To Let

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

            

            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 of love

            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,

                        Yes,

                                    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 scar

            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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pop

Pop

Conversation on Age

“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

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?

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

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?

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

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

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]

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

I.

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.