Digital Parchment Poetry Scrolls are Signed and Numbered

In Plain Sight

Their demonic statuary,
Grotesque, reptilian, and birdlike,
Remains still for a time,
Only to whisper in the wind
For those who look
And listen in darkness.

Designed by artisan servants
For their masters' delight,
Strategically positioned by architects
For their masters' delusion,
Adorning edifice after edifice
Waiting in frozen state,
Waiting for that marked day
When chaos, in its final frenzy,
Culminates after countless centuries of secrecy,
Where they will rise out of the ashes,
Wings spread in full extent,
Swooping down like new centurions,
Enforcers of a new order
That has quietly been ushered in.


Alarmantra! Alarmantra!
So chilling to hear,
Frosting truth to the gaggle,
Numbing through fear.

Alarmantra! Alarmantra
! What does it say?
Feeding freely in doses,
Paralyzing the prey.

Alarmantra! Alarmantra!
When shown as a fake,
Warms the huddled cold turkey.
The bondage would break.

Alarmantra! Alarmantra!
What would they do?
When turkeys become eagles,
Their greatest fears would come true.

The Rose

Crimson flaps blazonly attract
As their aromatic arrows
Passionately allure in the breeze.
Drawn closer to touch
The velvety plum,
To take and embrace
It's very essence,
In a snap and a yank
Comes the price of possession:
Where pulling too hard
Will reap a bloody prick,
And without care and devotion
There is no joy in the wither.


Fixed: All stops.
Spelled, spiraling whorls eddy.
Endlessness nears the narrowing vastitude.
Further, fantod forms fix:
All stops.
All art tranquil.

Going To Pot
(Norma Jean's Lament)

When asked which branch is best to link
The reader and writer in rhyme,
Is it better preserved to think in ink
Or log the mind a hit at a time?


(by illegal aliens)

Club Of Money

In their suits
They play their games
Without a heart,
For diamonds and deliverance.
They lend a hand,
Give us an arm,
For an arm and a leg,
Then give us the spades
And the finger.

Queen Gertrude And The Beekeeper

Now don't be droning
Over the death of bees, honey.

The Strumpet Wind

She longs to fill a void.
She sounds the horns!
She blows.

Sunny Daze

The man with the moles
Looked good in a tan.

Captive To The Carnival

I have blindly crept in.
And can see the light,
As I become shown to my plot,
Which becomes familiar.
The elders, ahead of me,
Appear to clearly forge the way,
Which becomes wrought.
Further on; clearly I cannot see;
Only the seeming way that is to be.

The spaces fill behind me,
And here, now,
I become once, twice, and then again,
Removed from the beginning,
Only to know what is in the midst.
And I look to the right,
And it's left me to see,
What is right to the left of me;
A boundless sea; in and about me.

I await the becoming;
Which has already been;
The unleashing of currents,
Casting me and all like, aspew,
Where I am then again to see,
And recognize a few.
I and they, we too, share experience.
They become old, as new.
And I take refuge in the appearance of similar ways,
To find that I am only what has become, being,
And is to be.

Here, today, I have come to show myself.
Shown, there's response.
And the few that become to do,
Seemingly appear to be a familiar few.
Hail me, you, the familiar few,
Who characterize the appearance,
Of what has become to pass.