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.

Bark

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.

I Am a Drip

Worthless I, I cry because
no one at all even
worthless you, Mom
loves

me at all
and I would have loved Dad
had you not stabbed him
in the heart, and he
is gone I think, but
I don’t know —
I think we are dead.

Anyone, give me
a magic pebble
I can throw in the pond
where I used to go to pray
to play with a splash on me
who is a fountain who
is an endless cry, and I
can not stop myself from
wanting to drown

She’s an Anecdote for Easter (Cytokine Storm edit)

We watched the screen plays
in the Ides of March’s sins
hydroxychloroquine
and azithromycin

Studying the oracles of science
she embraced a protocol agreed to:
randomized controlled studies

It’s quintessential to have a placebo
hydroxychloroquine not sufficient

Though playful in loving banter
the study’s the thing she said, and
anecdotes make for clingy fools
who fall for miracle stories’ pull

hydroxychloroquine
azithromycin
anecdote doting
a sin

I begged her to take it,
and the plays were the thing, but

the clouds were gathering
the cytokine storm approaching,
a rapprochement for
Didier* and Tony**
not yet

Even though
she was old
and expendable,
I loved her

She’d loved to study
when she was a student
then found her doctorate Zen
randomized controlled studies

She did studies back when
and she was a professor then

But she embraced
the tragedies of protocol,
and Didier was not a saint;
this one neither known for
truffles nor foie gras.

We had gone from
station to station
into a favorite valley of us
where we’d first kissed the day;
Charlie the dog herded sheep for us
and he barked at seeing us play, and
we’d sought redemption thus, but

Macron journeyed to Marseille
to say je ne sais quoi to Raoult, but

She, my love, embraced the protocols
in a randomized controlled study
’cause she’s a professor at heart

we knew cytokine thoughts
were forming beclouded, oui
beyond reproach, yet taught
to put toes in the water

She got a placebo;
she died.

*Didier
Didier Raoult
Saint Didier

**Tony
Dr. Anthony Fauci
American physician and immunologist
director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases

Cytokine Storm

The clouds were gathering
the cytokine storm was approaching
a rapprochement for
Didier and Tony
not yet

Even though
she was old
and expendable,
I loved her

She loved to study
when she was a student

She did studies when
she was a professor

But she embraced
the tragedies of protocol,
and Didier was not a saint;
this one neither known for
truffles nor foie gras.

We had gone from
station to station
into a favorite valley of us
where we first kissed the day,
Charlie the dog herded sheep for us
and he barked at seeing us play, and
we’d sought redemption thus, but

Macron journeyed to Marseille
to say je ne sais quoi to Raoult, but

She, my love, embraced the protocols
in a randomized controlled study
’cause she’s a professor at heart

we knew cytokine thoughts
were forming beclouded, oui
beyond reproach, yet taught
to put toes in the water

She got a placebo;
she died.

Killing Grandpa (2)

Corvidae as the crow flies
it’s a good year to die, ’cause
COVID caw-caw hurrah boo

yea true, my father died at 72 —
a cancer the grim blamed on him
and I at 71 demeaned by life
in Corona, a neighborhood
in Queens, New York

Might say in spirit furor
I’m a beer near Flushing Meadows
of the World’s Fair fame, 1964, though Dad
on Malta had his black market museum:
illegal guns in the ancient Hypogeum,
hiding missiles for dismissal of war

It’s a good year to die an honorable death.
the Grandchildren are nervous, but
I’ve put together some cleanly new
legitimate business for them to inherit.

Yeah, I know they want me dead.
Don’t blame them much…
but for fun I remember how I
let them play in the secret tunnels
yeah

it was exciting for them
to play in my tunnels,
and I let them hide in the
safe room so they could
listen to the oosh bang-bang
and smell the gunpowder,
hear the machine guns, the oofh-ow
swoosh, bat-a-tat-tat, ow-arg-uh, thud
zing, zing, chuh-chuh-chud, and muffled
screams, and it was so good to
smell the barbecue of the foiled.

Yeah, a little lie:
I told them their Grandpa
sold toys, and did laundry.

Yeah, kids, I told them
our crew liked
splashing red paint
on manikins:
it’s a war game, and
we always clean up.

Told them well:
Grandpa hated dirt, but
he made billions of dollars
washing things, and doing demolition.

They loved me, Grandpa, and
since childhood they’d
never officially known I
laundered money and
sold weapons to clandestine
really funny-owned groups

Early they heard fairy tales galore
they were to believe as required
and as they were told about me:
he didn’t like public dirt’s roar
so he washed donor money; yet
he gave their poor children toy guns
to play with, unrestricted for causes

Although they stopped believing in Santa Claus
and the tooth fairy as young adults
they inferred that by consulting
the guns and the washing machines
Grandpa controlled with computers.

I heard that Cousin Joe
called the kids
with great news:

he had shortness of breath and a high fever.
heard the kids all gathered
for his very own sneeze party.

It’s a good year to die, and
I know the kids have
a conspiracy to kill me, but

it’s OK.
I welcome them home
to party close-up with me
because they will give me
an honorable death
with shortness of breath, but
they were the only ones
I truly loved to play with.

Killing Grandpa

Corvidae as the crow flies
it’s a good year to die, ’cause
COVID caw-caw hurrah boo

father died at 72 —
cancer who the grim
blamed on him, though
he suffered.

Might say
I’m 71 from Corona
a county of Queens New York, or
I’m a beer near Flushing Meadows
where they had the World’s Fair, 1964

It’s a good year to die an honorable death.
The Grandchildren are nervous, but
I’ve put together some clean
legitimate businesses for them to inherit.

Yeah, I know they want me dead.
Don’t blame them much…
I remember how I
let them play in the secret tunnels
yeah

it was exciting for them
to play in the tunnels,
and I let them hide in the
safe room so they could
listen to the oosh bang-bang
and smell the gunpowder, the oofh-ow
swoosh, bat-a-tat-tat, ow-arg-uh, thud
zing, zing, chuh-chuh-chud, and muffled
screams, and it was so good to
smell the barbecue of the foiled.

Yeah, a little lie:
I told them their Grandpa
sold toys, and did laundry.

Yeah, kids, I told them
our crew liked
splashing red paint
on manikins:
it’s a war game, and
we always clean up.

Told them:
Grandpa hated dirt, but
he made billion of dollars
washing things, and doing demolition.

They loved Grandpa, and
since childhood they’d
never officially known
I launder money and
sell weapons to clandestine
funny-named groups

Early they heard fairy tales
they were to believe as required:
he didn’t like public dirt
so he washed people’s money
and gave their poor children toy guns
to play with.

Although they stopped believing in Santa Claus
and the tooth fairy as young adults
they knew that
the guns and the washing machines
Grandpa controlled with computers.

I heard that Cousin Joe
called the kids
with great news:

he had shortness of breath and a high fever.
heard the kids all gathered for a sneeze party.

It’s a good year to die, and
I know the kids have
a conspiracy to kill me, but

it’s OK.
I welcome them home
to party close-up with me
because they will give me
an honorable death
with shortness of breath, but
they were the only ones
I truly loved to play with.

Selfie

Because she knows
my arms are shorter than
the river is wide or is
longing in turmoil

she shipped me a selfie stick
across the Amazon divide

but I’d like to decide
we’d race with dueling sticks
at three paces, and run
a hush to photo finish

Flakes in April 2

Many hunt for you to capture.
I hunt for you to love us.

It snows whenever you leave me. With sunshine
you melt me every time you come. You

always leave me
in a storm and in a whisper. I could
know you in the mountains
splash with you the stream, if only
I’d find you swimming free.

Do tears freeze on your face
when leaving for mountain exile?

Next time you come to hide,
let us be rivers and
and meet in the ocean
where there is no snow.