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.

The Politics of Heartbreak

In bed without a disguise

My skin hangs loosely from my cauterized head, draping,
I unzip it and slip contemplatively into my bed.

The process of getting to know the human race is humbling
And I replay the day…

Instrumental Tongue, Tell The Tale To Dance To

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

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]

Ethereal Efficacy
Engineered in airs
Entwine around everyone

White sunglasses

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.

The Fabulous Life of Me

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.

Excerpt from 'Captive' performed by Nate Zeigler

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

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.

Surgery of an Ex-Lover

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

Accidental Splendor

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]

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.