Pull down the shroud mist
stand invisible among the things of gods
let fallen volcanic ashes whiten
your hair your hands your feet
dance in the dead woods of arcady
wade in dark streams rushing past
read the yarrow root and stalk
walk widdershins into the wind
then let blue wings twitch inside you then
lift your face to the nascent sun. LS

Ukulele Recluse - 1925

And guess what?
My poems are still junk,
it wasn't my idea
to put them in a series,
I just submitted a bunch
then he made the editorial call,
what would you have done?
I am seriously some kind of a nut
and major anxiety freak outs
waiting for them to appear,
to hell with writing,
so I pull out my I Ching book
a random character on the page
number 51 - The Chên Hexagram
Thunder repeated : the image of SHOCK
a hundred thousand times you lose your treasures
and the only thing keeping me sane
these days
is my new Mainland 1920's inspired
solid mahogany concert ukulele
with the sweet tweed case,
of course I still think of you
and fancy,
it's been awhile.      

* * *

Una Mas Cervesa  

someday I'll tell you the story
when me and my sister Shel
were hanging with the Forbidden Pigs,
they were playing the Texas Teahouse in Ocean Beach,
Billy Bacon standing on his upright Kay
in a turban
singing about "Love is Dead",
and how he ran after those bikers with a crow bar
when they kicked him in the jaw
seven stitches in emergency
he has a scar to this day,
the sisters were screaming and petticoats flying
at that dive bar with the old black and white tile
and cool juke box next to Winstons,
we just wanted to listen to some Freddie Fender
beer and tequila shot with lime,
and they asked him who cut his hair
when he said Sgt. Carter
reckon they didn't like that answer
or his Buddy Love sharkskin suit,
and it was on.    LS

Sleep is a wanton tragedy, a train wreck running from itself.
Every singular cell aching for null. Time curls backwards, fetal,
widdershins. Hours of rest, lost to innumerable sheep, water glasses,
miserable lonely meditation. It is days on less hours than fingers,
solid weeks without REM, a month of pills slipping nightly--
tossing, turning, gnarled in the sheets, tossing, turning,
down the throat with a waterfall—and restless eyes
staring into the dark expecting, waiting, to close. LS

I discovered a majestic peacock
lying comatose in my littered backyard,
with wet fingerish twigs on its neck.
I took it home and colors spilled
onto my hands and poured into
my eyes as I wiped at teardrops.
I placed the peacock on my bed,
talking it in back to life, stroking
its sleeping rainbows, its inert fan
of moist quills.

A few perfect circles were drawn
on the bedsheet as the bird tried
to stir and open its eyes. The night
was black when it died.

Every day I now dream of huge
peacocks pecking at my heart,
the weight of the birds pushing
me into the colorful abyss opening
in my bed; my cries killed by bloody
fingers creeping around my parched throat. LS

Dark energy's the
mind of God - the firmament
what he imagined 

LS

by KJ Hannah Greenberg

The effect of cumin on mankind
Wrought many anxious fathers-in-law;
Single-lens reflex camera were stymied
By the digital revolution.
For a Herculean moment,
Old collections of vinegared vials
Stopped working as medicine;
Purple pills replaced home remedies.
In a finger’s snap, even autos
Seemed antiquated,
Compared to bullet trains
Or Concorde jets.
Yet, in our world’s corner,
Toddlers’ uneven steps
Continued to merit
Their Pop-Pop’s hugs.

white water
bubbles play
a game of gotcha
with river silt churn  LS

Sever –
amputation
with one sharp, swift,
axe dropping sentence,
legalize on
fine stationary,
followed by the firm handshake
avoided eye contact,
the last glance out of windows
onto lines of parked cars.
Severance,
exchange for silence,
cleansing their guilt,
denying fault.
For aren’t we the faulty -
exhausted after
blindly marching
for the lost cause.
Once proud warriors,
we slink away -
defeated
hoping there will be
funds
for the severed.  LS

the rustle of skirts
a flair and a crease
in satin or silk
after the glow
of lights at the dance
came the quiet
of the motel room
the rustle of skirts
coming off
the slip sliding
of adolescent
ecstasy

A song on the radio, a water bed in winter,
he taught your mouth to shape a kiss,
patiently, suck a bottom lip, bite, his
lessons linger in fingertips, the power
of a drawn map on skin, your body
knows how to bend and twist around
a stickshift , your mouth knows how
to scream without sound, you're killer
at keeping secrets. He showed you how
to unbutton jeans with teeth, but you never
quite got the trick, or returned some formative
favors, firsts that should have been yours
to wrap around him and swallow. You should
have scrawled I was here in spit on the inside
of his thigh, invisible ink. You should have
marked that territory like a conquistador,
mounted him like an equestrian, left no
what-ifs in your wake. What if he had tasted
like a seashell, what if it felt good inside you,
what if you hadn't always been afraid.  LS