The cars sit parked

and running

between painted lines 

over cracking concrete...

each car resembles 

a living thing

so solitary in it's 

defeat...

each fixed vessel

hides a great will,

behind the wheel

...to be seen...

and present

... in time,

and for posterity.

The engine is ready

but the gps is

silent

or unset...

Where to ?

Where to ??

hums the motor

as the world looks

after itself, 

ever patient

in this wait

©

6/18/21

Bunny &

Mavia Villaire

Did you know that two days in a psych hospital costs

$20,000, without health insurance?

I have hit rock bottom many times, my dear.

For me, hope is the thing with feathers.

A motto a la Emily Dickinson.

I sat through those literature classes

And didn’t pay twenty grand for nothing.

You can’t hit rock bottom with wings.

A word is such a vague way of defining oneself, is it not? What's in a word that I may use one to describe me, I wonder? Perhaps I should use a flower or the description therein to define me. I have to give ample credit to the Bard of Avon, Shakespeare, for the possibility of such as he said it best when he wrote, "That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet "

Yes, after further contemplation, perhaps a blue violet flower is what would best describe me if I were to use a flower for such. I have always gravitated to a rich, vivid blue color, surrounding myself with as much of the color as possible, so perhaps I am defined by the color - or the word - blue. Blue is a calming color but full of a vibrancy that’s seen all about us in the skies, the butterflies, the oceans, the flowers, and the birds. I like to think that I am able to flit and fly about in the vast world, emboldened by all of nature that hums and beats around me. After all, we are one with the blue universe, much more than we often realize.

So, this very day, I will pick the deepest and most royal blue color to define myself, knowing I have chosen well and will be most content. Thus, going forward, I am forevermore defined by the word cyanic, the bluest of blues.

How I can define happiness

without you?

It's like I touched the sun

and it didn't scorch me.

Grabed it and placed

it on my chest

and I didn't feel my heart skip.

'Cause you burn my world

with unmentionable degrees.

The sun cannot measure up

to the heat you release.

I cried all the tears

in my eyes.

Laughed all the laughs,

yet you make me happy

that I dried my tears,

sat on emptiness

until my heart

was enriched

by the burning sun,

to cry out for love

till I lost my voice.

You were still

standing there

with unmentionable degrees,

feeding me your heat

till I was overwhelmed

to breathe.

The happiness I feel is beyond living

the way life is perceived.

It cannot be defined...

As far as the eye can fathom,

knolls of grass unfurl,

a rolling expanse of virgin green,

alone, save the shelter of a blue sky,

and a tree.

Like a lone sentinel,

it stands proud.

Whipped by winds,

pelted by harsh rains,

its scarred husk stands firm.

It stands in a special place,

far away from technology,

away from future shopping malls,

housing projects, super highways;

but it stands close to the heart.

It was there a picnic was shared.

Where lover’s held hands,

and lover’s kissed,

and where twin lover’s initials

are forever carved.

Her eyes, shine like the sun, soft as moonbeams,

her smile far outweigh all the stars above,

surrounding her is pureness held gently,

like spun moss, silvery soft to the touch.

Not often a true beauty can be found,

she is wildflowers, a spring lake pure,

surrounded by heaven and earth, calming,

to write of such as this, would fill pages.

This is music without sound or movement,

this is the dance longed for generations,

a melody never-ending such love.

She brings the goodness of spirit to task.

And yet, she does not know that I listen.

It matters not; this pleasure, I hold true.

in hypotheticals, you wake up,

in the hotel, above the casino,

like some Elvis, like Sinatra,

beneath you, in the lower floors, people gamble, drink,

cry and scream,

an extasy of tackiness,

and fan-dancers.

and beside you,

wearing a matching ring,

is the hypothetical,

gold-digger/lost soul.

oh, your mouth is a parched desert,

you are desperate for a cold glass,

of clear water.

but water does not hold,

in liquid state in this environment,

unless it is mixed in,

to water down ,

the booze

in despair you turn over,

not leaving the unbridgable,

chasm that lies by the king-size.

luckily, the spiders thought hard on this, and included a mini-fridge, where a night stand should be.

inside, you find a poor substitue,

soda water, with a sharp tab to pull,

and a price tag,

attached with a hot glue gun.

you drink the carbonated atrocity,

still impaled upon the sheets,

the gold digger, your new dependent,

is encrusted with shame ,

bismirched with glitter,

smeared with cream.

you hope the cake was good,

not some vanilla cheapness.

this is not happening, you think,

this is not reality, but a dream,

a fevered expression of the everyday,

in all its shams.

the ring is perfect proof , again,

of this surreal moment.

the metal circle is inwardly serrated,

made from a rusty pipe fitting,

it bites into the flesh,

and you know if this was true,

a tetenus shot would be required.

the betrothed, the hitched, now stirrs,

a dragon of carnality,

this beast knew them all,

all who visit , in these regions,

give her same-such jewelry, as tribute,

a trilobite, a satin-covered fossil,

of parched ravines.

her language is unknown to you,

or perhaps,

it is just an prolonged clearing of the apparatus, that said once ‘i do’.

quick, you think, hold still,

this lawfully-wed bewilderment,

has eyes, true.

but their vision,

is based on movement.

The Be-wed,

the grendel to your Beowolfe,

slowly snakes,

she knows well,

the finger-like cliffs, that.surround the unwalled honeymoon suite.

those clifs now stretch long sharp fingers of shadow,

upon the desert sands,

as the sun makes,

its merciless rising,

casting all beneath,

with radiating pain.

you spot a hidden pathway,

spiraling down the bed,

disappearing in the jagged rocks.

but your escape is not to be,

the posseser of the ring,

spots you at last,

flashing burning eyes.

opening the jaws saliva drips,

along with plastic 5$ chips,

that were uncashed.

you now remember,

the drunken pick-up,

the placing of said chips,

in the unfamiliar curvature.

and you then know,

what hopelessness is.

cause Las Vegas does not exist.

it is, but it isn't.

just like this newly-pronounced contract.