Half Way



, , ,

Through cresting seas and stinging bees,

Dew splashes and honey drips.

Through expansive gaps and ticking laps,

Pillars meet and time sleeps.

Through prickly thorns and muscles torn,

Flowers bloom a heart’s lorn.

Through slicing tongues and warring mums,

Deeds heal at that spot, right there, half way between.


Blanket in Tow




A dream, a night, some dreadful fright.

Standing nigh, by your bed I cry.

Could I, would I, sleep with you?

By the bed, on the floor, pretty please?

Blanket in tow, just in case… touch my face?

Some comfort, some peace, some restful sleep.

Thank you, dear Mother, I’ll be alright.

A dream, a night, some dreadful fright.

To your bed I come, standing by.

Could you, would you, ache no more?

By the bed, on the floor, I’ll be so near.

Blanket in tow, just in case… touch your face.

Some comfort, some peace, the longest sleep.

Rest now, dear Mother, you’ll be alright.

Swing in swings



, , ,

I know this girl, more of a woman, really a Queen.

She sure does, sure knows, sure is the cat’s meow.

She butters my bread, and checks my oil.

Bakes my cake, and stirs my coffee.

Blows my mind, and peaks my interest.

Bats my balls, and rakes my leaves.

She’s the Y in my days, the X in my rays.

The ba in my nana, the P in my atty.

The key in my stroke, the yoke in my eggs.

The spit in my wad, the sun in my shine.

She’s the in in my spiration, the or in my gasm.

The spoke in my wheel, the ice in my cycle.

The squirt in my lemon, the icing on my cake.

The crayon in my hand, the color in my oils.

The key on my ring, the voice of my muse.

She’s the one to my way, the co to my sign.

The straight in my line, the tooth in my brush.

The peg in my board, the ink on my pen.

The orange to my crush, the moon to my shine.

She shovels my snow, and spins my top.

Cracks my whip, chokes my chain.

Spoons my sugar, forks my meat.

She’s the D to my oll, the cool on the pillow.

The goose to my bumps, the peak to my valleys.

The white in my light, the wet to my rain.

The ying to my yang, the note when I sang.

The tip to my toes, the tap to my dance.

The string in my yo-yo, the stir in my bowl.

This girl I know, she’s all that and more,

The big in my toe, the shot to my go.

A Queen to the crown, the white shine to the gown.

Sensual Six



, , , , ,

My trusted eyes, they could not see.

A vision of blackness beckoning free.

Of shapes and shade, there must not be.

Oh’ what is this, that which sent you me?

My trusted lips, they could not taste.

A lick, a drip, a lustful wanton chaste.

Of vital nectar, and endless droplets cased.

Suckling, licking, kissing, centered to your waist.

Of your scent, a rising mist, olfactory numb.

Calling, teasing, luring, led, a smitten dumb.

Oh’ drowning sweet, lingering must, wafting cum.

Of your smell, your draw, dancing aroma from…

My trusted skin, it could not feel.

Your nails, and hair, and fingers long steal.

Oh’ to be caught, reeled, lipped to the creel.

Of your touch, I’d dance, jump, run down Beal.

Mine trusted ears, they could not hear.

Your calling, your whisper, your chanting near.

“Oh’ come to me, lay with me, be still with me dear.”

Of your voice, the softest call, with my breathing clear.

And yet one more, the sixth, I knew not, trusted not.

To be sure, led not astray, the heart of hearts be caught.

Oh’ to know, to be led, connect, blend. Oh’ to be wrought.

Of the blind that see, the mute that speak, of the deaf, and

the lame, and the lost, you give the surest sense, taught.




, , , , , , ,

To each their own, to each their drum.

The parts and pieces total the sum.

Of war and strife, the world’s dead numb.

Come oh’ ye Queen, mother, lover, teacher.

To each their thrown, to each their crown.

Toil and work, give and take, take, take.

By force, by will, fight, steal, rule, preach.

Come oh’ ye King, father, fucker, flunky.

The each now, peace. To each, love.

Rest, eat, drink of her fountain, breath…

By love and peace, by care of mind and heart.

Come oh’ ye Queen, lover, lover, lover.

Sew it Seams, Craft is King



, , , , , , , , , ,










New is new, old is new? New is old?

So it seems, seams to sew.

The thread, the link, the bond to last.

Weak fabric, weak leather, strong thread.

New and strong, joined fresh, strong bond.

Laid out, patterned, designed, master’s eye.

Perfect lines, perfect form, art in motion.

Tanned and dyed, sure to give way, time’s test.

Top-stitch, bobbin, needles poke and drive.

Over and under, through and through, strong!

It’s the stitch that holds, tearing not, once sewn.

Fabric rips, leather wears, hides burn and shred.

It’s the stitch that holds, tearing not, ever soughed.






, , ,

Right after the shivering bark, the crackling twigs,

and the layering soggy leaves, Nanook softly whispers.

When the bear sleeps, after the rut, long before

fluffy bunnies and the orange breasts return, cold comes.

What was dead and brown, rustling and frantic,

Is now quiet, buried snug, tucked in, covered in white.




, , ,

To the left and to the right, front and back,

up and down, shallow and high they fly.

Simple and cursed, wanderings all true.

A blink, a notion, a tease, a wanton thought.

In a house or with a mouse, a light or a fright,

a tinker here, a twitter there, an idea’s born.

Now what? Nurture or nature? To live or die?

To the front, a priority, a mission, a dream?

To the heap, a dread, idle mental chatter?

Which is which, what is true, a worthy aim?

And yet another, and one, two, three more now!

Could it, will it, should it all stop on a dime?

Or a nap, or a lust, or a simple comfort?

Come one, come all, form a line left and right.

Order now, chao’s toll, each to their own in due time.




, , ,

And from the start, there they were, perfectly matched.

One, with its hard head and tight rigid body,

the other, with its smooth spots, swinging or laying.

Pointed is the one, driving deep, holding fast.

Hardened the other, tested, tried, and worn.

To the shed they go, or to the shop, or a wooden bed.

Matched, perched, waiting the Master’s hand.

The other, with her spread legs and tight v-shape,

slides around the wanton head of the one, joined.

To exit, she must leverage her mighty force.

His entry, again, a fierce and trusting union, was her aim.

Slender and long, he remained for all time, until today.

Gripped, she slid him out, only to drive him in once more.

The one, and the other, are perfectly matched.

Onward, Upward, Northward



, , ,

That southern scent stiffened still.

A leaf, I leave, yet arrive once more.

To her calling I submit, oh Superior!

The rock it talks, the waves burgeon.

The ripple and vibe, sounding long,

In her arms and pines, I do here belong.

A voice of the voice, the Master’s pen,

To hear, and learn, to write once more.



We’re all there, right where you are… in this day. With all life’s tasks, joys, gifts, and burdens. Often there’s only a whisper of peace in the chaos, but there is peace nonetheless.

What I wouldn’t give to trade places for just one day, almost anyone would work. They can have my stack of bills, and my schedule, and my past, and my pain. They can take those phone calls, and talk with my flunking child’s school, and take my visitor’s badge at the prison. Whatever problems they have, they can’t be worse than mine!

Simply ask around, who wouldn’t want to trade places with someone else? How would you decide who to trade with? I asked my friend Tommy, he said anyone would work, a trade lottery of sorts. That might work well, random trading, I get your life and you get mine, just for today. All the bad, and all the good.

Tommy mentioned he always wanted to ride a bull, and drive NASCAR, or tour around in the late sixties listening to the rock of the ages, dreams of dreams as he and his wife fight to feed and cloth three baby girls. Between his wife’s twelve-hour nursing shifts, and his spotty union operator trade. On this cold February morning, Tommy would trade with just about anyone, just for today. He loves his girls, all four of them. He loves his friends, and his mother-in-law who helps watch the girls while his wife’s at work. He fought cancer ten years ago, when he was single, without a care in the world. He was free to live, or free to die, and accepting of either.

Today it seems, he’d be willing to trade his day for yours, whatever your day looks like… so, you up for it? Not a single care you have right now will exist, none of your worries, none of your fears. Just for today. Of course you would, who wouldn’t? One little catch, you may feel a sharp little prick in your arm. You’ll be comfortable though, music, movies, just sit back in your lounge chair and relax. Take in the sight of the lake out the window, littered with ducks and diving eagles. Relax and take a nap, read a book. You don’t have to work today, the kids are taken care of, a good friend will be with you to laugh. Yes, with all your worries, and all life’s trouble, just for today you can forget it all and have a nice relaxing day at the cancer spa.

I think I’ll keep my problems, just for today! I love you Tommy, and I’ll be here for you til the end.

Your best friend,





, , , , , ,

Life’s game is not really won in the daily struggles, or in how we deal with conflict, or good news, or bad news.  It’s not lost through our shortcomings, indifference, and lack of willingness, or in being wrong.  Life’s game, our quest for peace and serenity in each moment, every day, every relationship, and in each new challenge is won in the preparation.  Am I going to learn today that which will allow me to live at peace tomorrow?  What’s this lesson in front of me?  Who are my teachers?  Most importantly, did I learn the last lesson so I might learn this new one?

The examples are many, those things in life which I was not prepared for.  Surely, I was given the time and sufficient notice to learn that which I needed to know.  Surely, I skipped the prior lesson, didn’t put in the work, or didn’t know class had started?  Isn’t there always a bell?   Have I lived as though this life’s a dress rehearsal for the real one?  Do I dismiss, judge, and condemn my teachers for their humanity?  Are those teachers picking on me, annoy me, lying to me, cheating on me, or talk down to me?  Have I learned that those teachers are the ones I love the most when I stop fighting myself and the lesson?

Have I made myself ready to receive God’s greatest gifts?  If not, can I open my ears and my heart today so I might learn and stop fighting?  What does it mean to be ready? Do I think I know what God’s plan is for me?  Why do I think I know what’s best for me?  Some of the worst things turn out wonderfully, and some great things turn out horribly.

As I’ve asked these and a thousand other questions during the fall of 2012, during the biggest struggles of my life, I’m faced with my liabilities of learning.  The fact that I was not ready for God’s greatest human connection, the fact that fear continues to influence my honesty, the fact that I’m a scared little boy sometimes.  My preparation was not thorough.  I was not ready to receive.  I was not fully ready to learn, love, accept, or give.

There are plenty of examples in my life.  The current ones loom large in God’s plan.  I was not prepared to accept my perfect mate, my perfect love.  I have not been prepared to write the book I’m currently working on.  I have not been prepared, nor has he, for Tommy’s second round of cancer.  I have not been prepared to support my sons, and live life as I once did.

God willing, with every turn, and every leaf, and every penny… I know I’m prepared for today because my ears and my heart are open and God’s lighting the way.  I’m willing to commit, I’m willing to be purely honest, I’m willing to clean up the past, I’m willing to be still.  I am ready for life, love, and the greatest joys which God presents to me.

Thank God!

Major Break… The Book Calls!



, , , , ,

Fellow bloggers, friends, and dreamers,

I trust you’re riding the cloud to your dreams and nothing will ever stop you, even death. I’m taking an official break from blogging poems, essays, and what tickles my fancy for a specific purpose, writing the first book about my Great Pyramid research, Mount Giza-The Shaft Build, and its implications which promise to rewrite the whole of modern Man’s history.

I’ll post any additional media about the project when it becomes available. There will likely be a photo and text blog as my travels will take me to D.C., Giza, and points beyond.

The simplest way to stay informed, be inspired, and get involved is through twitter and Facebook on the left column, or our quarterly newsletter at www.mountgiza.com.


Hemi, (D.A.), (Dave), (Me), (Imeh)

Romney Throws in the Towel!



, , , , , , ,

“It’s official, SEX has won in Mankind’s greatest battle. With 3.1B website references SEX had defeated GOD, coming in a distant second with 1.8B website references. OBAMA makes a respectable showing with 806M… which just goes to show you, no matter how deceived we may be, our most shared and common interest is a good orgasm, forever ensuring harmony and world peace, here and hereafter! Upon this sound research, and with an eye toward the economy of our great nation I suggest, with only 303M website references, ROMNEY gets the towel.” That Guy.

My Gal



Has love in her heart for most everyone.

Cares deeply for me.

Is a better woman because of me.

Tells me her deepest thoughts and fears.

Wouldn’t betray us for anyone.

Loves when people compliment me.

Lets me open doors for her.

Picks me up when I am down.

Doesn’t threaten to walk out on me.

Keeps her deep thoughts for me.

Dreams about our life together.

Fishes with me, whether we catch fish or not.

Reads to me.

Shares with me.

Tells me when she is hurt or mad with me.

Admits when she is wrong and changes it.

Loves to see me smile because it makes her happy.

Makes time for me cause she knows I need it.

Rubs my back every time I need it.

Whispers in my ear and on my nape.

Doesn’t ask me to read her mind.

Compliments my thoughts.

Walks with me not behind or ahead.

Wouldn’t risk losing me.

Let’s me put a ring on her finger.

Trusts me.

Holds me.

Hugs me.

Loves me best.

Wants to share her world with me.

Puts God first and me second.

Would call me so we can begin the healing.

***Plagiarized, stolen, borrowed, or just plain copied (with a few changes) from pattyrob96.wordpress.com.

Dear Father




This I pray, if today’s the last day.

Sway not your grace, eternal love.

Know my peace, surrender to you.

Let me be a channel, your shining light.

Hurt not your loving children, be kind.

Grant my dreams, your greatest gift.

Heal my heart, show your deepest love.

Spare my mind, your oldest gift.

Spare my body, the ills of comfort.

Spare my soul, burdens undone.

Twenty three years and counting.



My Meuse, Written 4/11/11



  • I remember a day, quite a special day indeed. The air was crisp and the night was dark, Orion peeked over my shoulder and the warmest touch greeted by hand, time and the stars stood still.
  • She stopped my eyes and my heart every time I saw her. Afraid she’d look right through me and know my soul’s truth, I couldn’t look her in the eye the prior year, but now my light touch grazed her arm and the story was written, it was a fairy-tale.
  • All I ever wanted was to be loved and understood, that’s not an easy task given who I am and how I think and what I demand. I’ve known loss and pain and conflict galore, peace was my only yearning I could no longer fight. She knew my mind. She made me want to be a great man, a better man, a real man. She stimulated all of me. Once again I knew love.
  • Her story and her struggles and her pain understood me and loved me. Her gifts fired mine and her thoughts drew me in and her arm lit my life a blaze from that first touch. I walked slow and drank lots of water. I was part of a whole, a partner and a friend, a lover and a learner, a teacher and a listener, a dreamer and a poet, a writer and a joyful half of God’s blissful union. I was me and free and she kissed me.
  • Goodbye my love, may God bless us both.

Long Hard Winter



, , , , , ,

Dreary dark snow on the last day of winter.

Storm after storm, wreckage upon wreckage.

The big ones and the little ones, all icy cold.

All is dead that once lived, the darkest dawn.

And then a single ray, one glimpse forward.

Winter is gone, this is the first day of spring.

The flowers bud, the birds are on their way.

Know the truth, see the sun, feel the heat.

The earth has spun, the warm has turned.

It’s a new day, a new dawn, life is ahead.

The long days, and longer nights are here.

Spring wetness, rainbows and fawns, glory all.

Thank God for winter storms, they bring spring!

I Wish I had the Blues



, , , , , ,

Oh, I hear folks say, tomorrow’s another day,

Simple pleasures and simple tastes,

Simple comforts fade away,

Lord, I sure wish I had a clue.

Oh, I hear folks say, tickin’ time heals all,

Wasted nights and drunken days,

Sunken ships stand tall,

Lord, I sure wish I knew what’s true.

Empty smiles, and shifty eyes,

Hidden bottles, and morning shakes,

Absent gods, and blurry dreams,

Rocky streams, and seedy scenes.

Lord, I sure wish I had the blues.

Empty smiles, and shifty eyes,

Hidden bottles, and morning shakes,

Absent gods, and blurry dreams,

Rocky streams, and seedy scenes,

Lord, I sure wish, oh, I sure wish,

Lord, I sure wish I had the blues.

Oh, I hear folks pray, all their troubles wash away,

Simple pleasures and simple tastes,

Simple comforts fade away,

Lord, I sure wish I knew what to do.

Oh, I hear some say, tomorrow’s another day,

A simple rope, and simple chair,

My scribbled note the final play,

God, I sure wish I had the blues.

A Simple rope, and simple chair,

My simple life rocks and sways,

God, I sure wish I had the blues.

Lord, I’m sure glad you have the blues.

Drunken Palette Pleas



, , , , , , , , , ,

Oh’ how long it’s been, a little sip, tease, or gulp please?

My core is dry, no drenching rain or tossing majestic sea.

No dusty bark, rich wheat or spotted fawn, all gone.

Bring sunshine, spraying waves, and blasting pigment.

Bold brick, smitten smoke, dancing dirt, or pious pea?

All these bring unto me, blended, smooth, rich, and wet.

Shimmering, shuddering, dabbed, and stroked, ever pure.

The cool ice, furious flux, darkest dark, or lightest light?

Won’t you try? Just this once? It’s alright… don’t cry.

Live a little, dream a bit, toward that cloth blow a kiss?

Free the bee, create the cloud, dance with dawn, live!

Mix the muse, thinner now, there you go feel the flow.

Pick em’ up, dry em’ off, careful now… that’s it, yes!

Cover me, just one squeeze, one last drink… please?

My first landscape… stick to writing!

You Must Tell Me



, , , , , , ,

Who was God before writing?

Where do old baseballs go?

What makes death frightening?

What’s it like to be free?

Why are we slaves to image?

What’s it like to be blind and deaf?

What are the joys of poverty?

How does it feel to kill another?

Can we not just love each other?

How do you make rope?

Who cares for the butterfly?

Why does black licorice taste bad?

What’s it like to play the piano?

Why don’t we live in earthen caves?

How fast is fast enough?

What is a conversation?

How do we connect with others?

What’s to learn from devolution?

Is God the same after writing?

Where do old baseballs go?

Here Kitty-Kitty



, , , , , ,

I guess it was the warmth, or maybe the food.

Perhaps predation, or maybe useless doors.

Whatever the cause, little fuzzy came in to stay.

Big ones, little ones, short hair, long hair, no hair.

The purring, and snuggling, and scratching in heat.

Who doesn’t love the little kitties, fancy, free, fun?

The way they clean, and lick, chase, pounce, play?

Never was there a reason, nor excuse to hurt a kitty.

Logical, and sufficient cause for domesticating dogs… .

Animals Belong Outside!




, , ,

Tell the tale, settle the score,

Jesus don’t want me anymore.

This waking fright, seize the night,

Jesus don’t love me anymore.

That subtle numb, a better high,

Mary won’t fuck me anymore.

Swinging roots, sharper lights,

Daddy won’t save me anymore.

Say hello, embrace my wicked soul,

My image won’t please me anymore.

The well is dry, it’s time to cry,

Shower your tears, oh’ just once more.

Mirrors lay, here to stay, spitting bit’s nay,

I just don’t trust me anymore.

The Rooms



, , , ,

The glossy black vinyl holds a thousand stories.

Every chair, plot and home to many a lost sot.

DT Timmy, Trailer Park Kathy, Easy Eddie, Captain

Apathy, and The Dusty Elders, eery voices now gone.

From barren lots come many a troubled tot,

Single file they march, ever boiled in life’s black pot.

To Do, or Not to Do?



, , , ,

Here it is, the day you’ve been waiting for.

There’s certainly no accounting for taste.

Cereal or eggs, milk or juice, toast, fruit?

There’s so much to do, so many choices.

A morning nap perhaps, a return to bliss?

A second pot of life’s black fuel, a third?

Should you shave, bathe, exercise, write?

Maybe paint, or help your friend, museum?

Does it really matter? It’s just another day.

Do or not, live or not, pick your forked path.

Explore a little, take both.

A Rose Arose




Peter piper, and cool hand Luke,

not just another Father of rhymes.

Pick a patch of pickled peppers,

and spray your sexy sister Sun.

It’s a mote point, shallow diction fiction.

Gay plumbers wrench, their crack’s piped.

Boarders and smoker’s share the other half.

In the tense, that’s it, native language lives.

Old grey Maters, milky mammary mammals.

Choose your choices, loosen your voices and write.

A rose has no less arose from your thorns.

The Zipper



, , , , ,

It stood out from the parking lot,

Standing tall, hiding the thrill, spinning.

A short line just left, you’re up next.

Ticket in hand, fear in your stomach.

There it is, you’re about to climb on.

Take your place, step inside, hold on.

Ever careful, slowly it starts, nauseous.

It’s damp inside, musty, and hot.

Use both hands, knees clinched, wait.

There you are, the two of you, tumbling.

Now you know what’s behind the zipper.


No Gnews is Good Gnews



, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

As Gary Gnu would most certainly agree, there’s nothing new in the news. In fact, there’s no news at all when it comes to politics, crime, poverty, war, and the state of all nations. It’s all been done before, and done, and done again and again, and if we wait patiently it will all repeat shortly. There’s simply no reason to pay attention to all the media hot air unless you’re a simple-minded acolyte hinged on the false choice of the day. Not so damaging, if it were only that simple. It appears there’s a much more sinister plot at work in the “if it bleeds, it leads,” broadcast philosophy, just follow the money…

What’s the end result of all the threats to our personal security? To what affect is the latest race, or crime stat, or global climate catastrophe? Just how influential is the next terrorist plot, or the unemployment numbers, or internet scam, or political scandal, or dead baby story?

A quick aside… one might think there are only two ways in which to govern a society, the only two “they” present, or that your children will undoubtedly be better off than you are if only you try really, really hard, or that your home should always increase in value, or that you should lock your doors, or that you should medicate yourself into numbness like your neighbor, adding that little pill now and then that keeps you erect. Heaven knows this is what we all need, a three-hour erection!

Pay your taxes, call your Mother on Sundays, work hard, vote, and bend over while the media and government plow your tight ass with another commercial promising instant material security and happiness in the land of the free and home of the brave. Acolytes unite! Your promise land is upon you! Ascend to the throne! Stuff your fat fucking face with one more snack, as you gag on the endless media cock you’re trained to crave. Yes I said trained!

This brings me to the sinister plot… why o’ why should anyone feel insecure, feel any need to horde, or buy, or spend, or chase the ever illusive material and emotional security? Why o’ why do we lock our doors? Why o’ why does consumer spending account for the greatest portion of our GDP? Why o’ why do we need one more fucking phone to talk with one more empty soul? The answer’s pretty simple, we’ve been conditioned into material and emotional dysfunction, we must buy and eat and steal and fuck and crave more of everything to satisfy the deep and lasting insecurity fostered by all that negativity and fear and loathing and murder and chaos and endless fucking news! If it bleeds, it leads… and if you watch, you will buy, and buy, and buy!

So, in conclusion… the media sells air time for a profit to the advertisers who sell the latest shit that nobody needs, and the media in turn creates the insecure environment in you that ensures that you’ll spend your last dying breath trying to fill the void they created, everybody’s happy! Even you, you stupid, dead fucker with an empty wallet!

Love Gary Gnu!

ADULT, Just Fuck Me Already



, , , , ,

In the hall or at the mall, in the car, near or far.

I would not refuse your lustful eye, flickered flame.

With the dishes and life’s little niches, lay it on me baby.

Strong and hard, soft and tingly, our juices mingly.

Give it or take it, suck it or shake it, just fuck it.

In the morning or late, at the farm or on the gate,

Squirt and lick, bounce on this stiff member, fuck you!

Connect and merge, share the moment, blissful state.

Choking and stroking, submission and rape, open up.

Your must and your lust, your soft neck and hard bud.

Pant and rave, scream and crave, please just fuck me!




, , , , , , ,

I guess it’s natural to want, to yearn for change.

Know thyself, no thyself… conditioned, separate.

If only I was like the trees, proud and rooted!

With not my wandering spirit, nor flighty thoughts.

Perch for all nests, and dotting every lower landscape.

If only I was like the birds, soaring and free!

The sky’s the limit, trusted flock, tweeting away.

Riding any breeze, the globe my lasting home.

I guess it’s natural… neither rooted nor free.




, , , , , , ,

Look away, quickly look away or she’ll know.

She’ll look right through me, know it all.

If only the lottery was so bountiful.

If only I could speak, I’d tell her aloud.

If only she’d look at me, I’d dare to stare.

If only… maybe next week, or the next.

I think she knows, maybe thinks the same.

Could it be? Does she see? It’s only me?

If only I knew… what she likes, who she is,

How she smells, how she feels, so moist.

Isaac-Katrina Two, New Orleans the New Chernobyl



, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

As Katrina Two heads for New Orleans, one might wonder, how many people moved back to Chernobyl after 1986? You don’t have to look far for that answer… NONE!

How many times do we have to hear about the city below sea level and the thousands of suffering, through yet another encounter with a hurricane, to force a change? I guess at least one more time…

Katrina Due

%d bloggers like this: