The feverish jungle, a bungalow binge,

And the apes of the valley delight.

Amassing their arson, the parsons all cringe 

As the napes of their necks feel the bite.

Oh holy banana, the manna of trees,

As the fleas seem to hop on along

Infighting, igniting the apes that are biting 

Those bees as they sing of King Kong.

A hundred feet tall is the wall of the men

And a sinful release of the spear

Escaping the bin of the hundred foot spin

Thus applying their lying with cheer.

"Ah-ooh-ah," goes an ape as the head of the shape 

Of the stone spear endangers its spark.

And some other dumb fool in his foolhardy drape

Absolutely 'ooh-ah's' his remark.

The natives are restless, confessions debate 

All the while the apes gather their dead.

Subordinate clause in the claws of their fate,

And a villager loses his head.

Removed from the neck as the bees start to check

Acclimating, debating design.

As a hive, they survive, a revival on deck

For they sing as they sting, "Apes are fine!"

A thousand or more in the chore of the sores

And the numbering, slumbering sloth 

Awakens to aid in displayed forest floors

As the bees and the fleas gel as broth.

The African sonnet of bees in the bonnet 

And apes on the Cape Horn of nine

Combine in the shrine of the mine blowing pine

As the fleas stop and drop kick the sign.

The sloth calls aloud in the crowd of the  shroud 

And a lion out of Zion appears.

The jungle's own king comes to cling; the bees sting 

As he strengthens the villagers' fears.

"Away with your play and your villainous way!

Now away, or I say you will die!"

The roar echoed more as the lion on display 

Offered each human there in his cry.

The apes and the fleas and the bees in the drape 

Of the canopy stopped, held in awe.

The sloth, on his knees, bowed and plowed the disease 

As the humans all fled what they saw.

"The law of the jungle, for all- even fungal- 

The growth underneath the dead leaves-

Must never be broken as these words are spoken

Alas, mother ape, now she grieves ...

The humans are fuming; a vengeance is blooming 

Until they destroy every land.

Avoid at all costs their ridiculous frost

For the winter lives on in their hand.

We all have united; the spirit delighted; 

And the forest exalts us in joy.

Now go on, safely roam; travel deep in our home

For the menace the humans employ 

Has been seen o'er and o'er in mischievous lore

And I doubt it will not take them long

To return to this place with a hate spilling face 

So we must all now pray to King Kong."

The feverish jungle, a bungalow's bray,

And the apes and the bees and the fleas

And the sloth, on their knees, join the lion as they please

And to King Kong they bow long and pray.

Begin;

Supplied supplies rely on swapping dope for dolla bills.

Three times delinquent determine when brain blood spills.

Booming lightening strikes, after a flash of thunder.

Survival on the streets derive dealers to gunners.

Again;

Debt due don't dismiss, thus delinquency doubles, so dopey dope deviants best duck down and cover.

Definitely don't desire delivery of debtor's dead daughter to be discovered.

--The End--

Thrice is tough. The testable limits terminated, torrential teary eyes puff.

Bated to distinguish, no mere words are not enough.

Dealt a King with his Jack, but greed made him bust,

Now the King's cash is ash and the Joker's life is dust.

How can I write poetry tonight

When the world is on fire

When innocent citizens are

Killed for no reason

When Authority has become a God and

When children spend their summers

In front of a screen

When libraries need a campaign

To inspire folks to read

When the US election is --

Well, in the embarrassing state of our US election

And I know there are intelligent people out there

Choosing to follow instead of lead --

And I can't understand their choice

To turn a blind eye to critical thought

How can I write poetry when

The sky is scuffed with grey smog

While the simplicity of petrie dish food

Outweighs the sweat shed over backyard gardens

How can I write poetry

When money is power

In marriages

And politics

And glass ceilings, and --

How can I write fucking poetry when

The Majority Rule doesn't even like poetry in 2016!

Being unique is a disease

And people care more about your sexuality than

Their own spirituality

So, how can I write poetry

When there is so much sadness to mourn

And so many wounds to heal

And so many souls to console

How

Can

I

Write

Poetry

When the isolation feels

Safer than hanging with the crowd?

I am content.

It't not happy-

It's not a world

Of color and light-

It's very gray 

And a little dim,

But it's okay.

I'm okay.

I come back, 

And you go away.

I know what I 

Was running from,

But what scared you

Away from home?

Maybe you wanted

The freedom offered

By the open road,

Or maybe you just

Wanted a clear head

So you could come home

And forget me.

But something tells me

You've already forgotten

What it feels like

To hold me,

And to kiss me.

Something tells me

You've already forgotten

What it feels like

To love me,

And to miss me.

I don't know why you ran,

But I know that here I am,

Planning an escape,

A whole new adventure,

So that I can pretend

That I have forgotten, too.

I remember what you said,

About how broken-hearted

You were in 2014-

I wished then that I could

Have saved you from that pain.

I wish now that I could

Make you feel it all over.

It's wrong, I know,

To wish you could feel it, too.

Part of me wishes you could

Forget everything that hurts you,

Because you deserve all the best.

But mostly I wish

That you could remember,

And I could be the one

To forget what it means

To be hurting like this.

In the stillness,

in the hubbub,

when I’m looking

and listening,

not noticing

or forgetting,

You always love.

Sometimes, rain is comforting,

Wrapping me in tendril arms,

Warming me with its tears,

Hiding me from harm.

Sometimes, rain is my enemy,

Keeping me indoors,

Falling down to quench my joy,

Pouring pain into my sores.

writer’s block

when i think of you

like a used up lighter

that sparks but can’t ignite

my worn down heart

draws a blank

Why can’t I move? Tied.

Where am I? I remember.

The bar. Coworkers. We danced.

She warned me, “don’t drink.”

My boss, trying to guide

me to the bathroom. I

pushed him away, stumbled outside,

he gave me my coat.

Snow. Cold. Traffic. Dizziness. Now.

Where am I? I can’t

move, can’t open my mouth.

Bruised. Everywhere. Left arm hurts.

A line attached. Blood flows.

Who’s that? A shadow. “Hrruo!”

Gagged. Here it comes. “Hup!”

“Finally awake, good.” A whisper.

The sound of a zipper.

“Hup ee!” Cold metal scratches

my right sole, pain, warmth.

“Now we can have fun.”