🚀 go-pugleaf

On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 9:32:15 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 9:17:15 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 8:06:15 AM UTC-4, ME wrote: 
> > > On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 07:12:57 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote: 
> > > > On Thursday, August 11, 2022 at 8:00:55 PM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > > > > On Thursday, August 11, 2022 at 3:16:02 PM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > > > > > EXTREMES 
> > > > > > 
> > > > > > The Summer sunlight burns my shoulders raw 
> > > > > > Streets sizzle in the blaze of August heat, 
> > > > > > Each passing breeze a blast from heaven's forge; 
> > > > > > While ocean breakers roll in to disgorge 
> > > > > > Their cache of scattered shells before my feet, 
> > > > > > Pink pebbles, seaweed, kelp, crustacean claw. 
> > > > > > 
> > > > > > The sunburnt sand scorches my toes and sole 
> > > > > > Tans them as tough as cowhide's leathern grain, 
> > > > > > My form grows heavy while my head grows light; 
> > > > > > But Summer's end already is in sight 
> > > > > > And I would rather that the heat remain 
> > > > > > Than face the pain that rides on Winter's wing… 
> > > > > > 
> > > > > > For Summer's scalds can't rival Winter's sting 
> > > > > > When heat is culled from blackened lumps of coal. 
> > > > > > 
> > > > > > -- Michael Pendragon 
> > > > > > 
> > > > > > **** 
> > > > > 
> > > > > A Slow Dance to Sunrise 
> > > > > 
> > > > > My eyes remain opened once again 
> > > > > studying a ceiling crack running fast 
> > > > > toward a deceitful curtain, 
> > > > > a curtain that does little to hide, 
> > > > > but frames a voyeuristic moon. 
> > > > > I squeeze my eyes shut 
> > > > > trying to end its midnight stare 
> > > > > as a down-filled pillow slowly becomes 
> > > > > more an accomplice, 
> > > > > to my insomnia. 
> > > > > 
> > > > > I remember, with scattered thoughts, 
> > > > > past sleigh rides, 
> > > > > carrot nosed snowmen 
> > > > > and an almost caught spring trout, 
> > > > > as friends laughed 
> > > > > at my ineptitude with 
> > > > > a fishing pole… 
> > > > > until that slow walk to supper, 
> > > > > with the sun setting on another 
> > > > > failed try. 
> > > > > 
> > > > > I have learned to sing 
> > > > > with owls over the years, 
> > > > > play violin with cricket 
> > > > > orchestras, their nocturnal life, 
> > > > > being mine 
> > > > > all while remembering 
> > > > > I forgot once again 
> > > > > to call those I promised to-- 
> > > > > they sleep tonight, 
> > > > > quiet sandman dreams, 
> > > > > as I watch minutes 
> > > > > become hours, 
> > > > > with that moon 
> > > > > slowly turning back 
> > > > > into a sun 
> > > > > and with all of that, 
> > > > > always the thought of time 
> > > > > shrinking in the rear-view 
> > > > > mirror. 
> > > > ------------------------------------------------------------ 
> > > > 
> > > > 
> > > > Ghost Bar 
> > > > 
> > > > The keyboard ivory is now a soft yellow, 
> > > > nicotine stained from too many exhales 
> > > > drifting out between love songs 
> > > > and sweat. 
> > > > 
> > > > A worn-out suit and dull shoes 
> > > > once hit the pedals, 
> > > > no longer a smooth toe-tap 
> > > > where lyrics rang out their pain 
> > > > and in that smoky darkness, 
> > > > heads nodded, keeping company 
> > > > with misery and now, the walls retain 
> > > > refrains from the ravished throats 
> > > > of a whiskey bleached cry 
> > > > calling out to past ghosts 
> > > > 
> > > > The Beats sat in the back 
> > > > clouded in smoke and smiles, 
> > > > an impromptu meet with stories 
> > > > of upheaval and sexual conquest 
> > > > begging the liver withstands 
> > > > the hammer blows of brown whiskey 
> > > > reminiscing of road travels 
> > > > and howl's at the moon 
> > > > until it all went quiet, 
> > > > the revolution now hidden inside 
> > > > hard cover and stains as death offers 
> > > > best sellers and broken little boys 
> > > > and Dylan continues to look out at the faces 
> > > > all weathered from the storm, all waiting 
> > > > for the final knock. 
> > > > 
> > > > Edward Rochester Esq. 
> > ----------------------------------------------------------- 
> > 
> > When the Days are Done 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right? 
> > those birds and trees, planes and bees, 
> > isle five where the cookies were chosen, the pickles 
> > and peanut butter, the crossing guard, 
> > the mimosa, bare or full, the barking dog 
> > or ancient stars, a moon’s glimmer on canals 
> > filled with crawling crabs, the peaks never climbed, 
> > the ocean bottom never walked, the ice cream stand, 
> > good humor man, alligators and crocodiles, 
> > scrub pine and boardwalk stretching the sand dunes. 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right? 
> > garbage men and lawn men and mail men, snowmen 
> > roses, dandelions, violets, posies, tulips, 
> > the IRS, town hall, tall steeples, polished shoes, 
> > dirty work boots, mismatched socks, toothbrush, 
> > hair product, suntan lotion, the Chevy, the van, 
> > the walls, replaced roof, the frying pan, mayonnaise, 
> > poetry, paint, photo, sculpture, songs, 
> > BBQ sauce, beer and scotch, family and friends. 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right, 
> > or has it all been for nothing? 
> > 
> > I know I’m going to miss them. 
> > 
> > Edward Rochester Esq.
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
> 
> 
> Congratulations 
> 
> So, we arrive 
> possibly from the womb 
> of an imperfect mother 
> or perhaps the seed 
> of a drunken father 
> but unlike a new colt 
> we stagger, 
> held up by harness 
> or perhaps the hands 
> of a drunken father 
> as wheels carry us 
> down broken sidewalks 
> until the walk begins, 
> expression, the tears and smiles 
> start to fill imperfect babies 
> until, set free, 
> the ride becomes all yours. 
> 
> The observation 
> of an imperfect world 
> is settled with the perfect sunset 
> or the perfect world 
> becomes the needle 
> and slow nod-- 
> perhaps the black and whites 
> of Weegee shows the anguish, 
> the wheat of Van Gogh, the beauty 
> as seen through an imperfect mind. 
> 
> Percentages are tabulated, 
> the perfect voice disintegrates 
> into slur, the farmers till 
> as the stew cooks, those beams 
> inside the barn looks strong enough 
> to hold the weight 
> until the dinner bell distracts 
> as the headlines tell all 
> of the perfect hideaway for two 
> in Cancun. 
> 
> Is it all carved out before the walk? 
> 
> Me, I got lucky, imperfect as I am 
> my Wallenda walk got me to the other side 
> just about scar-free. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.
------------------------------------------------------------

Kerouac 


You went and drank it all away 
blowing up a liver before that river 
crossing into peaceful pines. 

Your road of sour mash 
led through the valley of Ginsberg 
down Corso gullies 
and into the burrow of Burroughs. 

At the foot of Steve Allen's piano, 
you jazzed the words before annihilation 
and depths of a liquor locker room break-in. 

You held tight to the chair to your right 
as Firing Line aimed and shot into your bloodshot 
sneer with a fumble to light that cigar. 

Ginsberg looked on, half embarrassed 
at the mascot named Beat leader 
wanting nothing more than to beat the leader 
off the stage and into his dirty chamber. 

Kerouac at 47 gave up the throne, 
his liver told him no more, 
the Beat was beat, forevermore. 

Edward Rochester Esq.