Walking along some railroad tracks!

 

Walking along some railroad tracks!

where do they lead, stranger?

back or forth, or to the end,

I’m glad you’re coming too.

If we hop a train, i must say,

it would be scary without you.

hobos live in dusty corners,

yelling at those who venture near.

smelly animals, dead or live,

can ruin a starving hunger.

Cold— 

his fingers grip my shoulders in a moonless night.

Warm stories pass the time.

The metal path has a gentle curve

that makes us forget we’re even moving.

but the uneven ground

is unsettling.

I am enamored by your quick step,

each foot lands with firm trust.

I trip no matter how

I try to impress you...

stumbling into love.

Finished Painting

 

Passing an artist just before sunset she 

had been painting alldaylong in the park by the bench 

every person in passing in six seconds or less and 

capturing the life of the line that was a person 

Packing up her brushes and not a single empty canvas 

I wished to paint her Beauty with so many words endless but 

Skryllex playing in my head and 

the ketchup on my shirt said no 

I returned to the spot where she seemed planted even 

in the snow with a space heater granted a 

ridiculously orange umbilical cord 

to keep her paints from freezing 

She pulled out a thermos which was steaming and 

offered me up to the dreaming filled 

with mushroom soup and breath and 

grew old with me until death 

Little Monsters

Something there is that hates a shoe,

that splits the fib'rous ends in two;

and tends to wear the precious tread,

and makes the runners running-dead.

With every single step I take,

it seems to make the leather break.

What dreadful demon, (naughty sprite)

would come and take my shoes at night?

Little monsters ate my sole 

and left a giant gaping hole.

Rebuses

 

“Addison categorized as false wit all puns, anagrams,

rebuses, lipogrammatic writing, imprese, echo-refrains,

bouts rimes, and shape poems.”

(Colie, Paradox Epidemica, pp. 515-516);

“I have before me a rebus […] the most beautiful and

pregnant aphorism.”

(Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams). 

Rebus 1. 

________________________

ROSA  ROOS  BARA   

S’EST LEVÉ 

ENTSTAND

________________________

Rebus 2. 

________________________

THE  

VS.  

JULY 4th

_________________________

Hint: XVIII 

Rebus 3. 

_________________________

“IT  IT”

HO  3/5

_________________________

Rebus 4. 

_________________________

,* ALL ,*

PYRITE  

_________________________

Rebus 5. 

_________________________

  TEETH,   EYES,  TASTE,

EVERYTHING

_________________________

Rebus 6. 

_________________________

WHERE!!

MARCH

_________________________

Rebus 7.

_________________________

 A BRUTE A

BRUTE A 

_________________________

Rebus 8. 

_________________________

  GOOD STAIRWELL 

GOOD FAREWELL 

GOOD INKWELL  

GOOD TROWELL

_________________________

Rebus 9. 

_________________________

†  ME

_________________________

Rebus 10. 

_________________________

PL  (CON-

SCIENCE)  AY 

_________________________

Rebus 11.

_________________________

COMRADES

REPUBLICANS

REDNECKS

_________________________

Resentment

I am human I am not German, so 

in my heart I carry the guilt of Auschwitz. 

There in whose skin are writ my crimes, 

and what is written are my cries: 

The terrible secret that there is no evil, 

but nameless, ageless, forgotten pain. 

This cosmic debt which swallows whole countries,  

and leaves behind only lonely particles. 

"... a truncated monism"*

I and my love, sadly we prove

that, no matter how close, we always lose. 

When united in flesh, we still are two. 

And everywhere we look, we find it so: 

A pair of gloves, each wholly designed 

for the other, yet in no way tied. 

Or scissor and scissor—two blades joined

at the eye which twists and shifts apart. 

Should we finally in spirit be wed, 

then solo we find ourselves once again. 

To the whole of thee myself is owed, 

but then from this what would you gain? 

   Since you are full of yourself, and I am a part, 

   I add nothing to thee—my heart. 

That massive wall of stone and knives, 

‘twas a brittle metaphor for our lives. 

That which divides, and makes us two, 

brought us together and everything gives. 

How dares He to sit above 

and separate love from love! 

Omniscient He knows best and most, 

that everything which is gained is lost. 

He takes in the end to give at the start, 

like a child builds up to kick it apart. 

And hid He then the tree, He did. 

The second one that lets us live. 

   But if one is two, then two is one. 

   And never can we be undone! 

Poor death, then, is not the endless sleep. 

Not a bullet to bite, nor an ocean deep. 

*Viz, CS Lewis, Evil and God; God in the Dock, p. 22