Bubbled in Latin-Glamerican: Pt. 2

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

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

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

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

                                           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

     em

Untitled [All Wait for the Words]

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

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

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

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]

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

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]

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

Alms of beating heart,

Hand bloody rare flesh

Appease your voracity

Taste it connoisseur

Maybe seconds come

My plate’s given pretty cheap

If But For a Moment

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

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

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

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

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.