The Loneliest Person on Earth

Read me like
I’m the smile behind the robber’s mask,
who steals sorrow, the Prince
at the masquerade ball who
yearns for the honest girl, Cinderella, and
who is the beast that is redeemed
to save the Beauty that

is an honest child of truth who can sing
as if the rose were the only flower of nature, and

the Great Horned Owl did not break
the spine of a fox with its talons and eat it.

I would stop cruel Nature and
find you who reaches out
to be a Princess from a Kingdom where

I will have sanctuary if
you can find me where I
live in space alone with deep cravings.

How’s Everyone Doing?

To do or to dew?
That is the questionable.

I’m not doing anyone at this moment in thyme.
There is thyme for oregano and time for love,
only heaven knows when
the day is like a cheery cherry, covered in
elegant chocolate that feeds
the taste buds of do’s and don’t’s
that toot a horn that calls out “do” for
fools and others who wait for
anything that is not done for.

Forlorn to do, forlorn to not, for
she is gone like a cherry pie
stolen in the night with
only the pie pan playing like a tambourine.

Wow Babe

Turning around
you’re looking at me yeah

Turning around
I love you

Smiling yeah,
I see you

Oh you’re looking

Ha, I know it
turning around you love me

Shout shout
I’ve got no doubt

Dance babe
hey yeah oh

Hay yeah baby cute love
turning around I love you

Hey yeah I see you
Hey yeah you forgive me

Got you to laugh again —
I love you.

hey hey hey hey


Unknowns smashed into
the little old lady’s
Goode Notion Shoppe

Her old dog deftly
bit vandals well, teeth
into the foe fight, so
they left

she stayed overnight
pleased to rest a while,
thought they’d be back

She had a glass of wine
tapped her cane 13 times
and counted life in dog years.

In the morning
the dog howled, though
later the coroner came to see.

They were curled up
passing away in dog years
and the little Shoppe closed.

Mother Charlotte’s Poison Pen to her Daughter

Dear Daughter,
You got shoes and jewels
for what?

I told your idiot Father
not to let you
go to radical college
to major in
socialism and boyfriends

You’re not liberating:
you’re looting.

Your brother is
dead in Afghanistan. Suppose
he’d want you to have
well heeled shoes to walk in.

Why don’t you
steal something for me —

Yes, please,
go anarchy shopping
at the liquor store

Darling daughter,
why don’t you
rip out my liver, and
fry it in onions with
liberation olive oil

Your idiot Father
let me open my Boutique
and now your comrades
have burnt it to the ground

I’m glad for you
that your professor
gave you an A+ grade

Onward to paradise,
and take my heart.