Maxim Poem: When in Rome (...)

when in Rome…

do as the                                                                        

Romans do? do

indeed, invest the time in

debauchery! decadence shall

reign with overflowing

excess, indeed---

incoherency? Yes! Yes

please! indeed! with

glittergold nipples on

top spraying seeds of

grape through the

gold god stuck in---

limbo. between good and

better! eat the

meat! tear into

the hare! suck

the duck down to

its last---

fuck the

girl, the

boy! Or both Or

twice! Or the

man with the slithering

tongue with scratches down---

the slender curve, sliding into

the worship room, worship the

party thrower, gayest gal, the

beatific bombshell, the

frisky frolicsome Ram of

Rome---

Surely, this makes one

happy? Yes! Yes! Yes?

indeed! razor-sliced

emotions, forgotten eves, plump with

pestilence, rotten to the

inner core with bubbling blisters---

but do, do as the

Romans do. Enjoy! Enjoy

the vibrancy, the views, the

harpy happy melodies! the

harmonies, the arts, the

affluence, the architecture---

pose! model-like for

Michelangelo—be a

Pope popper! slip

swan-like in the

Sistine! feast with the

fatties---

race with the robust

Stallions! be

intrigued! relish the

atmosphere! passion in

the air! party play with the

thespian, the musician, the persona---

of the Roman. So do, do

as the Romans do

who cares if

coherency never

knocks—open the

gate—jump into---

the Tiber! squirting, sporting, and

sprouting Roman

horns! splash in the

Sea! the Sea swarming with

silly sinners who

gobble the guts! prance—

periodically past

the Colosseum, the

Vatican! guzzle each

gulp of the goblet’s

last drop until

you--YES YOU--do as the Romans do!

Photograph Poem: FairyLand

❤FairyLand❤

One will see Neverland over the horizon! Remember to be watchful and very wary of Pirates, Indians, and Crocodiles!

Behind the blue-violet

turf! What must it be? What

exists beyond the tall turquoise 

spheres? Why, wee little

fairies! Who hop, pop, and

romp ‘round the

ordinary observer who

only beholds his garden-variety

world. No

imagination! Only

rationalization! Developed,

Ripe! Mature with

Age! But----

to the Believer, to the

Dreamer, the one who

will imagine, create his own

air castles, he who

perceives the magical realm, the

enchanting Land of 

Fairies! Oh! Oh

Yes! The kingdom of 

sparkling sprites, perky pixies, and 

intriguing imps! The domain of 

beings that shun malice and 

gloom! Who exist to be

happy!

To make little

happies here, there, and every

little where! upon this 

apple orchard! on this

elephant ear! on this

blooming daffodil! these 

lovely beings love

bestowing gifts of 

merriment! mirth! nonsense! and 

cheer! To every tiny tot, to

 every Believer this 

daydream, this figment of 

fantasy, Exists---

The Daydreamer observes

the chubby, the 

lanky, the ebony, the

ivory beings who 

mix colors and create a

chirpy coexistence! He 

who looks to his 

right, gawks at the

golden glittered wings sprouting of

sunshine, which 

seep through the

dreary day, the 

Dark Reality! 

Queen Fairy flies

upon her 

domestic dove, overseeing

her minions! She

chirps to “Play a 

prank on Peter! Warble a

lovely lullaby to 

Lucy! And remember that

nine hundred ninety-three 

new Nymphs will 

arrive today! Give

thanks to the 

Babyborn Giggles!”

The whimsical Beholder 

senses the 

frolicking fairies, sparkling in 

the Sun’s shine, hiding upon

hearing pitter patters, 

footsteps! remaining 

unnoticed by 

the Commoner, the 

Grown-up. Hidden 

among the hills, along 

the Childlike, the 

Pure 

terrain!

FairyLand:

where the

honeycream glow 

glimmers, where

happiness lies in 

the Imagination!

Bear in mind! Consider

that to exist in a

dreamlike Utopia, one

only needs to

Believe, to

Dream, to 

Imagine---

And you, too 

might

witness, might

envision the 

Land of the 

Fairies. 

For the

Dreamers, the 

Conjures of 

faraway 

Castles, Lands, and

magical Spheres, recollect

the Queen’s Directions:

Two steps past 

the sapphirelavender

grass, three

hops on

the right, one 

leap to 

the 

left! Gather the

Pixie Dust under 

the Garden Gnome! 

Think

Happy Thoughts and

Believe!

This poem was based upon a picture I took at the Chihuly exhibit in Nashville, Tennessee. 

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=585269433728&set=a.585268799998.2119673.52703531&theater

Persona Poem: Savior

Savior

i Promise, i’m better. i’m fixed, mom. really

i’m complete. i don’t give a shit about

it anymore. i’m Saved. the lord, he helped, helped me to

find my way. i hated myself. you. dad. laura. but

i forgive you. I forgive you, dad, and the assholes who

gave me that shit. i forgive you for

giving me money to blow, all the cars, and for

indulgin’ in whatever i wanted. I forgive you.

i’m completely better. i Swear. just because i’m back in

asheville doesn’t mean that i’ll go back to

snortin’ or stealin’ again. god helped Me. he

saved Me. teen challenge really worked. it did, i

Promise. i won’t ever go back to where i was. ever.

through prayer, my forgiveness, and my family, i’ll

make it. i will. god is in my soul. he’s in my

spirit. he’s in my life. i feel his power. his love. I Promise. but

i’m dying for a smoke. just one cigarette. ya know, they never

let me have one smoke. not one. i really

need one. just one smoke, mom. a cigrette has nothin’ to

do with drugs. it’s legal. it’s fine. i just really need one.

i really need a smoke, mom. really. i do. can I borrow

some money? just to buy a pack of smokes. can i take the car? just

once. It’s not a big deal, mom. it’s a pack of

fuckin’ cigrettes. just let me borrow the car. please. I’m

twenty-six years old. i can make my own fuckin’

decisions. remember, mom. god is with me. he won’t let

anything happen. i really need some smokes. i know i haven’t

smoked in thirteen months. I fuckin’ know this. that’s

why i need one. puhleaze? remember, i’m fixed. I don’t need it

anymore. i’ll be back in fifteen minutes. just fifteen minutes, mom.

with “time” on the radio, the windows rolled

down. The gas station was in sight. five minutes from

home. lounged back in the hot leather seats, Palace Place flies

by the passenger side window. a notable beat up

ford taurus sits in the parking lot. in the cracked cement

spot. waiting. watching. waiting for the borrowed car to

arrive. to pull up. to park in the empty space, waiting for

the borrowed car to sit in its fated destination. the borrowed car

arrives in its former spot. one time won’t hurt. one line won’t

hurt me. god will save Me. one little white line. checkin’

the glove compartment. secret stash? two twenties located. in case of an

emergency. well, this is kinda of an emergency. no harm in takin’ it. she won’t

miss it. it’s an emergency situation. just this once. I need

it. the borrowed car door slams. softly. almost

silently. sneaking. shadow-like to the broken door frame. 

 the sky shines behind the borrowed car driver’s back. The gilded sphere smiles at

the bleak building when the loud knock interrupts the

Sun’s smirk. the gray paint crumbles upon the

fresh leather shoes as the owner of the room meets the leathershoe-tapper at his

door. a snaggle-toothed forty-one year old answers the

tap. grinning, he welcomes his long lost pal in

the room. the one room square. filled with a

rotting stench. with cascading cans, apple carcasses, and

sparse but scattered soiled furniture decorate the swinish

dwelling. “long time, no see, buddy.” yeah, i’ve

been outta town. but, I’m back. was gonna see how ya were. “alright, kid, I’m

good, been good. You got any cash on ya?” yeah, a little bit. “well, welcome back to

fairyland, brotha. i think i got exactly whacha ya need.”

the gray door closes behind the borrowed sedan and the ford taurus. both, sitting

in the shine of the Sun. waiting. waiting for the leathershoe-tapper. waiting for

the savior that never comes. waiting for the

Park Place guest that departs too late. the Sun already said his

“goodbye.” the borrowed sedan lingers. loitering within its space. waiting. waiting

the borrowed sedan hears the leather taps of footsteps. swayin’ along the

cracked surface. the borrowed sedan hears his owner’s son slump into 

his seat. sitting, slumpin’, slurrin’. slurrin’ something. the borrowed sedan

staggers home in the moonlight. without a twinkle of a star. without the

Sun shining. without a glimmer. without arriving in its spot in the McAlister’s garage until

well over the Promised fifteen minutes. the borrowed sedan lurches

into its hole. in the shadows. in the pitch-black eve, it withdraws.