something stirring in the field

something I can't fully see

realization slowly dawns

though it has been here all along

the peace you seek

won't be with me

as the Infection never ceases to spread

neither shall the doctor of Death quit his Search

for a Cure or a Fix or an Eradication of all that keep it bred

it is all for the good of Life

if they live they can spread and they can die

it is not an obsession it is a Cure it is a help for the Bugs

without Him . who would even try

The honey fungus has such a nice name,

sweet like Honey but Sickly to the trees it infects

they All die

But it wants to Live, how else can it Get what it needs for existence

this Infection is not like a parasite to a tree

it is a parasite to the earth and to the life around it

without the Russula . who would save the poor bugs

from the fate that beheld them

No

there are No lives to save or to Fix

they are all gone and all dead

but the Search for a Cure cannot be stopped

because without him,

None could Live

it is not an Obsession it is a Fix that all the souls would beg for

the souls trapped behind Orange

an Infection

and obsession for a Fix

a Cure

an insatiable need to fix what CanNot be changed

what has existed for centuries

what one Bug what the doctor who now is one of Death cannot change

an Insatiable Search for Knowledge

for a fix not One unalive soul had asked

for insatiability blocks out Life

for the Search only hurts worse than the Infection ever had

Hirquiticke

May 15, 2024

“One past fourteen yeeres of age, beginning to bee moved with Venus delight” - Henry Cockeram, An English Dictionary, 1623

I just finished reading, “Venus and Adonis” by William Shakespeare.

I will now commit the poem to memory.

Sheila was my park. I was her deer. We both just turned 17.

This meant nothing but trouble (at the time). But forty years later, this was only a pleasant memory. She wanted me to read her D. H. Lawrence novels. I only wanted the Cliff Notes version.

She told me she found patience sexy. Very sexy.

Under such pressure, I acquiesced. I am so glad I did.

Next came Henry Miller’s, “Tropic of Cancer”. Sheila became Tania. I, indeed, made her ovaries incandescent.

By the onset of our senior year, I discovered, “Fanny Hill.” Then Sheila discovered, “Fanny Hill.” Then, her father discovered what we had both discovered.

By Thanksgiving, we were banned from seeing each other. By Christmas, her family had moved to where good girls go to reaffirm their princess status and reacquire their virginity from the gossips who know too much. In essence, somewhere far, far, away.

When I see a copy of these novels, or a couple sharing their serendipitous delight in exploring where the rest of us have traversed, I think of Sheila.

And my love of the richness of the English language to elevate the mundane to elegant elevations.

Listen,

the muse sings to the

pulling of weeds, to the

piling of bricks, to the

scrubbing of plates.

The muse sings to the

earthbound, to the occupied,

to souls in revolt against

menial days. Silent cries

beckon loudest, prayers and

invocations be damned:

the muse will not be summoned

and scorns intention. She

cares nothing for your plans,

laughs at your blank page,

pisses on your offerings.

She will not bless self-anointed

poets who ransack corpses

for metaphors.

So move forward. Live.

Be about your business, turn

the grindstone, then breathe.

Breathe. Listen.

The muse sings to those

hungriest for song.

So I might have gone mad

Oh well

So I might have disappeared

well swell

So my life may be tragic

Oh tell

So my life might be sad

I think I've gone mad

no longer can tell

on whether the wether is weathering well

I may have gone mad

my voice has a tune

so I'm singing all of my thoughts all alone

I may have gone mad

I may have gone mad

Don't allow people to call you sane or

normal

don't allow people to say that your songs

bland

don't write something and never ever share

it

Because otherwise you're not that wise I must surmise

it's true

I am

going apart

it's a start

of my new age

Maybe I'm old

maybe I'm young

it's just a stage

of life

I'm sorry

but I'm

going to submit

when I'm done

It's a little weird

and so am I

do not misunderstand

the meanings at hand

the music was aband-

-ed

do not misunderstand

the love that i give

the hate that i show

thats

not

as real

as you think

do not misunderstand

this has no direction

it has information

do not misunderstand

what people may follow

they fall in the hollow

of

your

words.

Everything worthwhile in life is made possible by sacrifice

May 01, 2024

Giving Birth

Raising Children

Getting Married

Remaining Married

Graduating High School

Graduating College

Military Service

Helping another whether they want help or not

Burying a Friend

Bailing a Friend out of Jail

Becoming a Godfather

Training for the Olympics

Training for your own Personal Olympics

Eating 30 hot dogs in 10 minutes

Keeping your Word

Giving a Kidney

Expecting nothing in return

on hard times

of mankind

into the wrong hands

down

into a coma

out

to pieces

behind

for it

off the wagon

apart

victim to

from grace

into as state of disrepair

(en) angels

of empires

between the cracks

into a trap

on one's sword

short

I find it curious how something purported as being good shares the same phrasing: to fall in love.

I reread your old texts

I was your everything

strongest support rock

for you thin and thin

amazing astonishing

yours for all decades

suddenly you turned

shunned me I begged

you to tell me the why

how it could be fixed

erased eradicated gone

why not forget the bad

why did you shun me

evade avoid eschew me

why did you never say

leaving me entangled

muddled in your words

I was your everything

Farewell to funerals

The bitter respite,

And evaporating port,

Bearded with glum mists

That blur mortal lines

And tarry long to sigh,

Before the dizzying spires we climb

Lead to the tolling bells

With brusque finality,

As death is left pouting behind,

Between Jacob’s abiding ladder

And the windup clocks of time.

Facsimile caskets,

Like dominoes fall,

A checkered melee,

Echoing through celestine halls.

Golden years folded,

A house of cards strong,

But in these faded frontiers,

Where has dawn gone?

In dusk’s jaded contours,

Where night smothers

The sun.

Bruised heaven’s guitars

Roar in gothic harmony,

The triumphal charge

Stalking to besiege

With spirited aim,

Dusty trapdoor ears,

That gnaw through spirit and bone,

To memory’s vapours and tears,

Sunken like stone.

O sacred whispers of God,

Beg your sovereign ear to the sound,

Of wild glorious nothing,

Just laying around.

And my farewell friend,

May you waltz in permanent fantasia,

Bathed in youth’s begotten fire,

And forever may you fly,

Yet never grow tired.

So farewell and goodnight,

To sweetly hallowed ends,

Where light

Swallows darkness,

Forever,

Amen.