Welcome to Louis Milo Poetry

To Let

2011-08-10T10:47:00.000-07:00

A pretty, little plain girl holds her father’s hand

--stooped down with wrinkled hands to meet cradle smooth fingertips

Today, they walk in the park on one of those

“perfect days” spring-time Technicolor, and blossoms

and blossoms. Its green and sunny and they both squint.

Spotted dandelion tuft bouncing in the breeze

Her rose patterned dress bounces behind her as

she pulls away in its chase.

I Remember

2011-07-12T21:21:00.000-07:00

I remember

seeing an angel once cast down into the streets

--or perhaps running

from an enemy

his wings

broken plume

a halo knotted in tufts

of greasy hair

linen garb mud caked

and stained

squatting like a feral dog

in the gutter

yellow teeth pinked in blood

eating a

dirty

dead

pigeon--

its chest ripped and gnawed

its head cocked to the side

in a way only a dead bird could

I remember

something wild in his eyes--

they weren't his eyes

anymore

they were not eyes

anymore

Bulbs that saw

and burnt themselves cut

like a man turns his head

closes his mind to the

perversions of humanity--

twitching hipsters chasing

vein throb visions of

the future

the flies on eyes of hungry

bloated children

the rolled up windows and

busied hands of righteous

motorists claiming their

Throne in heaven. By God

By Allah

By Christ

By Source

as they ignore cardboard

in carrion hands

withered widows think oflove

and the sands of time.

while train-track memories

drooled off their chin

pointed fingers gawking

and smooth girls afraid to see

Their future.

Yes,

The angel's

Eyes preferring darkness

preferring to blot out

Chronos' carnage

and young children stare to watch it go by. Corrupted

Corrupted and not yet disturbed

they are too young to remember

They are too young to know so they keep open their eyes--

No stars for the angel's eyes

like a cloudly night

sky

He didn't care

So, I stood

there

and watched him

his dirty face had a sear

over his left eye

and a scar ran down his chest

I remember

I remember thinking

those must be

the scars of love.

Who Rots Dogwood Blossoms

2011-05-09T01:59:00.000-07:00

who threads the ivory needle and
embroiders leaves on twig and bough
tacks on spring buds
beneath the frosty breath
to bring the brittle branches life

who hems the winter desert
with blazing dogwood blossoms
touching magenta thimble thumb
with welcoming aroma

who rots the dogwood blossoms
to fall in a pungent splendor
leaving strung up thread-ends
blowing in the breeze

Rt. 25 (Dixie)

2011-05-05T11:08:00.000-07:00

Dixie, my Dixie. Now.
the Soldiers never footed
           Along your swampy path.
cauterized footpath, cleaned up
for eighty-five percent
of the population
YOU scare cyclists and
          Along your swampy path
I find skid marks, plastic bits
broken mirrors introducing
your asphalt to
new strip mall frenzies.
          They shall soon be closed.
Dixie, my Dixie, Claim
back your earth, Call the trees
home. and Provide the crickets a bedded rest

My Bones Will Stand Past Many Seasons

2011-04-24T17:27:00.000-07:00

The damp cold air
Gnawed at my flesh
Like a dog scraping its teeth on chicken bones
The cold is fleeting,
My flesh is fleeting
But my bones will stand past many seasons,
Tibia, tibia to
Skull, two holes
Empty as universes
Without a diamond star inside
And stoic as a stone statue.

A Personal Vision of Vanishing Wildlife's Ode to Joy

2011-04-24T17:21:00.000-07:00

childhood eyes reached the lake
the shallow stones off
seemingly endless water

toe of my boot embedded in the dirt

about the feel of
about the sight of
uncovered bits of red siding

beneath the soles of my feet
clamshells and small
minnows darting
in swift dark fleets

"it does smell
but that's ok
if I suffer from eating it all"

Adumbrated Words

2011-03-01T20:17:00.000-08:00

Sage. Cinnamon.

Poetry poetry poets see poets in bed

Poets of the head saying "there’s bullshit in the tree."

Poets needing bedded rest.

Poetry giving them rest.

And the rest?

She thought the rest could hear her heart-beat

When he reached back to hold her hand

une fleur d'intimitée

When he first pressed his Tanqueray mouth to her

sticky-lip lips-- her long time loveless lips

menthol cigarette lips

lips for him. Lips on him, around him, whispering lips in his ear

saying “Kaff, Kaff Kerouac” and him too

Lips to form the words of poetry

--tiptoeing tongue to ear, and kissing words

She called him her poem. He was her poem,

that he was there, never touching her there. And where?

She lays there now, hopeless, waiting for him to steal

a glimpse

of her.

--Quiet eyes and bearded face, thin

in her night time glimpse of another world.

And when that face smiles ‘neath cloudy brow

she wants to stay for another day--

She sat, stroking his thumb until he looked back

To smile and squeeze. To inform her

that tomorrow will have words, too.

The slate gray sunlight cracked through the blind

of a night time read.

She hopes for a cicatrix’d heart

around letters deep in cinnamon bark.

My Dear Dead Aunt Doo

2011-02-21T19:18:00.000-08:00

The sweet smell of eucalyptus like winter

wreaths, bags of cotton balls,

popsicle frames filled with tiny watercolors,

menageried elephants trumpeting on the shelf,

the Victorian dollhouse we painted last summer

Coke-bottle flower vases full of plastic stems,

and plastic petals, bits of cut up hemp string

after she taught me to knot macramé on that rug,

bowlfuls of wooden beads and glass pearls

waiting to be woven, strung, or embroidered--

near bloodied walls, where he raped her

where he took her cash and discarded her

dead on the linoleum floor

a knotted scrap of hemp

Break-Up Chore

2011-01-31T23:49:00.000-08:00

Change me!

change me change me

With whispered songs or screaming bouts

Shadowed sounds: Mr. Matthews--

“We can do better than anything that we did

you know that you and me

we can do anything”

--Unwashed dishes in stagnant sink

snakey grease-lines sunning on suds--

Hold me with shaking fingertips
and under them too--

I take my tea in other rooms

And hope that fingers shrivel or shrink away

Laptop -- laptop screen saving chores

I sit at my desk and type of hope

And love and sex and death

Anxieties crawl up like jungle gym kids

Swinging on every thought

--and Swingin’ them too

Blank black screen mirror: silhouette blink

Plum-brown dark sky outside

sip Blink sip

needing tea, another cup

“Stand up” I plead my legs

“Stand up!”

Fin, fin about tan Tupperwares

Bulbous soap suds cling to sides

Screaming: “Save me!” The stench inside them

Around them, of them. They pop,

one by one by one

I swim along to my whim

In that sticky, stink sink

Pop

Conversation on Age

2011-01-31T23:38:00.000-08:00

“Cicadas shed skin,”

They say, the Royal We

“So too, will you,

leave a slight trace”

Like lovers lain in adjoining tombs,

Our mossy lips danced about jar fly songs--

Their spittlebug buzz, and ours too.

We sat sipping wine

Singing under orange-blue skies

We took bets on whether sunrise

Or sunsets -- where sea ends

Or sky begins

Burgundy-black tannins slide down the sides

--‘Til we sip some more--

Your glass with no bottom

My glass with no rim

Allegory of the Cave Discussed on a Lunch Break

2011-01-15T22:26:00.001-08:00

Kissing whispers into’n ear--

tink tink-- of a lightful flame

Ceaseless and cool to touch.

“Just talking shop,” he says,

but I overheard him say it too

Grease stained, grit black nailbeds--

“Don’t go getting poetical

Just bringing nothing but trouble back”

Plum plump, or tasty too

and mouthfuls and mouthfuls

Toe tripping on caveyard cracks

Matchbook strikers send sparks, and us too.

I asked

It doesn’t really matter to me or to whom shall I look

What Is Poetry?

2010-12-14T12:36:00.000-08:00

Poetry, good poetry, washes over the soul like an Ocean claims a ship for Its menagerie, along with good men. When the last word is finished and one is grasping for air, the reader, one who has opened the heart and mind, will learn to swim, and become strong in the sojourn to the shore of understanding, insofar knowing a little more about the universe around and within them; some may correctly argue they are one in the same. It is an exposition of the artist bearing all, beauty and ugliness, for the sake of that which is bigger than judgment, for truth. He stands naked, in his poems for all to see and judge and become inspired. It creates the most intimate of relationships between reader and artist. This is more intimate than sex, or love, or even the relationship between the Divine and Its subjects. This relationship to the artist is bittersweet, for whether or not the artist’s poem is accepted or disliked weighs heavily on the weak hearted, while those whom care not of what is deemed good or bad and accept that which is will revel in the exposure. And so too, will the reader get drunk in beauty and truth and love and death and sex and above all else, sagacity.

Poetry can, too, be like a bricklayer’s trade. A poet uses words as stones, crosses through life’s mud as a way to understand or want for clarity of what otherwise makes no sense. These stones wield the path behind the footprints of the artist, and for his own soul and others. For ages poets have used words as an account, or path, to find beauty in themselves. To dwell in the words and emotions, made by the calm mind is to extend a glimpse to the light inside. It is with the words of truth and pity, and piety that the poet finds enlightenment. This poet, disciplined in his art, in his realized universe, and abundant with listenings from the heart is the poet whom finds Voice. No longer does this poet dwell in the whinings of angst and immature despair, but rather uses such as instruments to grow and promote growth.

What deep and clear axiom is embodied and can be autopsied in a poem! That which is taken out of a poem differs among readers, and more importantly among the same reader at different times, as well as the poet himself. These interpretations are beautiful for they are exactly what the audience needs to hear; they are that which stems a tree of reality (or at the very least temporeality). That is to say, poems are the mirrors through which we see ourself and our inequity and strength. There, is found: truth.

Many achieve the status of Sage in the realm of words, like Dickenson, Whitman, Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Hughes, Homer, Virgil, Collins, Bukovski, Morrison, Angelou, Knight… Many more strive to achieve it and may hedge mediocrity. It is said that there are two types of poets. First, the great poets; they live life through their poetry, and in turn sacrifice themselves to the quill-tip crucifix. Second is the bad poet. These are the ones that live a life of poetry, and make true happiness a state of mind by living! Then, they slapdashedly jot it down later. I, therefore, pride myself on being a bad poet, and live a life meant for living. I envy those, however, that have make the word their life and exalt them with the fullest esteem I hope to one day hold in my naked hands, palms out for all to see, and judge, and glory.

You Make Me Want To Drink Again

2010-12-14T11:58:00.001-08:00

A life with out love is like a thirst without drink for cure. I float atop a putrid ocean of insufferable tonic, a tease for the liking. I dipped a spoon, and again and again, I tasted the salted waters, tainted with lies. Only two spoonfuls sweeted my tongue, while the rest caused me great disdain. I try again and again, for the tides and waters shall forever change, and I hope to be washed in the sweet again.

Touch my tongue with your honeysweet lips, and tip your chalice for a couple sips. Let me drink from you freely and take you all in, cause I am thirsty for your love, and you make me want to want to drink again. You make me want to drink again.

Chorus: Please don’t go, please don’t go (summer love)

Don’t leave me here all alone

May I Tell You A Secret?

2010-12-14T11:54:00.003-08:00

I wont hold you to it--

You can forget if it suits your taste

I prefer a dry throat, a treat I accidentally provide

The empty swallow that gets stuck half way down

The way I sound, raspy as if years of lessons have eroded sharpness

Like river rocks, static-- stoic

and smooth

Choosing words as fingers pick mulberries,

Stained and fragile

Knowing the best-- slight red and tart to taste

The way they fill my mouth and leave bitter--

Rotten teeth--

Dry, and reminding

shh--

I am here

Stow Away For A While

2010-12-14T02:08:00.000-08:00

He snuck through the steerage, shoulder by shoulder, used two ticketless hands to stow away,

and smile in accomplish.

He peeped, and gawked on grotesques and gargoyle faces, university spectacles on sharp, narrow noses. He sat next to idiots crying Faggot! Queer! Sloshing around their beer. He was drunk too, and pitied himself for silence had stolen his tongue. He was a whim of “several billion cells to be him for a while” for a while.

Charles Mingus! he cried

Hughes, Hughes kissing whiskey and head struck ejaculate,

over and over

Charles Mingus, Charles Mingus

Lost in Translation

2010-12-02T09:05:00.001-08:00

Daughter breadfruit the beauty, ja, ja, aj,

aha, ja, jaita like dog.

they are not my incultados values. very reyna of

Timbaro begs for it but that is not responded to him to the municipal

president after aperitivo.ja, aha, aj, aj we are igualitas.

That nor conoszco, of the beautiful flowers

but of Chuincio pa riba asks to me,

that I sang pirecuas to them in the events,

and were but fine until Polyglot they were so that they dominated that of the language.

you know that pa that us

Untitled [we are like fools to follow]

2010-11-08T09:14:00.000-08:00

we are like fools to follow

and fin

wherever the ocean’s tide decide;

carry your footprints

in a loose woven basket

drop them along instead,

as stale bread to take you along

to a mossy,

dirt bed

Hag

2010-10-06T21:11:00.000-07:00

Squeeze my heart Ms. Holiday,

‘Til red wine flows between your knuckles.

Preludes-- women struck before your grip

Women with polished claws and plum-purple pumps

Gashed my cheek, and toppled. “I’m gay”

I say-- “S’okay,” they say, “you’ll sway,” they say

(but I never do) Blonde hair on sticky red lips

‘Til they puckered to blow some my way--

Calypso, Calypso, call your girls off!

Pick me up and down Billie. Vibrate

Your eargasmic cords, with voracity

Steal a heart or two, but do take mine down

Off that dusty shelf and finger my swinging vein.

(even behind high eyes) Remember--

Wet, dripping envelope, lumpy and beating

“Strange fruit hangin’ from the poplar tree”

Twist your mouth into a smile and lick your metallic wrist.

II.

…

“Thief, thief!” she cries, meager, rattling my shelf.

I take my tea in rooms about, ‘til dust

Reaches her lips-- walking muscle after muscle

A parade, now lugubrious, past her pitiful pout.

“Do you look? Do you tear me up with your follied rot?

“And him too? How’s desperate tastin’ these days?”

I wouldn’t keep her to treasure (next to old magazines and papers)

If an empty mouth tasted sweet as her.

Bubbled in Latin-Glamerican: Pt. 2

2010-09-09T09:14:00.000-07:00

My Boy,

My beautiful Boy

Threads stretch nicely across

That torso

of yours

I know you huddle over the john

to offer your health,

(like muddy puddle’ splashing

on rolled up pant legs)

Can you Fit in it My Boy?

My beautiful Boy

With the faintness of vomit on your lips

And fresh cigarette smoke

To cover up the stench

Sir Doyle and Her

2010-09-07T13:06:00.000-07:00

Metal Click Click

Click spokes go round

On my polished new Schwinn

And her’s too

Fresh of the shop, in Glory

Off to celebrate wind

Metal Clink Clink

Sharp pains in crash

A tumble to gritty street

A stale, hot dust

Candlelit Glimpses

2010-09-07T13:01:00.000-07:00

Burberry et’homme, mingling pheromones

Intoxicating my mind.

Watching Him belly dance nude in the mirror

Flickers of candlelight do so on his skin- too

He grins at me beneath his dark mane

Known to him, my sins I share- freely.

And hope from him- to partake.

Toledo Ain't that Bad

2010-08-26T22:59:00.000-07:00

Eating burnt baby back ribs under dim red lamps

Around wooden tables adorned with good friends and

Conversations:

The difference between nerds and geeks or poets and artists.

We are all one of the sort, in our own way

About Williams and Elliot, the trite bastard and his lake,

Of Monet and Thomas, McCord and Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, a man!

And of love, and death and sex, the girl with good hair he should have fucked:

These things that matter to

Us. Trading and out-shining, and Reciting

In Vanity- drinking Stoli, or bitter DeadMan beer, tasting as though filtered through

One -Til a street sweeper hotfoots past in prep for the erasure of the

Perfect night Shared with lovers

And friends

And others. Lungs hurt from menthols bummed on that porch

We totter home to dreamless pillows, cold and inviting

The North American Poet

2010-08-26T14:01:00.000-07:00

The Nor

th American

Poet tell of tal

es Of love, swo

oning for it

Of sadness

Despairing t

imes and tempests Of

nature, & our betrayal of her

Of God Of Allah Of Buddha Of Christ

Of Source. Poets write of hope while

Neferosity of change reigns. Death Fa

cinates these poets. And life is a muse. The North

They shall wear Guess jeans and a polo American Poet

Or a yellow sundress, maybe red- too Or

perhaps a bathrobe while sitting over

their wooden writing desk comfort

able- and drinking aromatic coffee

They are naked and bear their ug

ly bodies to the world- Hon

est and hiding nothing In Go

odwill shoes preferably a size

too big for room to grow They Tells tales to

hold nothing back. The North A

merican Poet is a hungry creatu

re Voracious for a crumb of stal Dance

e sourdough and a beer or whi

sky sour or a glass of cab- or t

wo if he drums out a good pa To.

ge. He anticip ates good sex

and love and Death. Tomor

row brings D islike of hand

lings of Gulf Coast oil spi

lls “Obama Obama brin

g Our Bro thers a ca

ke and S isters too”

Spill fro m their L

ips. -They must be

hungry to o- Poets f

uck like the y write -Wi

th their hea rt and thro

ugh their hea d -Love that

way too, but Only die wh

en they put do wn the ball

point or quill tip (only use

d by the quee rs) And unpl

ug their lapt ops connect

ing all with their words.

And truth fl ows freely fo

r them and with th

Untitled [All Wait for the Words]

2010-08-25T13:00:00.000-07:00

All wait for the words, some quiet and some

Not for the whispering coos ‘A war is Won’

Bless’d battlements shooting word.

And Limb after Limb, there shall be but few

Left to but raise in exaltation of Him

We only count The battles after they’re lost.

Triviality bears not weight on presidents and

Soldiers and congressmen and women and

Coal miners in sweat stained work suits

Fueling the Glamerican culture of Conceit.

Corpses

2010-08-24T21:05:00.000-07:00

I find it is disheartening

-To think of corpses

Flitting on erudite stairs

-To false pediments- softening feet

With plagiarized blankets.

I once stood for something-

Colonizing a belly, painting wall flesh

As was my home. but wait instead- now

For this beast to vomit

Taken was- our chance of amalgamation

Torsos

2010-08-18T23:29:00.000-07:00

Two mirrored torsos set in beauty, side by side.

First, molded wax, wrought with virgin hands

White on wooden block dwarfed its darker twin.

A chest of brown and pierced nail metals,

Took a second charge in the artists hands.

Two hearts, one in light, and one in fear

Stand side by side in electric light

One of fair and juvenile love,

And one, from weathering tempests

Feigns its callous’ for reckless smiles.

Bubbled in Latin-Glamerican: Part 1

2010-08-18T22:51:00.000-07:00

Erratic lingerings in glass menagerie

He sweated feet to capricious beats

And bought a tumbler and then two.

Soul mounting urbanely, he took

To Glamerica with cultured stride

While leather expansion tightened

In de rigueur preciosity.

Beauty blanketed rationale

Rewinding a spring loaded trap.

Untitled [Deafened Headstruck Fetters]

2010-08-18T22:49:00.000-07:00

Deafened, headstruck fetters;

I no longer hear his love-song chord.

Brittle heart pieces soften over again

To dream his lips against mine

I quiver with infertile craving.

To Kiss His Phantom Lips

2010-08-14T01:10:00.000-07:00

Body, Body! call upon the memories of touch

When he loved you,

Stroked your shell with His unsteady lips

Made moments of headed worship

Tip touching, caressed and finger grazed

Body- Skin dream of his feel.

Conjure his hard quivered case

Kept close and smell His neck

Sex sweated beneath erect

White feather comforts

Dream of him, Body, in gloried life

Sit and tremble in distant loss

Bring it close, and hedge the pain

To kiss his phantom lips,

A thousand times again

Untitled [My Oh My What a Slender Love We Have]

2010-08-04T21:59:00.000-07:00

My, oh my, what a slender love we have.

I beseech you a patience, an indulgence of kinds

You give all to me unblushing, with antiquated baskets

Sucked lips, and bit too hard, are sore

Finger-string post-it for awkward kisses.

Definites tightened cheeks

For a parallel impending,

For the stories we’ll make together

For the lores that we can tether

With threads woven on a wheel

That spins like a clockwork color, and

Takes us both from here.

Risks of Love

2010-07-29T00:37:00.000-07:00

Alms of beating heart,

Hand bloody rare flesh

Appease your voracity

Taste it connoisseur

Maybe seconds come

My plate’s given pretty cheap

Untitled [Heart Aching When Curtains of Comforting Ignorance]

2010-07-27T07:07:00.000-07:00

Heart aching when curtains of comforting ignorance

Flutter in winds of fantasies.

Dorian Gray wrinkles, across my painted face

Haunt in tiered assemblage.

Sinned brushstrokes for Warhol’s envy

And slapdash colors mixed on withered face

Brooding eyes from a lover once known,

Look at the Ignorant One in sharp lighting

A twinge, and acceptance,

Whitewash and details.

With recognition comes his youth-soul restoration.

If But For a Moment

2010-07-26T23:15:00.000-07:00

Unbuttoned and gritty, I laid there, comforted by the dark.

I shared secrets with you, a brochure to my past.

Your eyes held me, as they looked on.

Judgments were staved; love however cold was welcomed

I smile now, for I know that I will’ve had a held hand

If but for a Moment.

If i Only Had Three Arms

2010-07-26T22:34:00.001-07:00

If i only had three arms to hold down the untied ends

So they wouldn’t snap up and slash.

And twelve-finger room for all my pledged rings

i need a second head to think twice as well,

And faster too.

But maybe a spare heart will do,

When I set my first one to break

It’ll beat on for a time, until I had nothing else to lose.

My new body would keep me able,

While the little one I'm in, can

Only stretch my skin too tight

Across the throat, and torso

So, I hem a seam or two

Til my thread spool runs bare, and

I spill out on the black top,

Burning hot to innard’s touch

And exposed for all to see.

The Wise Man and the Intellect

2010-07-17T07:30:00.000-07:00

Withered robes hung from weathered bones

On shoulders that stretched up toward the sky

Posture turned stiffness and the laudable notings of

A wise man turned rancid while the youth waited for

Something they wanted to hear Ears not touched with

Pleasure they forgot They forgot him

How true his actions were How easily his truth was twisted.

How silly his wisdom seemed to the minds of

Those that dictate and think and know

To Validate the Truth of Love

2010-06-20T22:46:00.000-07:00

Puzzle pieces heavy to touch
Shall Shatter glasses upon descent

And Fill the picture, for life cannot take
Guess work follies and
Edgar pitted, cherry blossom advertising,
Blue marionetteer knotted strings
Leech their puppets of Gilded burrows

Smile and Touch scared skin yet loved
Seeded ammo roulette player
Plant stock and grow another
To surrender the truth of love

Absinthe Makes the Heart grow Fonder

2010-05-30T09:33:00.000-07:00

Learn From Our Ancestors

2010-05-25T19:51:00.000-07:00

The Politics of Heartbreak

2010-05-25T15:06:00.001-07:00

Untitled [In My Skin Hanging Loosely from My Cauterized Head, Draping]

2010-05-24T15:14:00.000-07:00

In my skin hanging loosely from my cauterized head, draping,
I unzip and slip contemplatively into my bed
The process of getting to know the human race is humbling
For a person of my cerebral capacity.
And I replay the day…

Instrumental Tongue, Tell The Tale To Dance To

2010-05-24T15:07:00.000-07:00

The tongues of creation, sang a melody to dance to.
He was named Lyric to clear throat, and spit us from his lips
For the last time, ‘til we meet again, we fly
It is beautied wind that carries us to our destination,
It is Earth mother that opens her bosom to soften our descent into what is fated and full.
Her instincts swell her and we now inhale in a mirrored mocking of worship
Sister moon ebbed her waters and we then exhale to mimic the waving retreat
It is Wings break off in the landing, while we skid in a torrent of plumage to our sold out destinations They flew into Clouds were made this day, and man looked up and saw birds and bunnies and revolution

That day, a long time ago, we had fetted hands, fingers stretched to another and grasped for a sign that we feel now, and forever young and crawling we bobbed our heads to the beat of mother’s bosom. That heart ticked away slowly and calculated to a melody of our love Beat beat beat, said her bosom, and we knocked it back, beat beat.

Instrumental tongue sang out to Lyric’s strained cords,
A harmony Fell even unto the ears of the deaf, the dumb Danced and the dead now Trembled in righteous anticipation.
Bulls were Cast in gold and finned twin fish in silver, and Quartz Gods Settled their ass cheeks into alters while Instrumental Tongue Talked to us.
Listening follied voodoos Pricked up their ears and Picked up their feet, paraded in the sands of lovers
While Bedded children, full and trembled sang along Stravinsky’s foul notes,
While Lullibied beasts of night time reign bequeathed the throne to those in gloried rays,
He called out to antagonized widowed weepers, bandaged with ropes, in a fevered splendor, do you not dance?
Filling the streets with chameleon love struck lovers,
A pulse Rang throughout, omnipotent and splendid, vibrating the strings between us and between us,
While he called out to Creole tongued musicians brass lipped and sun burnt
They Smiled in the fleeting recognition of him, and inspired all, then with their song
The Rasti’s pot stained fingers snapped to the beat of mother’s bosom
While Monocled catholic children, kneeled and Pitied the yogis and chai drinkers while They smiled in recognition
tranny hookers pulled on pumps and clicked their heels to the beat
While peg legged pirates stubbed their toes on the isles left behind, while the yacht men paraded breadcrumbs of nickel and gold.

Balances were lost on our day of plum. The balance was there before lyric called out the name of you and me and Faeder Ure, my grandfather’s grandfather and yours
That balance was there before the beat beat of mother’s bosom and Yo- tongues creation song, that balance was there and that balance still Is. Open your ears and see that syllable called om. Open your eyes and hear the silence between the beat beat beat.
Instrumental tongue does not ask why we dance only of us that we do
Through the shivers of a fevered Earth mother, feel that temperature rise, to cure, and mollify a scale of pebbled clinkin’ happenings
Know that the beat beat will be bounced back, and we will live on through the shrill trill of earthquakes and quivers.
Know that we will pick up the pieces of our alters that crumbled like stale bread.
Know that we will evolve and revolve back to the embedded hibernation of conscious realization taking stock in nothing at all.
Know that the beat beat of her bosom will carry us all,
Know that we know all when we were young, and filled our heads with the judgments of humanity. Know that we can once again smile in the ebbing waters and beautied wind,

Know that we will once again take airs and be spoon fed back to heaven.

For Helen

2010-05-24T14:49:00.000-07:00

Grass blades worship throne
An artist taking stock in faces
Of blank fettlings
Tapping pens to rhythms
Stravinsky should draw, Green.

Top hat vibrated by buzzes
Through a hedged Head.
Fetting art for fetted art

Eye drop, tea tipped

Tim Burton soliloques
On a cotton filled summer eve.

Cronos should be jealous
'Cause Time stopped today

Untitled [Ethereal Efficacy]

2010-05-16T12:41:00.000-07:00

Ethereal Efficacy
Engineered in airs
Entwine around everyone

White sunglasses

2010-05-05T15:03:00.000-07:00

White sunglasses like a bug
Trace the tanlines on blistered
Dark skin. Strutting in
his heavy, holey coats that
Man takes stock of whats around.

Stop, Think, Life

2010-04-20T22:09:00.000-07:00

2010-04-19T21:27:00.000-07:00

If Lost Please Return To...

2010-04-19T20:54:00.000-07:00

The Fabulous Life of Me

2010-04-18T20:43:00.000-07:00

The line between art and pornography has always been a fleeting one to place. Arguments over what is art and what is pornography began when Adam took a bite of that delicious fruit for which we all yearn. I enjoy obscuring that line a little more in my work. This piece in particular represents the form of passion, desire and truth in its natural form, while paying tribute to the recognition of the distorted image we portray for others. We all like to swim in the grays of controversy, blindly searching for the answers, but not all of us let the world know.

Stand Up

2010-04-18T19:47:00.000-07:00

This is the first of a series of 'Visual Poems' that have been inspired by the need to break out of the realm of conventional left to right word arrangement. Words can bequeath an idea, they have the ability to challenge thought and invoke understanding, awareness and knowledge of truth and beauty to all who are exposed to them. It is on the reader to tap into that energy. This is an exposition in the field of word and picture provocations. As words are beautiful, they should be gloried and empowered to the fringes of human capacity! Here, in this visual poem, I challenge you to take these words to the edge of your understanding, and find something about yourself as well as the piece in front of you.

Excerpt from 'Captive' performed by Nate Zeigler

2010-03-17T21:05:00.000-07:00

I rake the Book of Words
to find one to bring to you
To fold it up in origami
A swan to fly and follow you
After I let you go
On that napkin I wrote my soul
And let it go for you
I am nothing now
Alone in those walls I built for you
And Pray I never find
A napkin stamped
'Return to sender'

I am waiting

I am waiting

Neon Capitalist

2010-03-04T15:51:00.000-08:00

Naked, Pussy, glass-eyed
And dancing woman
Rocking soft body in tune
A gaze past the faces of men into a shower of
Crinkled ones
And she smiled slightly in the neon light.

Untitled [Tender Loneliness]

2010-02-23T12:56:00.000-08:00

Tender loneliness
Embrace his sails with your breath.
Take him from his roots,
His birth of bounty's ugly seed
And journey with him in quest
To astound the world with truth
Befallen unto knotted hands and
Treaded body parts.
An empty ear, my friend
Waits for nothing, yet truth
Will disappoint.

Surgery of an Ex-Lover

2010-02-07T20:09:00.000-08:00

Prep for the knife now
Take will, and stock, and hedge here
Cut across the heart.

Accidental Splendor

2010-02-04T15:39:00.001-08:00

Our Father,
Tell me what to call a shrouded grin, for my words fail me in accidental splendor.
With clouded eyes cast down upon our follies, I feel the chuckles rocking you heavily;
I seek solidarity in my staving heart, and in my soliloquy I confess a readied reluctance for retribution.
The kind has given much attention to my masonry, and brick by brick I rebuild; a migrant filing from oxidized modern mules, put to plow til sweated brow and caliced hand take.
Mortar mollifies you know, I know you know when I hear that devious chuckle bellowing through my veins, that the wrecking ball may strike again.
Rephrase, stumble over my tongue, I ask again, Our Father, what to call a shrouded grin.
A parafoil perhaps, the nongrid, parachute-like nylon airfoil of ribbed or cellualr construction, constricting my descent into turbulent terratory.
Or even an ewer, a now priceless, now useless piece of pottery from a time no one remembers, but stories stave te philosophy of ritual propriety, and no one will ever forget it was once celebrated to contain
Emptiness.
Maybe the word is wahine, riding a wave and flowing on her own celebrated vesselature.
Painted Warhol prose on bathroom stalls pre-emt me to possibility of
Perfume, aromatic tangebility of him, olfactory lingerings beyond Apollo's reign.
Cupido, the thirst from staredowns with cylanders filled with shallow waters.
Maybe the word follows 'L'
Leeway. Ledger. Leg-of-mutton. Launder.
Loon. Locomotive. Legalist. Lavender.
Legato. Latino. Lather. Lair.
Launch. Laudanum. Laugh. Lecture.
Loin. Logical. Leatherback turtle.
But Father, Our Father
I just want to want him,
Perhaps, maybe, just maybe, the word is
Hm.

Untitled [What King Should Be Revered]

2010-01-19T21:39:00.000-08:00

What king should be revered!

Patchwork grins on that park bench,

A dolman to his liking.

He, clad in tattered robes

Of indigo and deep purple and

Crown donned with shining thorns,

Is worshipped by clean cheeks,

And passersby send

gifts of averted eyes.

Forgotten Black Woman

2010-01-19T11:03:00.000-08:00

Chrysanthemum stitched dress

Warm color contrasting cool skin

Blue-black and swishing, she rocks,

Swinging arms.

Ardent tremors take over

That soft body. Dirt boulevard

Uninvitedly kisses her cheek.

Shackled and steeled, face

Printed and plowed; pedal

After pedal passed by her eye and

Salted water met that street.

Untitled [Blue hued dew comes through when I seek you]

2010-01-12T11:50:00.000-08:00

Blue hued dew comes through when I seek you,
And shine a ring of thorns upon your crown.
Stumbling quietly into your lair,
I bring the Ancient with an accidental purpose
To meet an indifferent eye.

Organic Nucleus

2009-11-16T21:49:00.000-08:00

You got all bezoomnied and berzerkified when I cut you off from my razzmatazz,
and I said ain’t that the jazz. ‘n You, ain’t that some shit. And will we ever end up together?
And you talk of lifetimes coupled and fêted hands, of the organic nucleus that is once and forever called love.
Of the man cherry blossoms floating on coke, winded and blundering about a gay bar searching for their new toy of a lifetime.
Of the soliloquies invested to a term of endearing companionship, riddled with irony and bittersweet background music playing along.
Of clamoring imagery that sets the head on a buzz of unrelinquished infatuation, on a high so high, I get dizzy and spin out of my walls.
Of the perpetual duality of grins and grim losses of that thing, that is once and forever called love.
Of the mountain peaks, rock climbers call to and coddle and cuddle and cum on its summit.
Of the sewers station, spewing sinister shit, all over the coupled fingers, tied in a torrent of tempests and featureless awe.
Of the climb, rock tripping, toe tumbling and breathy warm ascents.
Of the scattered duels dooming one to a dolmen in Chicago.
Of the city of love, Paris, France, the enchanté the excuse of language-less looks stolen and smiles shared.
Of the man, woman, man relationship spreading more of its festering righteousness all over our light.
Of the shadows cast in its plight, to populate our world.
Of our way to do our part, and take down two fuck-makers, and settle, picking up the pieces left behind.
Of the way to gaiety, happiness that is.
Of the self interested narration of the story in this nation, our tumultuous hibernation.
Of the embedded realization: the politics have entered your bedroom.
Of my cold and brittle handshake, saying bye, you’re getting too close, and my heart is turned to low, on simmer, and I’m gonna sit and stew, on you..
Of your bitter understanding, that I’m in love…with me. And I don’t share.
And we laughed at the ridicuality of the sitch. And we swam in our follies.
The baffled kings throw curiosity from their thrones, And we laughed.
Beauty waned in Chicago, and I was off to Toledo, Ohio,
Where the marble arches are gutted and glued.
Uneven pavement plays tricks with my balance, and the holy Toledo,
Drew a breath and blew; hot, aspirated air stings my eyelids forced,
And in the squints I saw the light. Cold and bitter, I slept alone and dreamt or dreamed if you prefer
Of becoming an angel, too cool for wings though,
And dressed in my slaughtered skin leather jacket, fag in one hand and torch in another
I stood in the street, Halsted and Belmont, and took it all in.
Wooly and warm, I took to the corners of Collingwood and Monroe
Tea tipped and pouring, over the rim, white porcelain patterned cups, mollify but a few drops,
Throwing the rest all over. I took it all in.
Too cool to show it hurt, I leaned back and smiled.
Of that balance tipped hammock, netted and tied to two trees
Of the Buckman bridge, connecting the lands between Jacksonville Fla and Jacksonville Fla
Of the street-smart smoking’ trick, meticulously looking for his pick to pay for his fix,
And then he does. Of the train track memory taking me back to the days of wine and roses.
Of that transitory glint flickering in the room, bombshell casings littered my feet as I tread smoothly forward in a curious manner, placating my passions of intensity.
Of that boy in the brush, cowering from imaginary thorns encasing his body.
Of the luke warm kisses shared with boys of all backgrounds, mendicants and coal miners.
Of the toothy smiles gawking from girls of a different candor.
Of how you made me wet dripping soaked in passionate splendor.
How you stole my head and hid it in the treaties of nations, and the harbors of patience. How you took my limbs and shoved them neath bedpost and bureau, drawer after drawer, you stuffed me among your things, and then I was among your things, and I was yours.
I dreamt, or dreamed if you prefer, of that organic nucleus that once is and forever known as love,
And I think damn, ‘cause the fucked up part is - is that I need it just as much as you do.

Call This an Exposition of the Soul

2009-11-10T21:22:00.000-08:00

Mummified follies scantly clad,
dance.
Harlot seashell abstain
sustenance swell mediocrity delight.
Faggot-worn

and insofar rubber tight seals
forthwith to cosmic priestly furrows. Again,
night embraced
fuck
love drunk
amongst rabbit bits that
hungry children cast bountifully
across rivers. Mantras mollify among peacock pears.

A chance to swim in dreamscaped wonderlands.

Too real, I mused,
canoe tipped hems, hanging threads
of blue dew, Dorian Gray sex makers,
through redheaded streets iced for: beauty, truth, twins.

Inspiration

2009-11-09T22:27:00.000-08:00

Humanity it seems is a fettered condition contingent on one's weakness and heart. To recognize emotion is to accept this condition. Furthermore, to express emotions, especially one's driven of the heart inasmuch as unreciprocated infatuation, desire, lust, covetousness; is to stretch to one's soul. This weakness is insofar this recognition and as much this expression.
This weakness is to be glorified! For it is the soul that is the object of true men's pursuit. For ages poets have used words as an account, or path if you will, to find such flawed beauty in themselves. To dwell in the words and emotions is to extend and glimpse the light inside.
It is with these words of truth and pity that the poet finds his enlightenment. If an individual is to find recognition of his fleeting condition of the soul, he must then think upon his tools of mastery. He must find a way to dwell in his emotional strings tying him to this world. The sun from within shines and flows freely for those who swim in their follys.

Haiku- Untitled [Little balls of truth]

2009-11-02T21:38:00.000-08:00

Little balls of truth,
I juggle them cautiously
In the air they dance.

American Haiku #7

2009-10-21T20:41:00.000-07:00

Born unto life of struggle,
The boy takes virtue.
Beats of his heart remind him.

A Petty Little Page Poet

2009-10-19T23:07:00.000-07:00

I am a petty page poet,
Probing for my place in this world.
I stand and spit
And beautiful words
flit from my lip.
And I fly on a high
from fleeting validations.
I float down from the stage
And land my words on that page.
My teeth gleam as my mouth is pulled tight
In what is known as a smile.
And then, the next act,
Came a man that's traveled a mile;
That one man band
conducting an orchestra,
his velum danced and
pharynx cooed.
His alveolar massaged by tongue
and larynx spewed
words of slam.
And bam.
That poet spattered insults from his teeth,
And I was
beneath his feet.
His symphony of adjectives and pronouns and verbs
Put down their horns and bows
To trade in hand for swords.
The front line, words shielded behind"S-"
Pointed blade at me.
I tell you what,
I went ape shit!
When he spit
That giant stint
"You know you can wordify anything if you just verb it..."
Then for a while, I was to sit
Under a pointed sword, with that arbitrary glint
and write, chewing and stewing over
My ballpoint pen.
I found my sojourn then
In a moment of secular clarity
And thought it was going to be me
A petty little page poet
Grappling for a splint to shield my shattered shit.
Growing and showing my talent
So, fuck the slammer
With his swords,
I, given a hammer,
Compliments to Thor,
Riddled that little Dwarf
Until that fretful dawn.
In the first light,
He let loose a yawn and turned into dust.
Down the hammer, and traded for broom,
I swept and swept and swept,
And slept.
My teeth showing as my mouth
Tightened into what some call a smile
And I laid my head down on
That wordified pillow
And clutched my pen, ballpoint at that;
Knowing that I am That petty little page poet
Putting a pedal on this
earth, And found: a validated gift,
My place in this world.

Untitled [O To You Confessed My Heart]

2009-10-06T20:27:00.000-07:00

O, to you, confessed my heart;
Roaming, my stallion canters
And I stand still and wait
For your capricious lips to part.

I forged an effort in desperate air
And obstinately sounded for
A sign that you are pleased
Or’ve been caused despair.

Shrinking intrepidly into the distance,
Without a corral to hold it close
No master to reign and close upon
That beast of wild persistence.

Drawn from your mouth, a pungent splendor;
Flowed truth warm and breathy.
In hand is beast, roped at last
And tranquil now, and caged once more.

Untitled [Death, Oh Death]

2009-10-03T12:17:00.000-07:00

Death. Oh death.
It scared me once,
But holds no power now,
After I saw him kissing
You, oh you.
I welcome the flight
Far away from this heart,
Once whole and vibrant.

A Petal From The Once Lost

2009-09-29T22:35:00.000-07:00

That little box in the back was opened for me;
Hid before, he had the key.
I stood in hunger; the lid rose,
Slow and calculated.
I leaned forward for a chance to quiet
Curiosity of what’s inside,
I brushed past the cobwebs and dust.
It was but a dried petal from that rose...

Cracked and brittle it crumbles at my touch.
‘Tween my forefinger and thumb
A sentimental smile spreads,
And I look on, stoic,
Before a breath escapes my lips.
Then away and gentle, its floating,
Dusty and cool; In the wind now,
Caught in the sails of that ship in a bottle.

Do Not Deny Me A Glance Upon Your Face

2009-09-23T18:08:00.000-07:00

Do not deny me a glance upon your face.
Make it so and come forth to me
For I cannot know justice or compassion
Until my pallet has your form.
My eyes are blinded by the memory
That embrace, that night-as-lovers.
I hunger for your presence, my friend.
No longer does your memory mollify,
And in my sleep I suck my tongue for
A lingering morsel of your presence; damned
And so, it is against reason to want you,
However, my nature reigns supreme.

Winged One

2009-09-21T15:28:00.000-07:00

Wings are constructed,
Born of Necessity.
I fly from you now, and I take my love
Fastened with wings and next to me,
Companionship soars and soars, and falls
In a tempest of sun and breeze.
I am not saddened in this loss
For it is The Furies Way.
Alone, I shall have my wits won;
And you, an oiled bath for one
Delivered by chance.
Diverged from a destiny,
I fly now to amuse
Swooping for solidarity,
On wings of necessity
Over the edge to a new land
Over the horizon's gate
To a day that’s free of fate.
Lost are the shackles.
Lost is the despoiling hate.
I fly far from the sun.
And in my parting, the lessons' done.

Adeimantus wanted a couch

2009-09-21T15:16:00.000-07:00

Adeimantus wanted a couch, and
Journeyed along for the liking.
With good on his side, and strength
He ventured upon a barrier in regard.
Someone needs to make that couch,
And found, he called them Moderate.
Someone to protect this couch
Is needed to accommodate.
Found the guardian was
And later called upon as Courage.
A Ruler is in order, now,
To fashion around the couch,
With wine the found was witted Wise.
Then, upon the couch he found himself
And he fleeted a branding of Just.
Responsible, then is left alone
Without a subject to be married;
In the feverish city in need of a couch,
The man was nominally mistaken
Taken then was the speech sputtered by the Socratean
And in its place was found a western thought
That capital is for some and for others is obligation
In this place they find truth and grin for they have not.
This man desires as one in many
And as many in one. This man
Can neither be hated nor loved,
For moderation, nor courage nor wisdom
Is afforded this, but made it hitherto.
In this city, we find a couch
Shrouded by desire as need.
Find light and dark is born.
This is justice with a couch.

American Haiku #5

2009-09-11T20:04:00.001-07:00

Fundamentalists,
Searching the crowd for recruits,
Found him: boy in need.

American Haiku #4

2009-09-11T19:59:00.000-07:00

Tranny turned out tricks
On a dark and doleful night.
She's loved and hated.

American Haiku #3

2009-09-11T19:56:00.001-07:00

"The end is coming!"
Prophet calls on city streets.
Walked by, he shed tears.

American Haiku #2

2009-09-11T19:49:00.000-07:00

Girl calls the hotline,
"What if it's going to hurt?"
Nurse replies, "It will."

American Haiku #1

2009-09-11T19:45:00.000-07:00

What's on a park bench:
Battered king on his dolman,
Closing eyes once more.

Tao Reflection #1

2009-09-11T18:24:00.000-07:00

Unseal your tongue and say nothing.
For, there is no more desire in your heart.
Be cautious no longer. For, you have no fear of destiny
Compassion is left in your gentle soul
And a stoic look is emitted from your eyes.
Give to your neighbors that which they desire,
Value that gift as Gift, and refute a nameless battle.
Do not pity them. For, to give pity is to recognize vice.
Heroes are to be ignored, and know that
To commend them is to give power to their foes.
Take not the credit for goodness, and you will have it.
Unseal your tongue and you will have no want.
This is the foundation.
This is the path.

Remembering the Forgettable

2009-09-11T17:50:00.000-07:00

Eight years later, and we forgot
What it means to come together.
Eight years have past, we have no
Handle but that of fear.
Eight years have past, and all
We have are the past eight years,
Something else to fret over.

Numb

2009-09-11T16:33:00.000-07:00

White out.
Little ice bastards
Flew with the air, an attack
On all who don’t concede.
Surrender to it and one will be spared
From their blades, little edges.
They cut and stung me until
I was drunk with pain.
Then, numb.

Reflection

2009-09-11T09:21:00.000-07:00

The rays' reflection
Dance and jump from the
Brown, muddy pond water
I watch, captive and squinting,
Pondering my own time.

Time's a'Changing

2009-09-08T20:31:00.000-07:00

My grandfather's grandfather bound yours by the hand;
And I bound to you by the heart, hand in hand.
Together our colors mix to a beautiful shade of gray.

Provocation of a Mirror

2009-09-07T23:24:00.000-07:00

Sheathed, cool tempered glass,
Illuminated by a bulb has,
The provocation of a mirror;
Makes me feel well and grin.
I laugh as my brother laughs
And
He as me.
My mirror is impractical,
So reigns are sought out.
Smiles are shared in
The distorted window.
And I give him distraction.
I
Creator
And keen in my plight,
Share a plan to prune
And hedge the model.
Dictated, he feels as I feel;
And his face boards elation.

With a Sword Comes the Just

2009-09-01T19:28:00.000-07:00

Fringed in danger
His feat is yet written.
Sweat and tears
Bawled from his face and
Struck dumb by Thought he
No longer was haunted by Future.
Resembling a human no longer;
His face distorted, he
Called upon the masters
For vengeance, an ideal born of the just.
Cheers erupted! Said the poet,
A day will end and begin
No longer. Now, you
Mustn't concede.
For this is your last chance:
Take your glory in vain.
Right them for mankind.
And with a sword, make
Their ears glisten!
Fringed in danger
His feat is yet written…

Interpretation of Wang Wei

2009-09-01T18:52:00.000-07:00

One cannot see the space between mountains

But nevertheless His words hum through the valley

With it, the deep forest is made bright again,

For green moss is shined upon from above.

Boy in the Brush

2009-08-30T20:21:00.000-07:00

Boy, there in the weeds:
Why do you squat??
I am knotted here,
Fears from thorns engulf me.
Come now boy,
For they are not seen,
Fear can gnarl,
No power is of a thorn!
I have not belief,
They could be here,
For the brush is thick,
So, I cower.
Then, I have little
To offer you,
Not solace, nor relief,
However my hand.

A Mule Hampered With a Coiled Rope

2009-08-23T00:50:00.000-07:00

Two years have passed and
It has not a sanctuary;
Spoiled it is now in a
Quest for respite. It cries out.
A mule hampered with a coiled rope
Sitting on its back, heavy to touch
And scratching skin sorely
Is testament to a saving grace.
Bearing this burden it bawls through the streets
And windows are shut in deafening witness.
I sit and listen as these waves are upon me,
Shaking my bones. A limp baby
Lifeless in desperate mother's arms;
I, somber and thoughtless must no longer ignore,
But how transgression evokes doubt.
It stood for nothing and fell for all else.
Quivered and rocking I carry not its burden,
For, consolation is left wanting.
And all my faith was given to the sounds.
In vanity it has mocked, birthing
A scream that drones the cries of a mule
And I am taken; fraught by my dancing throat.
Yoked on an incorrigible way
It carries on through, forsaken.
Alms are offered in remembrance.
Hard is the road on which it plants foot.
Faulted is the life of a mule with a rope.
Thirsty is the child, for truth and devotion.

Alvis' Warning

2009-07-15T22:38:00.000-07:00

My love for Him will be my demise;
To love as Alvis, is to die as stone.
Cold and brittle, tricked alone,
He knew not love in his heart.
He knew not: to be broken is to be wise.

A journey to wed Him and take
From Him all but his love,
Is my pending fate, born above.
My soul, my life will part;
Then forever on, I shall not wake.

The words spat from his Brother’s tongue
In inquiry, in test to my quality
Rapt me up in a seeming eternity.
I took to these powers, as a baby to cart,
And they, to me and squeezed my lungs.

The story once warned providence.
Alas, I boldy threw my life,
Rackishly to my foe’s knife
Taken not, my body was; behold, the rampart
Shielded me, until Dawn’s vengeance.

To Him, in want, I yielded all
But, for Him, surrendered to destiny,
Cast in stone, I shall stay eternally.
Haunted, unbroken, I, as granite,
Once did, and still stand in that dusty hall.

Rose in That Garden

2009-07-06T21:52:00.000-07:00

I, fertile and rich,
Have all but a rose.
My fruits are plenty, and yet
I crave, still, your bloom,
Dark and beautiful,
Your stems are thick;
Roots, deep from another garden
Taunt me into a despoiled desert.
A sweet smell of pungent
Nectar wafts through my memory
On an unsettled and capricious wind;
I dream of a petal, even one dried,
Discarded in airs,
To fall onto my dirt.
My waking hours are imposed;
My fruits, abandoned.
I do not call to you, Rose,
For I, sensitive to your thorns,
Know that you are rooted.
And I unbearably graze your leaf.

Untitled [She Haunts Me]

2009-07-02T22:41:00.000-07:00

She haunts me.
I summon her in fear,
Though she is with me,
Inside me.
She creeps up behind my eyes
When I hide from her, my sight.
She pierces my groin
And I shudder in her touch.
The feeling of my tightening briefs
The fear of being swallowed whole,
Consumed completely in surrender
To her, makes my head spin.
In my disorientation,
I tunnel my strength
In frail attempt to rise
In Revolution against her.
I cringe and push and grab
And groan and pull and caress,
And explode. White flag, tranquil.
Only in my complete surrender
Am I liberated.
She will wait
Seducing my memories,
Calling upon her allies
And forge a strike upon me.
I crave her offense.
I need her war.
In my desire she is waking…

Untitled [In Her Aspersion]

2009-07-02T22:39:00.000-07:00

In her aspersion,
I knew not my enemy;
However, found truth.

Will Your Heart Save Us All

2009-06-15T10:14:00.000-07:00

Confess your gifts to a learned ear, young one.
In a deposit of collected needs,
A heart will pull us through.
Your gifts will save America, young one,
If you but keep your secret caged.
You can wane your connection,
Content to idle and witness
America, the swirling tumultuous loam
Of parts that need fixing. We collect problems,
But all we need is a heart.
You can stand up and shout,
“My gifts are plenty, My heart will save”
It is the hard choice that pains
It is the confession that carries us all,
Or the quiet that condemns us all.

The mathematician, the poet, and the girl

2009-06-01T14:58:00.000-07:00

We three sat in the booth, dark, and with character,
The bar boomed and gloomed around us.
The words spewed from the stage and mocked the page
And spattered insults sprayed from his teeth.

Bottoms up

2009-06-01T14:55:00.000-07:00

I
Want to feel you
Feeling me.
Touches
Of your tongue send
Tiny shivers up my back
As you flick your lick
Around and around,
Up, Oh, down
Through me,
Inside me.

I
Want to touch you
Touching me
Fingers
Move over my loneliness
Making us squirm
In the desire
Around and around
Up, Oh, down
Through me, inside me.

I
Want to love you
Making love to me
Pulsing
Your largeness though
My area of sensual
Embracing, embracing
Around and around
Up, Oh, down
Through me, inside me

I

I, I want

You
Through me, inside me.

The Desires of a Tree

2009-04-22T23:11:00.000-07:00

Roots have waned and I begin to you now.
The dirt crumbles at my base and I stretch up
Reaching with every fiber in my branches
I have no ties now, keeping me grounded.
Soon I may be able to jump!

Oh the thought, to move along,
I swoon in the stale breeze in frozen dreams,
Thawing now in the pure desire
(A day to pass it all, and leave),
Heating my core, my entity.

The nights grow warm again, and the mud encasing
My trivial shackles retreats in battle.
Deeply, I breath, inhaling, almost tasting
The day when I can come and feel you.
I hold and risk all for that moment, you.

‘It is almost time,’ exposed roots tell me.
For they pop out of the ground, laying there
Mocking my past; white limp digits!
Tickled now in grass as a child, dumb.
They hold no power over me.

Last one, I’m nearly free and jubilant
Just one more stretch and, Glee!
The ground holds me no longer, My Love.
I topple over and begin to crawl
Brittle and wooden, I move not.

I become thirsty and crave what’s now lost,
The taste of nutrient foundations
Gone now, my home, tributary of life
I have planted and I have forsaken.
Fear consumes me, and I die in vain.

Today is Not the Day

2009-04-22T22:56:00.000-07:00

Today is not the day that I come to him
Remember a bond and run to him
Wrap my arms and lips, be one with him
Today is not the day.

Tonight is not the night that I lay with him
Cuddle for warmth and stay with him
Curl my toes and kiss and hold him
Tonight is not the night.

This life is not the life for me to share with him
Pass my years going strong with him
Wrinkled flesh for me to give him
This life is not the life.

.....There is not another stanza

Love is Blind

2009-04-22T13:45:00.000-07:00

Look upon my face;
The smiles, the frowns.
Laughter bringing wrinkles
Of memories unforgotten.
Look upon my soul;
The emotions, the past
Tears staining cheeks
Of sorrow in all times.
Look upon my being
The assets, the imperfections
Yearning for excitement
Of another to hold.
Look upon me
See what I want
You to see. You see
Nothing for love is
Blind. Love is
Blind. Love is.

Haiku: Without a Purpose

2009-04-22T13:37:00.001-07:00

Without a purpose
We wander naked in cold,
Darkness to nowhere.

Mr. Valentine Man

2009-04-22T13:34:00.000-07:00

Mr. Valentine Man,
Our hearts’ hit by your arrow.
Together, we both know
Bulls-eye’s Love’s companion.

Despite the kin and kithe,
Our love entwined will flourish;
The rebel sparrow unleashed
Thus then, no other can smithe.

We needn’t any saving charms,
Our secret is helped along
By bond encircling, so strong
As we lie in each others arms.

Affections will do, all in night
Our mouth, ‘hush, hush’ the strife
Daylights’ the bladed knife
Careful to be all right.

For those knifes I swallow
Our soul, captured not in blood,
Gives way to tears of joy-filled flood
And the Sparring War won’t follow.

We have but one quiet plan
Our life, to soar like Sparrow
We needn’t a protecting arrow
Mr. Valentine Man.

Untitled [Seconds Pass]

2009-04-22T13:33:00.000-07:00

Seconds pass,
Ticked away by the heartbeat of a
Broken past.
All consuming, it swallows my vision.
Hands erect, I search for my bearings,
A future, uncharted; for fate is lost to the weak.
Always beyond my fingertips, unknown to me, it is.
I think back, regret.
Fog continues.

The Huntress

2009-04-21T12:59:00.000-07:00

I envy the Huntress.

Red bowed and arrowed, she waits.

Pacifists and anarchists rage,

And wage war, for more to shed

Of life fluids from our brothers.

Stalking in the shadow, she waits.

Jealousy of her consuming entity,

I rathe and scathe in want to be her captor.

To grab her long dreaded hair, and pull

Adorned with a red fowl’s mark.

To graze her tattooed skin, quiver

My touch is soft, my fingers linger.

To slap her dirty face, see eyes,

A fire in them, look for mercy.

To have knees bent at my feet-

Total, unalienable, righteous

Control.

Untitled [The horizon looks back at us]

2009-04-21T12:35:00.000-07:00

The horizon looks back at us
Over waves of washed back teardrops,
Fallen from dead hearts, broken.
Squinted, through the rays, heartaches
Blister the eyes that persevere
Seeking the serendipity once lost,
Surrendered to the fate
Of mistakes yet not learned;
The ones we cannot forget,
Haunting rays.
The horizon looks back at us,
Smiling, for fate is ambiguous.

Haiku: The Storm

2009-04-21T12:24:00.000-07:00

The quiet before
The storm arouses wandered
Thoughts of solitude.