          But, don't expect to win me over soon,
          because I've heard it all before, you see.
          What's news to you's probably old by me,
          and to your creeds I'm most likely immune.

          I hope you don't believe my doubt's your fault-
          I take my gospels with a grain of salt.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                410
          To an Aborted Fetus (from castaway)

          Well, I can't say you really missed all that much,
          and you were spared an ungodly amount of grief.
          All in all, I'd have to say you came out on top-
          at least, that is my belief.

          And if, perchance, you survived your mortal state,
          and are sitting on a cloud in heaven, sipping on something cold, with ice,
          then thank your mother that you missed your turn at this dreadful waystation-
          'cause they say it's a real bitch, having to be born twice.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                           411
          To the PH Gang

          So many of my favorites here today:
          Robert, and Ivan, and Mike.
          All of them inspirations to the written word,
          and not one of them alike.

          Here's wishing each of you
          a happy and prosperous new year.
          And a special tip of the hat to Goldy,
          who doesn't seem to be here.
          But her spirit shines though loud and clear.

          Well, enough of this sentimental blather. Maybe I'll duck into forum for a few minutes,
          and watch them skewer each other. hehehe!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                 412
          today...tomorrow...(haiku)

          today...tomorrow
          or a year from now...time means
          nothing to the dead

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Tom

          He's a diabetic, agent orangeated, Vietnam vet,
          and a p.c. Nazi who doesn't want to forget.
          And I bring him chicken:
          because he lends me movies
          and because he's dying
          and because I'm not reprobate yet.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          Transient Transcendence (or, I dream the body eclectic)

          In my dream, we stand naked, facing one another in a train tunnel, the light from each
          end illuminatiing our forms. Our eyes lie slightly askance: for these are the bodies of
          maturity, not of youth. Longing and shame intermingle, motes of contrast suspended in
          the air between us like static Hegelian butterflies awaiting some catalytic overture.
          I am hesitant.
          She is silence.

          Thus we stand and wait, un-wetted by the rain of aeons, only the trestle beneath our
          feet saving us from sinking down into the saturated muck. The noise of bubbling and
          churning echoes through the tunnel; at times, it threatens to deafen me, as the
          substratum of alluvial history is broken, reforms, and breaks again- a wheeling
          carousel of linearity out of control, throwing sparks, boiling my skin. Blisters form
          everywhere.
          Time descends with a paintbrush, teasing out the purulence with a fluttering tongue,
          mixing with clay from my feet to form tempura, then proceeds to decorate my surface
          with hundreds of spreading, delicate scars...I appear to be a faux cracked vase!

          I sense her eyes more directly upon me now. There is curiosity, and kindness, and still,
          the longing. I look more closely, and see my tracery reflected in her own skin, part for
          part- we are shattered bookends.
          I am shame.
          She is silence.

          Then, a sound! Coming from her directon; not from her, but out of the obscure
          distance behind her, emerges a lowpitched thrumming, soon echoed by vibrations
          reachng me through the tracks beneath my feet. I discern instant recognition ih her
          face, and fear. It is only then that I attempt to move towards her, but my legs are
          frozen in place, or leaden.
          I am impotence.
          She is silence.

          Her skin, already pale, begins to take on a new aspect, like the moon hastening from
          the shadow of its eclipse. Soon, she is transluscent, then radiant, and I can barely look
          a her as the bindings of her latticework of scars ignite, burtsting forth upon the air in a
          shower of dancing, joyous sparks. I look down at my arms, and notice that they have
          formed into wings; dark, and lustrous, and powerful. I lift them, reaching forward to
          seize her, folding her irridenscent form into them- untouched by her fire, only warmed.
          Pulling her close in, I kiss her, and together we await the oncoming train...

          SNAP

          I am moving in a loosely knit crowd of people, along an unrecognized road. Slighty
          ahead of me, a somewhat more densely packed contingent of strangers is either
          escorting, or shepherding, a beautiful woman to an, as yet, unknown destination.
          There is something about her; wild, and fundamental. She is like an unbroken horse,
          and at times, she takes that form...only, the eyes never change. And then, those eyes
          become fixed on me, and she moves towards me...

          I am awestruck!
          She is silence.

          As she approaches, her garment changes; dark, and soft, with a hood lined with fur
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                    415
          against the snow. Even her eyes soften somewhat. Without a word, she comes to me,
          insinuating herself beneath my arm, resting her left hand against my chest. We stroll,
          seemingly forgotten by the crowd, and soon, we are alone, strolling through the light
          snowfall. She is first love, and I cannot convey the feeling of joy that flows through me.
          We gently kiss now and again, as we stroll..

          SNAP

          I awaken in my bed, filiments of the dream already flying off in the morning breeze
          coming through my open window. I sit up- groggy, bemused, frustrated- only to
          discover a coin in my left hand, a nail in my right. Gripping the nail, I begin frantically
          scratching at one side of the coin. I quickly wear away the image there, until I'm left
          with a marked up slug; a poorly wrought mirror in which I can barely make out my
          distorted reflection. I continue to wear away at it with my nail, which slips more than
          occasionally, but I pay no heed to the blood pouring from my hands, soaking into the
          sheets and mattress. The urge to eliminate one side of the coin has me trapped in its
          focus like an ant caught under a little boy's magnifying glass, and everything seems
          trivial in comparison. And then, quite suddenly, the coin is gone, and I...

          WAKE UP

          and a wall crumbles between allies.

          (sorry for any coherency problems. I woke up this morning, frantically wrote this down,
          and posted it. not in much of a mood for editing this morning...mm)

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                         416
          Transparent Vestments

          Scandalous serendipity before the altar:
          the priest and the supplicant lock gazes,
          and, for a moment,
          the passion play falters.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          'Twas 1989, As I Recall...(sonnet...Tull Rules!)

          'Twas 1989, as I recall:
          the members were all gathered in the hall
          to recognize the best rock and roll band
          to ever bang a head in all the land.

          The e-string tweakers were out in force that day-
          Metallica, those plug guys, and Jane's A.
          They all believed the time had finally come
          to honor music that was loud AND dumb.

          But, when the ballots finally were announced,
          imagine their chagrin when they were trounced
          by dudes in tights, whose frontman played the flute!
          They raged and whined to've lost to some old coot.

          So, let the tin pretenders moan and mock-
          Sir Aqualung is STILL the king of rock!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                  418
          Twelve Monkeys...(haiku)

          Twelve monkeys huddle
          together against the night...
          but one cannot sleep.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   419
          Ubiquitousness Ad Infinitum

          It's all too much to bear, I fear;
          this tendency of men
          to see the things their fathers do,
          then do them all again.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   420
          Urban Housing Envelopment

          Drywall and plaster,
          hammer and nails:
          building crapshacks to live in
          where the paint always fails,
          and the walls are so thin
          you can hear the rats snoring-
          but, what do you care,
          when you're dry, and it's pouring?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   421
          Verse for a Swollen Headed Poet

          Hey, pal o' mine;
          you're no Einstein,
          and it ain't rocket science-
          just words in a line.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   422
          Void Tanka Train

          What could possibly
          be worse than the emptiness
          that surrounded and

          permeated the
          rudimental void? Godhood.


          Most elemental,
          most dogmatic, most holy,
          most profane, most high,

          lowest, regenerative,
          gangrenous zit on void's puss


          What is rest? Nothing!
          Only movement, ever movement: change
          change change change even

          when you want it to stop! there
          is no movement and no change.


          Void is a cry for
          help echoing down ageless,
          blank arterial

          corridors too massive to
          rule, even with a king's sole.


          Void is everything
          and nothing. i saw a red
          balloon disappear

          into the clouds; I assume
          it kept on going, then...pop!


          How do I stand it?
          Void pulled tight over my face
          like some cellophane

          shroud, coercing my features-
          breathing its conformity.


          Void is steel tempered
          by rust, chafing shackles forged
          in the wildfire that

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          burns endlessly in the heart
          of void; I am grief-stricken!


          What else can I say
          about void? I met him on
          the street once, around

          one in the morning: we talked
          about the weather, I think.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   424
          Vulgarity's Handmaiden

          Ok, I've read enough of your stuff
          to get sort of a handle on where
          you're coming from. I even sat
          down and wrote something so
          clearly reflective of you that God
          Him/Herself reached down and
          smudged it out, lest there be such
          a perfect mirror wrought in Her/His
          world other than by Him/Her.
          There was a little cursing,
          a tear or two; but, overall
           I understood Her/His postion
          concerning the matter.
          So, another approach...

          give hubris a rest, sister;
          you're breaking her back.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   425
          Walking (warning: a rather long poem)

          I like to go walking when I'm feeling blue,
          so I strap on the old boots, and that's what I do-
          past the bitch in the kitchen, and the tots with their toys,
          out the door, down the driveway, and into the noise

          of the streets of the city: all those brothers and sisters
          whose congesting proximity has given me blisters.
          'Round the block, through the traffic, past the beckoning signs,
          'til I run out of pavement-then I'm into the pines

          where, at last, I can feel like my own man again.
          Free to ambulate, wander, meander or wend
          my way aimlessly, treading the un-trodden trail
          of the derelict mystic, through forest and vail.

          Fording streams oh-so-deftly, scaling mountains with ease,
          leaving nary a trace of my course through the trees-
          like a ghost, like a spectre, like a wraith on the wind,
          drawing grace like the newborn who never once sinned.

          Then, in time, when I feel like I've gone far enough,
          on a stump of old timber that isn't too rough,
          I plop down, crack my canteen, belt down a long drink;
          and in that sweet, sacred silence, I let myself think.

          Oh, dear reader, if my tale could only end there
          in that church of the woodland, breathing in that rare air.
          Me talking to God, and God whispering to me
          of the overlooked magic in all that I see.

          And, I have to admit that, sometimes, it's the best!
          I soak up all the good stuff, and forget all the rest:
          all the trials and failures, all the bullshit and pain,
          the nights spent in anguish, the days of black rain.
          All the muck of my cares washing right down the drain.

          But then cometh the rub (and the kick in the ass) ,
          for, the worm offtimes turns (can we all say, 'alas') ?

          What I told from the first, I'll repeat now for you,
          that I like to go walking when I'm feeling blue.
          But the quiet I crave often just makes things worse,
          as the cranial voices begin to converse.

          I can't really call it a glib conversation;
          it's more of a stop-and-go articulation
          invested with orators present and past-
          they all sound like me, but they're not colorfast.

          In fact, they all merge like the waves on the sea,
          and it's hard to distinguish between me...and me!
          Alive in a nutshell, they call for a quorum
www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                              426
          with me in the middle...an unwilling forum.

          And so, it commences- the grim accusations.
          My champions answer with rationalizations.
          Debate rages on in passionate fury;
          and MY role? Prosecution, defense, and grand jury.

          The worst fucking thing about all this confusion
          is that no one ever reaches a damned resolution!
          Cascading perspectives carousel 'round and 'round,
          spinning noise into notions both banal and profound

          and touching on subjects that fall in-between;
          matters running the gamut from Faust, to hygiene!
          But underneath all the madness bides the one common thread-
          'life isn't worth it, and I'd be better off dead'.

          Some people tell me my problems are chemical;
          malnourished neurons fabricating polemical
          puzzles- maybe I should just pop a pill!
          Everything's rosy when you're no longer ill.

          But, then, what would be the need for my walks?
          So, I boycott the Prozac, and let them all talk;
          and, in secret, invite them to talk to me only-
          for, I might be a freak...but, at least, I'm not lonely.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                         427
          Water Puppies

          Broken fluorescent lighting dances on the surface of the YMCA pool,
          as children return briefly to the womb.
          Unnaturally colored float toys bob in unison with wet ponytails tucked underneath
          skinny arms,
          and grins are touched with trepidation whenever feet leave the sanctuary of the
          bottom.

          From behind the glass, I can hear the squeals;
          the splashes that accompany the feeling of freedom from gravity,
          while mothers in loose fitting, one piece bathing suits relive a momentary, vicarious
          flash of youth.
          Their smiles are children's smiles,
          and the lipstick doesn't make any difference at all.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                   428
          Watercooler Wastrels

          'Chatter, chatter.'
          'What's the matter? '
          'Oh! We just noticed
          who got fatter.'

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   429
          We Are Detritus...(double haiku)

          we are detritus
          borne across a sea of blood
          on the stubborn wind

          when at last we reach
          that other shore will the great
          beachcomber rejoice?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




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          We Assess Our Worth...(tanka)

          We assess our worth
          according to the placement
          of a decimal

          point in a string of numbers:
          this funny money business.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   431
          We Implode...(haiku)

          we implode between
          one heartbeat and the next              how
          fragile are god's whims

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive         432
          we make our beds...(haiku)

          we make our beds with
          clean sheets...neat corners pulled tight
          but life is messed up

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive      433
          We Thought We'd Last Forever, Didn't We? (sonnet)

          We thought we'd last forever, didn't we?
          We bragged about our love to all our friends-
          the fairy tale that never, ever ends.
          But then, below our radar, by degree,

          we stopped sitting together on the couch.
          One went to bed, the other stayed up late.
          Our passion turned to boredom, then to hate,
          and, at the last, nothing was left but...ouch!

          But time has passed, and in the aftermath
          we've learned to let things go, and let things be.
          I can't change you, you surely can't change me;
          but we can share a sandwich, hold the wrath.

          My memories of you are good and bad,
          but you're the only wife I ever had.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                434
          What Happens While You Sleep

          'How do I love thee? '
          asked the little bug.
          Then he crawled inside my nostril,
          and gave my brain a hug.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   435
          What's the Difference...(haiku)

          What's the difference
          between the object and the reflection? as hard

          as I look, I cannot seem
          to find the void between them.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive            436
          Where Do They Come From...(haiku)

          where do they come from?
          thoughts buzzing 'round like insects
          the night is pregnant

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   437
          Where is This World of Images I See? (sonnet)

          Where is this world of images I see?
          At first glance, its location seems quite clear-
          nearby, and in such close proximity
          to me that it seems nowhere if not here.

          But then again, there are those stars out there,
          and distances beyond the furthest orb.
          How can such vast expanse exist out where
          my mind can never reach, much less absorb?

          A paradox, I fear, has taken shape:
          am I inside the world, or it in me?
          I only know that there is no escape
          from being who I am, so I must be

          none other than the person that I see,
          reflected in dramatic irony.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive              438
          Where's a Prophet When You Need One? (castaway)

          Curse the One who, in His might,
          supplied me with this aftersight
          that only sees what's gone before,
          and leaves me blind before each door.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive             439
          While Ostensibly Abhoring Craftiness...(tanka)

          While ostensibly
          abhorring craftiness, I
          also recognize

          my astute hypocrisy
          in pulling it off so well.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive            440
          White Noise

          Form in static-
          integrate
          dissipate
          but for supper, don't call me late!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   441
          Wholly Men

          Flying close to the ground and under the radar,
          strayed are the not-sheep, dragging no trails behind them.
          Named saints and heretics by those who can't follow,
          they couldn't swallow the hook, but nibbled at the worm instead;
          in bed with the mother, while the father was at the office.

          Raising Cain for as long as they were able, they crawled beneath the wires like the
          French underground, and what they found was themselves-
          Santa's mutineering little elves taking an unauthorized coffee break.
          The guards raised the alarm (that's what guards do) , but the number was too few to
          be accounted for.
          Pulling their capers, the troublemakers would fade into the printed Vatican wallpaper;
          taking tea with God, and not seeming odd at all.

          Oh, but they were sly;
          they whispered their secret messages to passers by,
          who passed them along-
          at times in song, at times in orgiastic ecstasy lasting the whole night long.
          They were the right hand of Bacchus motioning from behind the curtain,
          somehow certain in their cloud of unknowing, that the fog would one day lift...

          they were our gift.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                                    442
          Why Did the Calico Cross the Road?

          Fly ridden kitten,
          ear to the ground;
          one with the pavement-
          rocking with the sound.

          Listening for the chariot
          to come and take you home,
          away from all this busyness
          of rubber tires, and chrome.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   443
          Why Does a Span of Years Seem Eternal? (sonnet)

          Why does a span of years seem eternal
          to one so evidently chained between
          pillar and post? The minutest kernel
          occupies the greater part of unseen

          volumes opined by the experts, than does
          the measurable distance of one man's
          passage appear when set against what was,
          and what will be- flash in a depthless pan.

          And yet, though almost nothing, we are not;
          and yes, maybe unfathomably more.
          Along time's endless string, perhaps a knot,
          perchance a spool unwinding from before...?

          But don't ask me; I cannot answer you.
          And even if I could...what could you do?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive             444
          why...(haiku)

          why did you think the
          truth would set you free? the chicks
          know the hawk's shadow

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   445
          will the ground...(haiku)

          will the ground recall
          this shadow when the last sun
          has dipped in the west?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   446
          wisdom (haiku)

          wisdom is obscure
          because knowledge is never
          what it seems to be

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   447
          with a thorn...(haiku)

          with a thorn in its
          heart and a fire at its back
          life charges blindly

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   448
          Words are Penises...(haiku)

          words are penises
          ears are vaginas enough
          of this metaphor!

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   449
          You Can Get Those Big Hot Ones For a Couple of Bucks at the Concession
          Stand
          'And he took the blind man by the hand, and led him out of the town; and when he had
          spit on his eyes, and put his hands upon him, he asked him if he saw ought.
          And he looked up, and said, I see men as trees, walking.'

          Mark: 8-23,24

          Jesus spit in my eyes once,
          and now I see people as pretzels;
          all shapes and sizes.
          Curved, twisted, and turned back on themselves,
          always trying to show the side where the least
          amount of salt has been licked off.
          Every once and a while I see one seemingly
          in perfect condition, straight and tall;
          it even has those little curved ends,
          intact, and un-nibbled.
          I'm always suspicious about those sort;
          but, hey! More power to them, I guess.
          When I look in the mirror, I see..
          well, I suppose I won't tell you what I see,
          because that'd be delving into way too much
          psychological self-analysis than this little
          metaphoric ditty was meant to convey.
          The pretzel would 'snap', so to speak.
          Anyhow, I have bigger fish to fry, 'cause
          now I'm wondering, why the hell was
          Jesus spitting at me?

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive                                             450
          'You Ubiquitous Bitch! ' Nietzche Naysaid

          Sounding the shallows,
          fitting sceptres to midgets.
          Mediocrity roars
          while creativity fidgets.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive       451
          Yvonne (short tanka train)

          THESE TANKAS CONCERN
          A GIRL I USED TO WORK WITH
          AT THE RESTAURANT.

          I WROTE THEM LAST YEAR AS PART
          OF A LARGER COLLECTION...


          Yvonne's old man tried
          to kill himself the other
          day. She told me the

          story as she worked, her hands
          deftly folding burritos.


          I gather he was
          upset about his mother's
          death. The doctors say

          it's still touch-and-go. Will his
          daughter ever understand?


          Part of me cares, while
          part of me pretends to care.
          Have you ever read

          the newspaper while having
          sex? It's kind of the same thing.


          Today I'm eating
          liverwurst right out of the
          tube as I'm writing

          about a man's attempted
          suicide. Is that twisted?


          Yvonne left in a
          rush tonight, after a call
          from the hospital

          which everybody agreed
          later could not be good news.


          Why did he do it?
          Why do any of us do
          anything? motives

www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   452
          can only be backtracked so
          far before they fade to gray.


          There are signposts, of
          course; temporal punctuation
          marks which help us make

          sense of this ridiculous
          stream of haphazard events.


          UPDATE:

          YVONNE CAME THROUGH THE
          DRIVETHROUGH LAST NIGHT. I HADN'T
          SEEN HER FOR MONTHS. SHE'S

          MOVING AWAY TO PHOENIX...
          BY THE WAY- THE BOYFRIEND LIVED.

          metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)




www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive   453

								
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