in this vignette, the chaos of my America is beautiful and us ..................I am its characters and plays and I am underneath the poem and in this vignette I get to have sex with the widow of the giant killed by falling off Jack's beanstalk ....................................... in this vignette think big hourglass and take your time ...

Is the world being split 

into American and anti-American camps 

Christians against non-Christians ...?

It is my belief 
that when in 
a compliant 
non questioning society 
commonly held sense 
should not be believed ...

I kept asking that question 
what is it that is beautiful here 
when disproportionate claims 
against the Earth we still make ...

Well I believe you are speaking of the multinationals (Moan-
sans-toes, Oscar Goldman Huns and Sacks and Generally 
Eclectically Sadistic Companies) that are sold disguised or 
branded in America wolf clothing (let's face it, it is an imperial 
label) and it sells abroad ... But the America out there I enjoy 
promoting to the world, with its diverse diaspora of hope still 
held, is craft brewers, marijuana farmers, cheese makers, 
heirloom garden preservationists, forgers of metals, blowers of
glass, seas of teachers and medical professionals wading with a
smile and lamp enough for at least this day, the tea and coffee 
shop artists, the diner swag journey quick angel protection of 
comfort food from desolation ... 

America is the beautiful weight of its people now ... 
For better or worse ... 

the doors here 
always perceive 
those that leave 
to use leverage
and its resultant 
motion-ed analysis ...

fortune doesn't care 
it dares you to stop 
it ...

Or do you think 
the human experiment 
of nation and free will 
eventually tears 
the electrons 
from life's thresh fabric holds ...

what our attractions 
have on perspective 
as factual representation 
no show jobs 
are critical 
in a digital 
war I hear the 
faux am radio sounding 
news reel tight knit drumming 
from the front 
of the rail car 
an odorless robot 
dressed out 
in early seventies 
bus driver ...

Diaspora
Dares you 
Disappear 
under spread joy
stars at night 
some place 
where streetlights
aren't necessary
or best left on 
trying to be 
more humane ...

("That'll be five cents ... "
Said, Lucy Van Pelt .)

she kept me waiting for half an hour or more 
she slow sipped and slurped her soda 
excited hurried eyes darting to me 
on the street whistling cemetery soft shoe 
another last picture show 
jade-y with racy ways 
she makes haste 
seem non-existent 
when I am the one waiting 
wading waiting wading weighted to her 
to something in her she was gonna give me 
something no poem had words for ...

there was this cool stillness 
about her as she seemed 
most to enjoy 
the slow torture 
loving her 
could bring 
a man 
or a woman 
for that matter 
were she the hatter 
that is madder 
than any leopard print 
pill box hat 
or embroidered lion mouthed 
fez could emulate 
when immolation 
took the reins ...

I went the shaving rust 
sharing must haves route 
part of the node follies for sale 
and tapped into coin-fountains ... 

communal thirst 
knows no language 
salt weepers leper wearers 
I've always wanted to stab 
the pretty beasts 
and ugly angels 
in my mirror 
but I, like poem 
have slid inside 
meaning instead 
fed by my own desires 
tongue out flick city urbane 
preferring a rural patina 
to the vagina I seek 
shadows and dew
stone cottage grotesque 
moss old roots 
I set about 
lingering 
at the edges 
of the woods 
with horns 
and still plenty 
to learn 
while eating ... 

the tilt old fencing 
is next in line 
and is demanding 
to be covered 
as it slowly falls  
with each Winter 
to Spring ice 
to rain and 
disregarding 
of things ...

things 
better off 
left unsaid 
beforehand 
and during 
these acts 
of our aging 
and turning 
toward 
how midnight 
held us both 
right here 
where we 
belong ... 

EJR ©