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In every room
I've lived in,
all the dilapidated shacks
over the years that I've
stayed in, always had a
brown spider that crawled
the walls.
It had a little suitcase.

I thought to myself that it
planned on leaving, moving to
someplace better.
It never did.
It always just set up shop, and
spun a web in the corner and caught
flies, and occasionally a small moth.

On drunken sad moon nights,
I sang dirges to the trapped bugs.
They smiled and laughed, even though
they were dying.
Here is a link to a brand-new poetry reading I did.  It's available on my you tube channel https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cz70MOS_JX8    I have three books available on Amazon:  Sleep Always Calls, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, and It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse.
~
Refraction
Love passes through
And changes
Direction
Let it hold sway
The heart leans toward catastrophe
In the blue headlights
Of parenthood
Mom and dad
Suspended from a pivot
Their offspring
Asleep on a sunbeam

~
Used to know you
I don't now
Not sure that I want too
Negative to the max
If its Depression
Talk to a professional
I take my leave temporarily
Don't want to walk in tbe path you folllow now
Your used to bes got up and left
Doom and gloom
No Thanks
kid
i wish i could go back in time
and see my younger self
and warn him
that it would only get worse
im relapsing with depression again. i miss how it used to be
. (or: the god who called me “sir”) .

He entered like a prophecy mispronounced
storm-soaked, sky-buttoned,
his coat dragging dusk across the floorboards,
eyes lit like stolen copper.

My drink was a cathedral of neglect—
neat bourbon, no ice,
echoing the taste of promises embalmed in dust.
I drank the same way I pray:
sparingly, and to a god I no longer trust.

He didn’t sit; he disrupted.
Barstools shifted like tectonics,
shadows coiled around his boots,
and the jukebox skipped a beat to watch him move.

“You look like someone who’s been patient too long,”
he said, voice lacquered in soft thunder,
vowels curling like smoke from a burnt vow.

I gave him my laugh
a cracked heirloom I no longer polish.
He wore it like cologne
and leaned in as if to inhale the ruin.

His hands were myths retold badly
trembling between gentleness and guillotine.
He touched the rim of my glass
like it was my mouth,
and drank it wrong—
reckless, like he’d never been told no
and didn’t believe in scarcity.

The night flexed around us.
My watch stopped ticking.
Time, the faithful beast I’d trained
to lie at my feet,
lifted its head and whimpered.
Part I of Chronogamy introduces the mythic lovers—an older man caught in the gravity of time, and a younger force of disruption dressed in charm and danger. The meeting is quiet but seismic: a study in tension, recognition, and the invisible transfer of power that begins the moment desire is named.

This opening movement establishes the tone of myth as noir, where gods wear leather and wounds speak in metaphor. The poem explores the moment just before surrender—the seductive chaos of meeting someone who doesn't just challenge your structure, but studies it.

Here, Saturn first sees Jupiter—not as a rival, but as possibility. And that, as the speaker begins to sense, is always where undoing begins.

The Chronogamy Collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136301/chronogamy/
We’ll hitchhike to mars
on a rocket not a car,
so say your au revoirs.

We’ll steer towards Polaris, the north star
right through the center of the milky-way-bar.
See, the universe is dark and chocolatey.

Stars that glitter like multi-faceted gems,
are just shiny, yellow, peanut M&Ms,
take a handful, if you’d like, they’re free.

We’ll dodge the silhouetted moon,
which is made of enough coconut macaroon,
to make a French confectioner swoon.

As we go streaking, like a comet’s tail,
drag a finger through Saturn’s rings as well,
those are made of marshmallow.

We’ll  pass nebulae made of cotton-kandi,
and here’s a fact Einstein would have found handy,
the speed of light doesn’t apply to candy.
.
.
Ramble on by Toni Jevicky
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