“Rapa Nui”

Rapa Nui, the totem head
frown at every seagull
and at everyone out of volcano eyes.
our ton of pumice skin
sits tightly upon greened grassed land,
alive as lettuce.
arms in stone at attention.
We are the reflexion of the Guardian-Kings that
do not sway and move,
even though the sea is real as rich water turquoise
meeting dark shade cabbage color of dawn.
we just saw it as
Rapa Nui and we know it as home.

LAD to Rapa Nui(Easter Island)1/18

“Queen of January”

Above great expanse of Lake in a fully window’d castle,
l her lair of glass shine their raw silver residue.
Ships came aground on smooth blue shiny sapphire sand,caught
by Lake Superior’s hands-the icy floe foes:
This is terror to a lakie ore carrier,
All armed with a propeller
That does not go.
Their legs can’t move,
That ice gots you locked in the sound and you are loaded with no where to go.
This is the Queen of January’s work
Winter is a monarchy
She commands in absolute fury
Keeps ships within her hands closed.
Rules with eyes blue to iris.
She dreams up horror
Of ships with no where to go
LAD 1/18




“the good ship 2017 is sinking underneath our shoes!”

on December 31st, i suddenly feel the bed quaking.
underneath it, as a glacier cracking and sinking its icy hull, is 2017 dying.
our calendars we toss away the whole year, melting into rivers for the next 365 days, from glaciers frozen wreck.  i hope to stay afloat on a makeshift life raft on the 1st of January, and to drink, be merry, to bring in the new year’s harvest.



“People’s Sun Bank”


and the sunlight we ‘ve put away with interest,

we yield a little every day, after fiscal solstice in our account.

every follicle saturated in sunlight on a Saturday.

“sun of Mann”


fro’ battle of Ronaldsway,
far from gasps of Fo Hallo, and Iree-Magh,
cometh kingdom of mann and isle,
peel castle is the wet sun.
tis around time of the last norse king Magnusson,
lo’before Tynwald Days and the one only road,

LAD 11/17

Hoptu Naa

Isle of Mann,
no moots,
hoptu naa is Halloween Day
besides soddag vallo,
their turnip with anger face has a smile.

LAD 11/17


“it is only early december of a young Winter King”

someone to be king and him is He.
this Winter King see his reflection in every snowflake.
as per his shaven Caesar skin , his whiteness preserved.
over this skin naked as napkin,
body ensconced in faux polar fur bathrobe, it is only gown he wear,
bedraggled now over snowy face of floor.
in his grand opera pantheon,
he tastes morning air.
it tickle through his blueish-blondish Gentile hair curls-akin to Alexander would, have.
from precipice  of Enger Mountain lair,
him and his  Janitor.

the mortal Janitor with passive Hessian-aggressiveness,
simmers quiet tea kettle,
he has worked for many rulers change course of the year ,
throughout springs and summers.
the spring brings rain but sunny days,
the summer brings sweat and lawns to be mowed.
the last monarch haughtily got rid of leaves, had halloween exploits
fueling wonder with starchy colors.
he fell dead in an
autumnatic free fall in a leaf pile.
the Janitor just raked and built that leaf mass grave.
and here’s to another king.

the Winter King’s rule begun when heavens cotton
gave, coronation to the amateurish winter emperor.
the season was fleece and sheepish.
the Janitor is  filled with the zealous indifference
to his majestic sovereign satisfying
reign of cold crystal delights.
the young Winter King white privilege display
padding down fluffy down by footprints as soon as
Janitor picks the snow up.
everywhere the Winter King sneezes or blows his nose,
the kingdom freezes, it froze;
from what is his chilly
vodka lungs.
this cold barrage of banter rattles the hut formed by coniferous and warmth,
is where Janitor reads in there.
the Winter King’s work leaves Janitor bounding behind him working in the open air igloo.
the Janitor’s main weapon, the shovel, could not easily erase the snow.
Janitor believes that winter is indeed the stubborn season of chaos.
it breeds water formations that cannot be chiseled by pick or mop.


when the season doused pine trees in anti-fire perspirant.
and hot chocolate roads topped in frothing, the king’s court
comes anarchy.
the nazi snowman, ice princess, and the snow angel throw snow
everywhere leaving a tintinnabulation with
cups, plates in dead freezing imprisonment.

in a silver chair made out of tongue smooth glistering glycerine,
Winter King
sees and sniffs a pile of steam emit from screens in streets far away.
he stares smoking a charred icicle hating the hot.
“someone to be Winter King, and him is me.
I am the winter before the  oxygen,
when I wink , I  make breaths, ” pronounce frigid winter Shah.
done with his icicle cigar, he hammers it on the cocained floor with a heavy fur boot.
and continues to stare hating that hot he sees from shady Sun.

the Janitor, whose name is Adam, was built first before leaders,
loves the hot core in his human torso.
there in that hut feeling from the pores, the gusty real snow,
he fantasizes through imagination on what must be done with that
Winter tsar.
there will be a great echo  to break loose the scalding cold seams
a vesuvius, earthquake break and the whole steel cold structure
will be all chipped and cubed and crumbling down.
and there will be a soda drink and just ice for the Janitor.
LAD To AMR 12/17



“snow comes down in flakes”

it is the polished steel graze,
sandy sound,
both razor across thick creeks from my hand,
only I hear as I cringe whispers
from arrogant hipster lips
discussing how heavy his
head keeps up the snow

LAD 12/17

“Bentleyville has replaced the stars”

when winter comes a rude force,
denizens of Bentleyville huddle for warmth,
under persiflage of incandescence.
i try to remain aloof
driving past their makeshift bright
christmas casino carnival
near carnal canal park,
where distraction is their motto with glassed
fire from veins and veins jig jagged choking trees
shouting colorful
flame bulbs  at my retinas.
i will sue if i harbor cancerous growth from their silly holiday microwaves.
LAD 12/17


the fuel commissar gave us a couple of millimeters of degrees on the thermostat.
this is an improvement over my lazy days at Kolyma,
when i left my dead body there in a penal battalion gathering coal,
both black and anthracite.
in this current climate how does this vast winter’d weather’d internment camp of solidarity house contain its winter load?
we struck winter hard that year.
we are set up across vulgar Volga from a whole expanse of a cities’ fire,
from across the ice bridge covered in wet whipped creams.
in those wintering days, we burn every member of ember effig’d.
we found whatever darling keepsake except books and coats and then we burn.
we did burn cookbooks, cause we could not eat them.
we burn every wart of left over ash.
i left emotions and large amounts of sympathy  aground that year.
if my heart was not so poriferous, i would throw that in the stove.
as for the cat, whose coat we left it keep, whose inner engine was a diesel puttering station,
i wore the cat like a scarf to preserve a scratch  of  worth of warmth on my neck.
we ate grease and houseplants for the calories.
i wore my beard through out that life.
i  believe the end of our siege of our void warmth house
was when the steam plant phoenixed its hot sweat.
it was like pores as bees into honeycomb we felt this shuttering glow.
the fuel commissar let his taste some of this sweat,
i drew a cake for him on an iron slab we saved for the occasion.
from then on i felt my boots.
my circadian rhythm knows how to dance.
my pheromones now run on time.
LAD 12/17