Friday, November 27, 2009

The Pilot is Out

I think if there was a real possibility
that there could be a possibility,
that possibility would go on the back burner.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

A Ruby At... Remembrance

"Write what you know
in the life you have lived."
All else is false pretense...
words wasted in a fleeting dream.

Thank you Grandma... I remember.

Monday, November 23, 2009


There is a blackened balance
in the silver scales
of the yin and yang,
when the dew of foam
meets the ticking clock...
in that moment
of shorn wool and velvet plumage
time freezes still...
upon a gilded frame.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Harvest Home... Revisited

Somewhere there is an Eden
of sorts... utopia for
the purveyors of science fiction.
It's an overflowing
of the ancient cornucopia,
a horn of plenty...
not for the Roaming elite,
they're never happy.

It's a celebration of harvest
and plow... the reminder
of workin', and playin',
and livin' in the now!

No smoking of your fallow deer
or boiling of a parrot pet...
entertainment is what you are...
not slaves brought in
from lands afar
performing in exotic dance,
enchanting songs
and limericks,
to a den of gaudy knaves.

The lazy elite won't understand-
their kind will fall
out of supply and demand.

The peasants, as always
will celebrate...
they ask for so little
but their thanks are great...

to Whom, who cares?
that hierarchy
can certainly wait.

The revelry will continue
as the lazy feasters
lose their guts to

No wonder history repeats itself in a burp of belch.

Friday, November 20, 2009

A Second Coming

Green eyed leer above
a camel colored peach
with it's nectar dripping
into sweet rivulets of juice
at the edges of a full moon.

A teasing of honeysuckle
to an entreaty of tease,
a rollicking surrey
with fringes that bow...

to a red-lipped oval
that quivers somehow
and the earthshaking
beckon that shivers below.

A second to gasp
a vowel's uttered praise
a panting,
a psyching,
a musing...

Cupid's spurting arrow
and Kewpie's sultry gaze.

A wolf will wait his turn to pray.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

The Conquest of Nothingness

What do I know
and what do I see?
Nothing and everything
in sweet mystery.

Eyes have the nerve
to connect to the brain,
windows that mirror
the human terrain.

Ripped from their sockets
they're just balls of gel,
the heart gives its meaning
that the brain tries to quell.

Beyond physical places
where a human abides
something remains
when the body subsides.

A flicker of flame
beyond the intention
ignites intuition
of etheric suspension...

submerged in a shadow
of a dark lonely quest
lies the answer to meaning
of a pulsating jest.

I know I came
in sweet memory
to conquer nothing
of all I can see.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Autumn Spiral

A golden spotted leaf
with wry crinkled edges
spirals to the gutter
and takes it's rightful place
amongst the decay.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

The Littlest Voice

In a leaf cupped world
that swirls to a fretful eddy,
Thumbelina in a grimace of gas
and the need of a Mother's suckle
opens vein lidded eyes and mewls
into a window of brown-eyed hope.

Music as poetry in entrainment
mirrors the water colored view
of an artist's communion
and summons a pink sleep
that coos a lilac prayer.

Maia is waiting to fulfill the hope
and then flit with gossamer wings
to cornflowers and bluebells
where she'll tender the hearts
of an unsuspecting clan.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

The Return of Mr. Roboto

It was a frivolous disco moment
on a dance floor of absurdity.
We laughed at the face of a technology
yet to to come,
a robotic voice speaking
in a condescending schmooze...
how cute and kitschy.

Now in the kitchen
with less food in the pantry,
and jobs gone overseas,
and families in chaos...

he shows up in a phone call,
the Do Not Call list
is out the window.
They plead in wealthy tones of white,
"vote for our contender."

I slam down the phone
on the robo call and fume
as I screech...
"Fuck you and your techno lies!"
just leave me alone with my wallflower stare.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


The jury is out
in dark chocolate
vanilla creamed tongues
are waggling a noose;
a saviour is smeared as a wanton
spender, as an insurance policy
is cancelled by foamy mouthed liars.

The paling is rampant
with pointed fingers,
blaming the mess
on shit on a shingle...

Hello, it's white sauce,
and chipped beef on toast points,
and houses foreclosed
in a white collared debacle.

The spirit lives
in sacred darkness,
your papal drunkenness
is our only schism.

Up from the ashes
of a smokey pier,
zombies will applaud
the darkened angel...
and the meek will indeed
inherit the Earth.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Not Even in the Moment

I read Toffler this summer
and could not believe my eyes;
did he, could he, predict a time
when you could not, would not
be in the moment of your own thoughts?

Now, the Facebook of movements
births quirk and savvy... hey I'm adaptable,
did he study Ericsson?

And then a moment of humor
was lost to a foreign homepage
that took days to download...

Frustrated, I thought, I'll go to
tweets on twitter;
as the trump feed of a brain fart.

Now, if everything has to be captured
in a shuttering speed...
I'm done...

Friendship is worth more
than the parabolic permutations
of a bitwise life of shocking snickers.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

The Comfort of an Old World Charm

It is gray, damp, blowsy,
and cold upon on an October
hearth of unwashed ruddy stone,
illuminated by the crinkled
lore of a child's knotted art.

A spiced orange candle
flickers in the light
of a setting sun, not seen.

The smell of an old book
devoid of linear logical thought
tangles emotive emissions,
unleashing the saline dripping
like a wash of unsobbed tears.

Rain lashes at windows
in tapping cadence
with the swallow of
a drainpipe's belch;
a backlash of rushing leaves
is heard through the windowpane.

No clocks are ticking
in the timeless luxury
of a plush pillowed couch.

A stoic velveteen rabbit
twitches as the yellowed pages
are lovingly captured and turned
into a tapestry of transcribed loss.

A sonorant sigh acknowledges a sentiment:

Ah.....Proust take me home.

Monday, October 26, 2009

The Screams of Attention

In a cold hearted world
of unfulfilled dreams,
androids seek their claim
to a promised land...
fifteen minutes of fame.

"How can I assure
my rightful place
in the televised majesty
befitting a royal flush?"

Shakespeare and Verdi
could not see it coming,
when everyone would get into the act...
high drama of tragic consequence.

A hungry world eats it up
on crumb laden couches;
dramas composed by lesser maestros
delivering popcorn stanzas and arias
devoted to misfits of ill-fated greed.

Thousands, nay, millions
worship the failure of
lives lived in plunder;
from a pair of crazy eights
to a jiffy pop launch...
now that's entertainment.

"When is it my turn?"
they wonder and munch
as they stare at the spectacle.

Tune in to your own tale
of woe... advertise, then broadcast
the last rite of despair...
they're at least clever plots
befitting a banal twitter.

Are you too waiting
for your own demise?
15 minutes of fame
isn't worth the wait,
of a lifetime of hope.

Sleep lesser gods of splendid drama,
you were trumped by a soup can.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Parade of Wonders

Oh the clock ticks moments
in precise progression...
marking a moment that leads
to an end... somewhere.

The parade floats by
in a waving procession,
a wafting of hand
signals a vacant stare.

From the memory of lilacs
and hawthorne in bloom,
nothing compares with the
wonder of an innocent youth.

We live in our cork lined rooms
watching the parade of parody
march by with flags, and bugles,
and banners of bravado.

It's no wonder that the wizened cry
as the drumbeat of the past
dings a harp string and clutches
the last sobs of a distant bagpipe.

Silence is an answer too.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Spilt Milk

A dreaded howl already known
lurked on the horizon,
a storm had passed... or did it?
Inklings of dark clouds wafted past the pastures
that reeked of manure and primroses...

The first clue... a simian screech
igniting a headache
of pubescent misdemeanor.
There were soothings and smoothings,
as a lowing cow grazed on
in numb and utter resistance.

"Seek the high road,"
the gentle and kind Guru chanted
as the forlorned bovine
looked for answers in the cumulus.

In the chewing of dumbfounded cud
the Vichy water would not digest... I digress.

The eye of storm transcended
over pastoral plains
and rose colored glasses
were donned in the milking.

The screech of an owl forewarned
of a sorrow's melancholy,
the sleeping monkey has awakened
from a slumber of revenge.

A high road of victory has washed away
in a gully of mud and stones
to the hey of a delta.

A mournful lowing
will not share it's misgivings,
the cane will hurry
to it's sugary conclusion.

The plains will lie bare,
quiet, and contented
before a house built on straw.

The high road continues...
yours was a climb to a polar capped trove
not worth the expenditure
of a drop of soured milk.

The path to the least resistance
will continue.... unencumbered
by the vanity of a perfect reunion.

Friday, October 16, 2009


The carcass of a flesh eating behemoth
swings in the frosty flash-room
to the swing of a butcher's shining knife.

Marbled in grey and white
with blood clotted... it hangs,
no longer dripping
from a sacred slaughter.

The spatter of drops wasted
on an industrial washed apron,
as beefy banter of clobbered bull
blows frozen in breathy puffs of bravado.

Refrigerated caravans are coming
to take the crude hunks
of sculpted meat to the overfed.

In a darkened corner
a young mother cries
as flies feast on her offspring...

as the offal of beasts are offered to a wasteland.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Last Man Walking

A lone vestige of an old world order,
slumped and domed
he seeks revenge on a world out of order-
chaos really.

Holding the reigns of a glorified Dog...
a Loki of sorts,
as his wife chattels about,
while a daughter once pixied
broadens in horizons
of a designer label...
a harangued husband
is nowhere in sight.

A stoic banner of resignation
is no banner for a Hierophant's
cry in the wilderness...
he seeks a jungle of woman's despair.

If only he could have snared
the dusty relic of Lucy's bones
and pulverized them
into a gentleman's snuff...

he would still be a contender.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

She Rizes

In the soft blanket of a black wool sky,
she rises, as clouds drift below
offering white clasped hands
to hold her esteem...

The poets and dreamers and children
can see her sadness,
although she is smiling
in the melancholy colors of autumn.

Upon a leaf-strewn bed of crumpled leaves,
an offering, a gratitude is whispered...
"they know not what they do,"
and a clouded sky protects
by colors of graying wisdom.

A shifty preamble to scientific skiffs
in search of water ships drowned...
a blast of bussed explosives
shoot to silence her in a plume
of vomit smoke, not once but twice.

I watched in spite of my sorrow,
as images sought were images lost...

Alas, a Mother's forgiveness is boundless.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Life is an Onion

An orb of thin skinned parchment,
a velum of belief
which coats our past.

Peeling the first layer exposes
the white lined flesh,
layers of thickness
like the dendrochronology
of trees...

somewhere in the undoing
of rings is a core,
where tears were never
meant to be shed.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

An Eppiphany

It was an offering of Agnus Die,
a love of lamb gone to laughter.

The sharing of a last supper,
a rabbit who held the fast
of a petting, in stoic silhouette
under the table.

The light of a feign shone
clear as a candle,
waxen point of an alchemist boil-
disseminating gentle bubbles of hubris.

A symbol shone bright as a shield
of remembrance, diamonds gleamed shyly
from eternity.... eight up-righted
from a bottle of broken glass ... green
as the color of healing demise.

Two bubbles teetered from a prism of light,
a curtain of orange sarcophagus liquid
of a laid to rest Psyche. Cupid slinging arrows
to the partaking of body and blood...
and the wafting of apple-nut muffin...
Aphrodite was lost upon a sea of reign.

He beats his rose colored window
in a tantrum of arrogance,
as she in bucolic fragrance
of milk and manure feeds her lambs,
while his sword protrudes cold and hard
from clarent waters to a stone hearted lair.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Falling Softly

In the chilled blanket of an ever darkening night
still cricketed with pale murmurs of pleading chirp,
a swarm of rustling lives beyond the misty leave
of a wispy ghostly breath... I listen stilly
to the eerie sound of an unseen screech-,
owl wooing and trilling into a falling kiss.

Leaves by day tipped in colors, grave and orange,
of jams, preserves, and marmalades
now settle for slumber at an early dusk.

The drowsy colors of imagination
are asleep and drifting skyward
into the black, and white, and gray
of a nightly settle.

The Moon, in golden yellow,
her pesky arc is the lamplight,
shedding her gauzy mercy
upon the sleeping calamity of colorful lids-

just before they're dying.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Flower Girl

The frosty memory of an opaque invitation,
the bars from a moot paned past
sang in strangled cords
leading to a webbed site seek-

the park, the rain, and other things-

words not found in a memory's title search,
but recognized as true, from the words of import
surrounding bovine images of aging glances.

The sharing of a fragrant puff of past
delivered as gently as the passing of food
from a mother bird's mouth
to the sigh of an open kiss,
tasting of moss from a darkened cellar.

And then the thought of O'Briens,
the ramshackle tavern visitation
where pig tails, and hopscotch
and cotton mouthed briefs
were readily tainted
from the stained glass window
of a lip glossed swallow.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Victorious is a Feminine Word

They swill, and spit, and run
for bravado,
to the heights of acclaim
of everyone's desire...
a kicked ball of father,
mother, community, and
the voyeuristic world
of a televised match.

Simmer on a playing field
of pinny, too demure
for a tackle, we were
taught to succumb,
and a Succubus was born.

In the afternoon math
of the locker room chatter,
a slut became the victor...

as the showered men of soap
wore rope, as their greatest rage.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

The Tuna Sandwich

She nervously nibbled a crust
of the whitefish mountain of
diner sandwich,
as he looked on
with a sultan's glower
over her innocence,
and a bit of lettuce in her teeth.
The napkin became her fan,
as her eyes lowered.

Fast forward 35 years...

Alone after the sultry glow
of his innocent eyes,
she devoured her whitefish sub,
licking fingers,
catching fragments in her palm
and then popping them
into her mouth.

Only when she felt
the dripping juice
of milky nectar,
did she wipe her mouth clean...
a coquette's fan was not essential.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Swimming in Seaweed

The ocean beckoned
in rolling wave
of rippled tongue,
foaming at the mouth
to the parch
of a hungry shore.

"Too cold," he said,
from the mouth of Jersey,
"not fit for swimming...
those oceans of the Pacific."

Hah.. I thought, while
stepping into my
shrunken shadow,
as the curling nip
of a dappled lick
lapped my toes.

A cool, clear stride into
the shallow, with the
burnish of orange plaited
bamboo, and nippled puck
of green flapping appendage
lurked as a scrimshaw
pattern etched on bone.

I plucked the vilified tangles
of eww, and waved the slimy
waxen fronds overhead
to a voo-doo beat
of the drums
of sacred drone.

Then gliding as a feckless
and freckled purpose,
kicking in twisted
dance, waves frolicked...
then lifted me to
greater heights of jump
than could be
rendered on the grainy patch
of a sun kissed beach.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

I Have Seen Mountains

They stand in sloping mounds and points,
undaunted by the floating of clouds, mists,
flocks, and darkened torrents...

Whitened and glistening of sugar, coated
twinkles in the honey kissed shade of the sun,
or dark and loamy lurking across a desolate landscape,
the majestic mystique of barons and baronesses
watching sheep graze scrub on the fragmented
land of ancient peasants and listless fairies.

Gliding down a blue ridge of brontosaurus back
under a darkening skyline with a setting sun
as a spotlight on a fading day of yesterdays dream.
They rise illuminated and unfettered by the wily jumping
of creatures of the night below or the creeping of headlights
under their incline of caution, the descent of terror
rides with the pump of the pedal.

And Oh how the sun sets on table tops in the distance
redden unashamed by the lowering and hiding of the sun...

Another world away, over the dusty scrub of prickly cacti
who scatter before the mounding of boulders awash
and bleached white by a noon day sun, cordoned behind
the barb of a wire fence, a tawdry necklace for the mighty ones.

At the end of a land, the friendly smile of guards on the border
greet the passing presence of those who belong...
Among the salty sand of towering peaks and grainy beach
an arid question is begged... what is there to gain here? Really.

And though I've seen these beauteous beings who make me feel small,
and mock at how far I think I have come... I keep searching the world,
my oyster, for the pearl of wisdom I lost somewhere.

Friday, September 11, 2009

The Launchpad

Raining tears as a cleansing goodbye,
farewell from dusted sills
and lacy languid curtains
that whispered the secret...
it's time to go... somewhere... West.

In a packed caravan with baggage,
and boxes, and pictures of places already seen
in memory of the many hangings.
A catapult to the future, stretching
the canvas of imagination and intrigue.

Two men sat in syncopated rhythm
of their shared lifetime, in uniforms
of their generational divide.
Only the eyes foretold their
shared conspiracy, as a woman
of chance was comforted by
their sidelong glances of dimpled delight.

She sat musing in quiet song
amongst the cargoed stuffing
of a one-way trip and the return duffle...
her reptilian travel bag relegated to the back.

The drops fell cool in the pelting
of the vessel of launch,
as the once proud house with a
For Sale sign bid farewell
to this final launch...
the last refuge at a point of no return...

The launch completed with the release
of a brake pedal
laid down towards a western sky.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

A Token Moment

Take me away to the land
of sun drenched cotton sheets:
white, crisp, clean, and cool,
to wrap me in cozy comfort.

Let me live in a land
of baby kittens, fuzzy bunnies,
and lovely lambs who stay
cute, cuddly, and curious.

Fly me to castles of mist,
floating through magickal chambers
where dreams come true
in the wink of an cloudy eye.

Wash me in a gurgling stream
of chortled laughter
and then dry me, gently,
in petals of wild meadow flowers.

A simple return to the sweetness
of being alive...

if only for a moment,
now and again,
as I gaze through a grimy prism,
squinting for rainbows.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Joni Mitchell is my Heroin

Down by Sea, in a colonial
living room of plaid
middle class disdain,

a teen lit a candle in despair,
woo'd by a voice in breathy
soprano and mystical chords
of a strumming guitar...
she sung my resonance.

She knew the way down,
the darkened ladder descending
into a marrow bone of waves:

I was a bleacher blond living
in a concentration camp
of mediocre canyons.

I followed the pan flutes
of her voice, the flickering
of her enlightened chanting.

The soul-less grunts of
yesterday's hero:
of an unmatched cynicism
shook his patriarchal head...
"turn that shit down"
"the dark ladder," I retorted?

A roofer-sider
out of work from falling,
out of work and broken.

He hated her singing.

She warned me it would be like this
as I swayed and swam
in her spirited enchantment ...
the bass of piano chords rowed
me away from my dulling future.

Her neon beckoning...
I knew she was knowing ,
the candle never fickered
as my mom peeked in
from a distant room...
"leave her alone,
she's different"
was all she dared to say.

The only thing I have to give;
"morning in Morgantown"
lulled me to a silent acceptance
as wind rushed around our dirty town.

Now, I hear the voice
graveled in a paved paradise
of fuzzy croon,
warned us not to lull in the
wooing of an unfeeling world...
tears fall as I tune into my fix...
her voice
wafts through our bedroom...
conscious sedation and jungle
quietly in the darkness
still blow a womanly jazz riff.

I love her dearly. I love him too...

Thursday, August 20, 2009

A Whitechapel Moment

A fog of incoherent descent
on the impoverished streets,
alit in the glow of gas lamps
and the whetted stones from
Clydesdale hoofs on the
dusty, drury, cobblestones.

A trellis of bloom in a night's
tethered earning in tawdry
tulle... red, ripped, and spent.

Pollyanna walking to a brindle
of a hazy birthright writhing,
then marching in stride to macadam.

Each step a drunken death march
to a barren chatter of a silent surgeon's scalpel,
eviscerating a soul with no known enemies...

The silence was deafening.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

The Bite of a Klondike

A silver cloak of Arthurian legend
with the Nordic lyre of Runes...

Unwrapped in the biting
cold of a milky melt,
covered in hard, dark, shell
of chocolate...
a brittle break of ice floes
and Aristocracy, once known.

I bit in...
candlelit envy
of a partaking,
misunderstood as
sweet flowing cream
encircled the wrists.

A cow formed in the silver cloak
without a wrestle. A hedgehog
in misty melt of pagan mist...

Avalon calls in a druid dream,
fluid as juicy remembrance
biting at the bit; the bark
collapses in cream and a licking...

a paper fragment
of a dancing palate
to a clock of
sleeping babe...
a pig in nestle smiles;
sleeping sure solace
of a delectable future.

bang! crumple and kiss
in the shadow of a
flickering flame,
swanning dive
in a bracken pond...

The crickets sang for me-
those who remember
a stock in trees and
wood hugging.

I believe in miracles,
and magick...

i don't wonder why.

Monday, August 17, 2009

A Gypsy's Life

It's a rag tag tale of talisman...
roving and wondering
what went wrong...
awry, askance, avarice
for solace,
and then the slide off
of an elliptical moon-
them not me...

They want sense out of
I laugh and writhe
to a comical find,
bodies are not night
of the living death.

A moment , a flicker of firing
and a nap...
oh, all the world could be
summed up in a map
and sown to cover; a featherbed of fret...

Pithy and poor pithy me,
is shrieked in quicksand corners,
pointing a glued finger to toddlers who
merely ask, Why?

The sap of the past in dismissive,
says it's not really so...

An antichrist who dares question,
bold faced and unabashed
in the drinking of an innocent
fountain of thirsty question...

I'll not be condemned
by a chorus of dead scholars
or those who seek answers in ashes...

Your Phoenix has no wings to fly...
it's all the same to me.

Cry of an Apache Rain

A soft spoken mountain man,
a real butte
dusted in coal clad dreams
of a pipe and a fiddling,
a nursery rhythm of
flowering trees
in a rebuke of nitrous
manure; the playing
of pinochle from
a pasty of pope
in a shale filled lunch box.

Edgy in a mumbled sentence
of illogical rightfulness,
swaying in balding
sad eyed wonder...
what went... wrong?
as the world raced on,
he slowed to a crawl
of cynic lefty,
shouting slurs at a TV
that no longer cared
bout truth...

Rain on an Apache plain...
it was supposed to be palliative,
radiating a scalp of speculative
knowledge in an excruciating
twist of a broken neck...

Tuffs of hair fell out
as a second torture-
I felt his pain in the recapture
of a howling cry.

We as dancing Matildas
relied on morphine and grace
to set things right...
we shared a Guinness
by the light and song of a rose
garden and fallen tree...

There is peace to be made
in this broken world,
at least he knew the meaning of pal
if only for a moment.

A patch of forgiveness
and acceptance is all he sought
from that fearful cry.

Dry eyed, I kept his promise secret.
The rains will come again.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

The Tease of the Updo

We the downtrodden,
try to make pretty sense
of the world marching to the beat
of squeaky enamor in horny
tunes of dissonance,
the chaos soothing...
a men's club and a
hair full of female undoing.

It wreaks the havoc of
a good coif and a teased bouffant,
we know they like the subduing
in an up-do tourniquet.

We linger in wait, as waifs
on a wharf of retching barf,
in submissive undoing
in the mission of a position.

Name me one female jazz musician,
respected in a man's nested nurture-
and I'll rest my casement.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

A Quickstep to Your Dirge

I hear the gravely nostalgia,
an inarticulate genre
of American roots,
strumming kindred
rolling blades...

A sharpening awareness
butter churns a wink
and a slow dance;
cheek to nipple, delivering
raised upturned brows
and crooked grins to
speak in silent tongues.

The swaying dance
of a token minute,
precedes a tidal moment
of a savory minuet;
timeless in fetching clutch
and whispering touch-

un fait accompli
head to head,
pinch and tweak,
thrust and squeak...

we save the sands
of the hourglass
in flip tide and green grass.

There's no sleeping
in the daylit hours-
efficiency has its just desserts
in rocking shores of an easy chair.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Lord of the Man, or..?

They lord like flies
over why, why, why
in crying caterwauler,
when what is, is, is...
is the feast of now.

In disco ball vision
the dancer of wily writhe
happy claps in the patient
wait of the next move.

The preying mantis
cavorts in green robes
of his regal imagination,
in hindsight misgiving.

Crack a gentle whip and hear
the thunder of mortar and 
pestilence grow silent
in a bottoms up world.

The praying man-
tis stifling rubies..

One over on me dude...
the woman is standing 
on the bridge wondering,

should I take you back
for all of your preying?

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Conversation on the Deep End of a Chance Meeting

HI there... how are YOU?

"Who are you... what is it that you do
to send me into the wild wet frenzy 
of my desire?

Oh no, you don't know me... yet
when you read me in the meaning 
of your soulful smile, I know you.

I like what I see, I hear your style-
sing to me, you wily coyote.

I'll be taking you in on a pinnacle
of a shimmered, silky, spin...

I have no answers for where I
am going or what you are,
I just resonate to your beat-
I know my own heart.

I feel a dizzy relief of flapping wings
in deep places with you next to me.

Funny feeling, it's up a tide 
to the ocean of your being,
where in this moment
somehow you belong to me...

tongue tied in my lipping,
a sweet and coy wonder of the words-
the meaning not quite clear, I
sing to your mournful soul.
(praises in the winds of belonging)

I ask no more 
than a simple sigh
upon the plain shore
of a mystic sea...

will you taste the salt
of my tears shed for you,
sweet mysterious?

will you sigh contented
in the morning afterglow,
will it light your soul?

To my knees I fall in the grace
of your forgotten desire, so 
in a bargain of hope and chance
will you know me?

C'mon angels are watching,
but then again,
you may be disappointed
later in the day."

I'M fine... how are YOU?

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Sloshing Around the Soup Kitchen

My cauldron is your crucible,
a hot pot of burnt porridge
dished up in the smoldering
crockery of our grueling truce.

We swim the thinning broth bath,
in a wonton spare of salt licked simmer.

Serve up the usurp of our souls
to a bland humanity of hungry trolls
and trippy trollops in search
of the eternal bitter green.

We lick  a lollipop of watch and wait;
two serfs in a soup kitchen for the regal...

"No seconds on the gruel sir?"
"Please sir, have some more-
(we snicker in deference).

Soup... our salty brothel
in a  slippery bubble of crafty sin...
a chive or two and the old shoe
of roads that lead us away
to the bare bones of wander.

"Please sir, is that so wrong?"

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Green Snake in the Road

A downhill glide by sunlit glade
of a streaming water,
muddied and soft... beneath
the shady vegetation
in a hidden gulch.

I saw him on a blackened pavement,
in wriggled repose of respite-
no slither, no malice, no intent.

I passed in an agitated avoidance,
his stillness touched me,
no pity, no sorrow, no mystery...

A beautiful creature 
lying on a darkened street,
green and vibrant
on the dusty road...

I loved him.


Caught and cocooned in a tangle
of outmoded commitment,
light of the unfiltered judgement
glistens on silken threads
that hold me in the animated
suspension of a whorling turn.

Absurdity earmarks the capture
in noisy disarray, the clamoring
for the feast of a slow deafening
death of yawning boredom...
a longing for the winds 
of a dangling temptation
to free the threads that bind.

The shroud is a molting cloth,
frayed at the edges of despair...
metamorphosis of the leave
is still in the making.

The inky jet of a spider waits
at the doorstep with clamping
pincers and hungry mouth,
he is patient and so am I...

he will wait until the gelatinous
remains of my past quiescence
synthesize to a tasty morsel of adieu.

The freeing of the sunlit spirit
will flee to greener pastures,
tempting a liberation
far away from yesterday's tomorrow.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Fodder for Folly

The jolly trolley snipes the trollop
in romping roominess...

Ruin the day in deep dather
shiding shingles in mayhem...

Work me over in the wonder
woo hoo, you who doo wop
to the head...

Jingle, jungle tribal tribulation
in jubilant juxaposition.

Angling a lure... firefly
feasting in smoldering frighten;
light a lamprey lampoon...

Reading here, go away 
little Sheba, come back
when you've grown.

Groan... a rolling eyed
teeny bopper,
do do do and a rampant 
rap in the head.

Jiggety, piggedy
pudding and pie,
make it a creamy dream...

Waltz with me babe,
in three quarter dime,
as the sole of a shoe...
kick it up a notch!

The home fire's a burning,
a touch of the torch...

you've met your match.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

The Peacekeeper

The peacekeeper goes about life
in a quiet way, 
with the grace of a dove, 
with a song in the heart
that beats a steady tune.

He gives up the struggle of conformity.

Her fear has flown over life's cragged course.

His trust is complete, 
unmistakably a part of a source 
greater than All.

To the power within
she keeps the steadfast vigil, 
knowing all is possible
within the circle of Light.

A light that is visible to those
who realize there is no greater 
reason for being than to reflect light
and be One with All.

His inner soul is not a mystery
to the peacekeeper.
He knows where he is going, 
is thankful where he has been, 
is content with who he is.
As he was born of the light, 
he will return to the light that is
forever and evermore.

The peacekeeper sees time as a gift, 
an orderly progression
of learning, which is crucial
to her mission.

She holds no malice, 
no judgement, 
no regrets.
She knows not of death.
She clings to the truth as her mentor.
Her love is immeasurable, 
She is the essence of all she creates, 
reaching out into the harmony
of all that is.

Who is the peacekeeper?
He is you
She is me, 
hiding as a human...
free as the soul.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Foaming at the Fancy

Illustrious elevator illusions
in orangey fits and flights
of a lascivious leering,
olive sea eyes watching within.

Breathy echos of ancient chant
in clandestine chants
through bare wood bannisters 
and mirrored raptures.

Silky filtered smokescreens
portend savory bits
in lushy fleshy pink,
drawn shades hide
tremolo tapping beats
of chaotic chords.

Bobbin weave of liquid writhe
massage quavering mountains
and velvety valleys in coo.

Mind's eye rising wide eyed mist
in peaked pungent pursing;
a taunting in unfrocked opening
surging stifled oceans
in foamy lace and tangled coif...
sending ripples to a sunlit window.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

The Green Man

I chirp and flit before him,
in words... of my own make believe.

He watches and smiles in savory color
and thinks as deeply as a lamprey
at the bottom of an subconscious sea.

I don't understand his words...
only the essence of his mirrored frame
pulsing my desire.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009


Riding high and proud
across the studded sky,
bathing me in pregnant possibility...

Staring in open air wonder
in breathy darkness
the delight is scintillating...

Catching her moonbeams
within a goblet of water,
a slow drink empowers this goddess...

Seeing is perceiving,
feeling is believing.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

I Remember the Wishing Well..

We meet in the lust highway...
Distant voices call to you,
now you're free,
who do you want to be?

Now we part,
I will keep some small of you
in my heart...
dreamers that lovers dream...

Your love and affection turned
my love around...
You're sailing to salty seas,
not my tears...
a beginning..
from the rote of rot,
unsettled, unscathed..
They will never know
in the scorn of our snarls...

We'll laugh our last dying breath
knowing we seceded over the sepulcher...

Truth can't be wrestled
from the dying...

Be brave.

Grinding Chaw

A shift of the mindset...
no more a friend sought
in strife, in sorrow, in boredom-
the veins pulse in agitation,
the lungs long for the dusty inhale
of that long lost ghost of a passing
light... one twenty pack of de-light
from adolescent angst... loved
the light after the heat, the stab 
of an ending... exhaling satisfaction
in the disgust of stubbornness.

Time lines tell tales in circumoral
bleeding of lipstick...
not ready for cotton candy hair to match...
vanity wins over fear.

Chewing like a drug store cowgirl,
swinging a foot, tapping a pen,
nodding a head to a knowing finality...
done dude, you're too expensive a gigolo...
could'a had a car payment all this time.

Yeah, rockabilly seven nights to the first step,
chew and chew in time with a rabbity sniffing,,,
My god, my bunny is with-drawling too, he glares...
some example I've set, thank goodness the children
have more sense...

Twelve weeks to freedom.. twelve step?

I've got life to live,
songs to sing,
dances to complete...

I'll not be tied to a corporate package of lies.
I quit... I chew... I could just spit
at my stupidity.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

They Live by Rote

She's so angry, the hair
burnt off her head.
The hattered cat
frisked the Calvin smote...
he lost in the sub-dewing.

An open mouth gape
in demonic demise...
he gloried with ears
of the dead 
to her incessant chatter
of doom, in a sorry rosary
of forgetfulness...
biding time,
to deliver her a stinging
punch line.

Unto them a savior was born...

Just Listening...

A wild thicket of white laced
clover lies baking in the sun,
waiting to be rolled upon by
the fuzzy fur of the buzzing bee. 

Trees whisper their secrets
and wave for attention,
as nonplussed tufts of cloud
float by... unconcerned,
yet deeply committed.

Chippering cheeps and squeaky squawks
trill quietly... only the wee ones
remain alert... the old and jaded worship
in early morn and at dusk... they are mute
in the work-a-day of adult endeavor.

No matter how hard mankind tries,
his cars, and mowers, and chain saws
do not engage the senses in the peace
of the moment... even his songs 
become lamentably trite
against the glare of the noon day sun.

Friday, July 3, 2009

Night Dreams

Eyes close in weary anticipation
of memory unloosened
in floating pictures,
of unspoken gestures
freed of time
in spacey disarray,
the Watcher hovers
as guardian of the otherworld
of hidden mystery.

Scenes of a movie
center, shift, and weave
through thoughts and
emotions where a blend
of past, present, and future
emerges from the womb of the mind.

A lesson lingers
as the eyes open,
the message only known
to the one who sleeps.... elusive.

Only the Watcher knows when it's time to understand.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Spawned by Yesterday's Sorrow

Such high hopes in a world of rules and order,
they celebrated in a park (metaphor for lie still)...
Milky swans swam silently as the geese cavorted 
in raggedy weeds and dewy grasses...

an ethereal promise of flushed devotion
from a shining Chevy of their desire,
rebels without a particular cause
sought the making of a dream in the pie,
crisscrossed in a crust of manifold baking.

She danced in purest Salome sexuality,
he drank the light and sweet of her wiggly soul...
she was not a substitute for the Mama of listen...
his sensitivity had been beaten out of him
from a drunken father's painful disdain.

In a jittery bug of dance they sought the destiny
of dream... in American Pie lattice.

Flash flood of sorrow for yesterday's tomorrow...
the five peppers grew, not fast enough to weather
the storm of a mismatched discontent.

The jaded one loves both in their estrangement
of the regret I saw, I was a hope...
damaged when eyes were closed in the dark,
we all hid from the violence, it still hurts...

There's love for all in this damned mess of dreams...

The youngest butterfly is elusive in the wetting of wing,
she will know the beauty of their dance one day,
they just forgot how to fly along the way...
the endless hashing of past disappointments
was their captor in a noose of their undoing.

The future weaves us into the loom... as promise of your own doing. 

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Peter Pan Grows Cold

Born into a world of promise,
a wee robin crooning for girls
he would never know.

Growing to adoration
in an era bent on motion
he deepened in manly grace
against a wall of his own confusion...
bow-tied against a wall.

A thrill of the dark side
sliding from the moon,
riveting to the shrine of bad...
the boy lingered, wanting only to please
in fragment pose of ghouls who sought
and sold his soul.

A genius hiding in glittered protest...
small hands in glove
briefly clasped the world...
we sang, and in line of his vision,
held hands in his innocent view.

Flying high to expectation in a never-land
of lost paradise, the cynics biting at the chew
in frothy sensation found the chink...
in off the wall antics... a boy who never
meant to harm pleaded in soft-spoken whisper...

He fell from grace in blazer and PJ's,
a face chiseled beyond recognition
by the brutish hook of fame's desire.

A heart breaking stigmata
makes one grow old..,

"I won't grow up, and if someone
tries to make me, I will simply run away." 

There are many ways to run away
in the warped world
of adult illusion...

The hearing is the last sense to go.. I'm told,
a shattering chandelier in silence,
disseminating fractals and fragments
in the dissolute tears.

The horehounds will always snarl and fight
for the afterbirth...
they already devoured the child.

Mother of the lost boys
could not save him here.

Monday, June 29, 2009

The Call of the Wile

A coy and cozy afternoon,
child-like shuttering
at Nature's peak,
clouds drift without a care
he reads... I play...
Ohhh to capture the gypsy moth-
easier to find a quad of clover... mayhaps?

A little bite to the belly
from an unknown innocent beast,
a stinging diversion...
flit snap, flit snap, flit snap...
then the wile in a drooled trance-
fingers of a leafy sunlight caress
these strangers on an old blanket.

Wiling, an extreme sport for dreamers and poets...

Later in play, entranced in entrainment
the strapping lad subdued
in lascivious snarl and knotted necktie,
we meet in gypsy moth dance
and gyrate in slow sultry intent...
film tap, film tap, film tap...
a minor key of suspended disbelief,
a sacrament of sing in a hologram
of filmy reversal.

Afterwords, the glow reverberates
in a nestled pulsing,
a hunger is satiated,
it's time to graze... can you dig it?

Hmmm, he knows I adore 
mushrooms on my pizza.

Friday, June 26, 2009


Falling as dust through
a hazy window,
it settled on such a shiny veneer.

Too many times mocked
and taunted, that face
a reminder... skin shedding
thin in the distance.

Laughter and jokes belied
the heartbreak, one so close-
yet worlds apart... he looked away.

The past not repeated in
breaking search,
dust settled in corners of memory-
the mirror haunts still.

In veiled jest of parody,
the present called to the past,
punching thoughts ease clamor-
a longing heart knows no revenge.

I carry you to a worded soothe,
we share the heartbreak unbearable...
fingering cobwebs from the corners.

 I'll always be there for you
dear Brother,
it's no matter to the things
that do...

Give me your heaviness
and together we'll laugh
as we shed our skin.

Dust doesn't define us,
it's meant as the
whiteboard where
we write our history...

then we'll blow it away
to welcome the Sun.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Now Where Was I...

Waving from a plastic past,
was it 86, before
the unladylike fall from grace?
The radiostar didn't die,
the video did...

Spinning on a dance floor,
stilletto's cursed my feet
in purple bruise... the ball
fascinated in fascination,
Proud Mary in drag lured,
as we pounded the beat. 
He swayed and purred,
as diva of the underground 
NYC warehouse set.

Pursued by a mad hatter in hot pants
in closeted chase... pretty in a top-hat,
I couldn't be sure of the alluring intent.
Pumping in a frenzied dance of spectacle
to Palmer... looking for clues.

Smokey mist... ABC
brought him home when he sings.
Sychopop came on strong,
with one crazy flying Dutchman...
had to keep a blind vision during
the line hell of a fascist march.

Sashay to the powder room...
whip cracking obsession,
danger in the metamorphosis,
the butterfly has landed.

Yes, I would love to be young
at heart, in the mountains...
The dirge pours forth as the rain descends,
the Passions precede Ockenfold,
they were moved in love.

A blip to extraterrestrial French
in a fade to gray... no way!

I dance to the dead...
men at work
I'm an imbecile
safety dance...
I don't think so.

My friend, if you think music 
hasn't shaped you... you're sadly mistaken.

The disco fries were delicious,
as the sun rose over the horizon.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

A Quiet Understanding

In the slow progression
of the inner search,
the small candle burns
it's brightness...
without the flicker of thought.

Restitution comes freely
when gazing at the reflection
of your own contented Soul.

The sharing then becomes
more truthful than life itself.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

If Only He Could Talk to Me...

He stands solid and strong
holding his ground;
a century of silent growth.

The eye stares cat-like at me,
lichen crusted within
the wrinkled skin...
he's seen his share of tears and death,
but in grace and steadfast watch
he holds his secrets and never complains
at the scratching scamper and pesky pecking
of his children.

His glory is resilience against all elements.
The finery of his verdant lace in canopy,
covers in cool content; he conducts the wind
with swaying arms that shiver in delight.

He's seen many moons of my mood-
never judges, but shares his breath with me.
If only my gnarly knight could share his secrets...

but he can't, so I'll be content
to love him with a heartfelt hug...
he could probably use one about now.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Treading Water

Suspended in murky waters
watching flicker of 
hope light upon the ripples...
a lingering lightness
of choreographed flail
paddling time;
a waving beseech
of welcoming arms...

There is no fear, no sound,
no illusions;
a mermaid quieted
by the milking of 
distant foam churning
to an uncertain shore.

A heartbeat echos
as the mind stands still...

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Four Red Flags and a Blue

The manicured lawn
in perfect plant
supposed the wild
in suffused perception...
the soya of cover
will creep to corrupt.

Watered and mowed
in the cuddy moors
of shared misfit,
a coming together of 
the smelling is sweet
in the laughter of youth.

A stab at the gist
of a disciplined disciple
who knows the share
of divining light...
at the base of a pentacle.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

I A Muse

Rocking in a straight back chair,
I sit cross legged
and pen my time in biding wait...

Music blares a daring dirge
of yesteryear's angst,
I succumb in numbing,
trussed in darkened doily
under the chenille, my rabbit
waits in stare... we both wait.

In a glare of celebrity screen,
(an appellate taunt) he teases
his fashion born of a new found freedom
on literary pretense...
the meta-foreplayed is never literal...
a dancing thought that delights in
rapturous laughter.

I know the cleaving-
sex, and religion scoffed,
which reigns in harmony
of a dissonant reasoning.

We wait... the mute and beady,
the blurred and bleating
who lives in a silent splendor
of rocking and charity.

Those words that hook and play...
a veiled mystery to Salome's dance.

The marooned head will meet me
where words have no meaning,
and a soul patch is a badge of honor.

Mock on... the crockery
awaits the next melt of the buttering.
Slide the slope, it's just a musing.

I'll meet you on top of a creamsicle dream...

Friday, June 19, 2009

The Visitation

A drop off to destiny,
a flight to the past,
a visit to a relic
that won't be forgotten
in the graceless forage
of clinging age.

A trip in silence, rehearsing
the kindness in feign,
the patience in honor
over and above the frustration 
in noise and drone.

A cab pulls in, a quiet ride
ignored in favor of a cell phone
and foreign whispers of endearment...
perfect, he knows I don't feel like chatting...
I will have my fill soon enough, he likes
the tip and will repay with a pleasant pick up.
Call me - private cell- hmmm, an offer
I won't refuse.

The hovering bird sits in stoic smoke...
feeble in slow teary recognition,
I forgot how old... a kiss and light of a smoke,
the last bond of unspoken acceptance.

By day the busy of welcomed helpfulness,
the child still feels every direction,
correction, and admonition...
as if in stupidity I can't manage.

In quiet protest and terse grin
I let him feel big and whole again,
in his youthful remembrances
and dull TV chatter.

I welcome my demons... spirits of 
loosened tongue and insolent disagreement
where the crooked path of patch
gently denounces the utterances
of bullshit... his thoughts are born
of a TV addict..
he hates my addictions, or pretends
not to notice or hear. 

"You're black and white"... I say,
"No, I'm gray, although I know stupid."
I'm talking ideology, he's still talking about
a movie, acclaimed and deep... but stupid.

Crash... the car wreak of my past
has hit me...
he loves me,
he's proud of me,
he'll never let on
in a way I'll understand...
I don't cry anymore at good-bye.

In the taxi ride back... I chatter
and tell stories to a thankful stranger...
happy to be going home,
finally at peace with were I came from.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

The Weaving of Male Patterns

They come into your world,
shyly... in sly intent.
A wolf in the sheep with sweet talk
and sensitivity...
Gaily you step into the wild
seeking attention and security-
and a best friend who won't stab you in the back.

You do the dance of the feline
to sharp pricked ears and glowing eyes...
and in the womanly wile
and sacred sacrifice,
you tend to the mending of ways,
sowing of pretty little seeds,
dusting of the shadows in corners,
to realize your ill-fated reasoning...

the wolf sits
                       you stand
he waits
                you suppose
he sleeps
                  you dream...

he hunts as you gather.

He will be a friend
who stabs you in the heart.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Kiss Me In A Whisper

Look upon the moon in full delight
from a darkened window of peer,
gaze in wonder as she was meant for you,
distant and hallowed in the glowing.

Hush a bye baby, in pursed lips and 
murmured mystery, tears will come
as tides pull heartstrings, there is
hope in haze from frosty winters.

Send a whisper of kiss
into the darkness...
to fly over sultry seas
gathering salt of unfulfilled wishes...
it will not linger there.

The smooch of sound continues
at daring daybreak, upon clouds
of  fluffy pink and silver tinge
to mountains that smile
at the desert of sandy dreams...
continuing on a journey of loving escape.

Over meadow and stream,
held high in esteem by treetops
who rivet the hush to a waving pendence, 
where wildflowers add in dewy moist
the fragrant following of caressing candor.

The whisper in silent flow will echo
from gulch of canyon, to reverberate
the message..... 
stones have compassion too.

And from a window in delirious wander,
the kiss is felt, brushing longing lips that wait...
hair blows back in the night-time breezes,
the whisper is clear-

The message was meant to be.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Parking in Slow Glinty Gear

Sooo tired in heat glare and tanned heat,
squinting from darkness in the bright;
the luxury van of yesterdays's tomorrow... a suburban,
pulls into the lot where I waitressed in ice cream dreams.

Hidden from windows by the back door,
my stop obscures and blocks a young driver in white...
from his parcels of perishables deliverance.

I look away in awe and fatigue,
backing blindly  in slow retreat,
pulling up before tinted windows...
a worrisome fret... who is looking  out
and watching my maneuvers.

The exit waits and beckons...
the road is clear...
stubbornly a k-turn is fashioned
in opposite park... facing  the woods
and stream , I pull to a spot
to a workman's truck... almost perfectly.

Too close, my side mirror rests
within the flatbed of rear...
he'll never get out  if I stay here.

The slowest back-up comes crookedly,
almost a back paneled scrape
to the reddened quarter panel-
shit- watchers can see the fuck up.

White lines are no longer visible
as I inch and crawl forward
and back... not too close to his door.

The weary face looks through the wheel
that juts from a dashboard...
dammit, I'm in my spot.

Give me  the energy to go in
and scoop my ice cream sundae...
heavy on the whipped cream,
with a cherry on top.

*** I'm synthesizing.. see Wendilea speaks 07-11-09. 

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Woo'd by a Failed Abandon

Nestled in retreat of a newborn
fawning, the unravel of a secret mystery
is stirring in tears of understanding.

The game is played with words,
colors, numbers, metaphors...
anything to veil the truth
from a mind bent on knowing.

Numbing from concoctions of
cockamamie contentions,
the woe-struck wanderer
hides in swaddling again.

The blue dawn fades to bleak-
no tears are left in the welling.
Dry toast of burnt bitter
catch the throat in stifled sob
where ears are deafened in silence.

A flash of black is painted in
the paining... a calling memory
to what it is or lack thereof,
no more mystery,  just a
gaming for abandon, a part
to be played in the villain.

Rushing of pensee, throw clouds
and covers to the wind,
it's all clear while seeking a victory
of stoic cynical pretense.

I'll play along til the tire takes,
and in a spectacle of reverse
rules .... the victor is victim
in search of a canopy 
uncovered by veil and abandon.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

A Wayward Upheaval

My cony love monkey
hid neath the table...
A long lost neighbor visited
with baby in tow-
oohs and aahs in remembrance
from Crony perspective,
a babbling coo both foreign and cute.

The past in reminisce revisited
and talk of aging parents and DNR,
the dying forest as a humorous 
glint of the inevitable... and baby cries.

In burping sit and football fly,
I could not console the child of the future,
what once worked for mine failed to soothe
but mother love is still strong in the quieting.

A sensitive man with soul of angel
takes a turn and crying ensues..
To him it's not personal, as he gives
back and into the Mother.

Snickering chatter belies reality
of economic decline, hopeless aging
of parents and us... the visit concludes.

The Doro Wat is wafting from the kitchen
in spicy entice as ancient cuisine...
a check to the webbed connection
of the disconnected... a door left open-
my coney disappeared.

First floor and under the table, no where-
second floor with weights holding doors to the top-
no rabbit , no movement, frantic calling...
the yard is alive with sunshine and mocking bird,
a grackle pecks dirt then snarks with food on a wire-

Oh Otis... otie, little bub, where are you? In fear
I check the street, the yard, the neighborhood,
the house several times more.

Daddy circles an acre with snacky snacks,
he knows if the rabbit is dead so is my womanhood,
he was my baby, my only charge... I cry and cry and turn
off the nostalgia of Carly Simon... defeated.

When mascara has creased the cringe of laugh lines,
a recovery of the beady eyed hide in hands of the Savior...
he was under a futon on the third floor-
a sobbing relief and reward of carrots,
a punishment of Foo Fighters (loud for cony ears).

A big sigh to "Hanging on...
Dora Watt, a satisfied man, a squinty eyed nibbler-
womanly return from February temperamental stark...
he writes, he grooms, I thank my lucky stars.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

My Morning Star

Rising shine from a darkened dawn
gazing upon expectancy of desirous 
notion in the afterglow of humming give.

The delirious watch an enigmatic
eastern sky in wonder and puzzle
for tell tale signs of westing rollick
within a jazz rift... begging for more.

There is less in the telling
of a bleached purity and
patch of soul... for Juno.

Heavenly bodies do not confabulate
nor share tokens of the inexpressible
under the goggle of a mortal peer.

That is why.... close to you.

When Aberration Was Understood

The shiny young neophytes
were put to the test-
in Freud, Maslow,
and Jungian mystery...

The locked ward,
where offenders were
introduced as archetypes
of insanity's horror.

My interview with a
paranoid prisoner
held my sunny cheer
of freckled and white-capped
innocence in contempt. 
Mephistopheles of motor gang
told me he would
"solder my anus in rape."
In fearless compassion, the question 
of why escaped... I bit my lip
and stayed put...
"are you crazy, I could kill you,"
he shouted. He didn't know
I already died in a dream.

The child of god, a convicted fabulist
spoke in tongues and a grandiose
salad of words. I jotted and listened...
between the lines there was poetic justice.

The zealots in arduous promote
of limbic unfettered, told secrets...
we are ALL god... they whispered in chant.

In catatonic slump and stare, the
young one liked my music in the
final dance party project...
no believed when she moved with
me in a swaying embrace.

The insane back then
seemed normal... elevated
in a solitary confinement of sentience.

I've since learned
that the truly crazy
have made peace
with the surrounding madness;
coaxed by accolades of masked masses.

Not locked in their knowledge,
I throw away the key.

Friday, June 5, 2009

On the Fence with the Offing (apologies to Dorothy Parker)

It starts with a flash of heat,
a flushing, begging for mercy;
a grimace in anger
over some small deceit...
misperception as mountainous 
insult and flagrant degradation.

All was well a moment ago,
but weather and loneliness
and a sagging ego got in the way...
a messy disaster of a mind in clutter.

The festering smolders in a feisty
festoon of fisty cuffs... fuck it...
yes fuck is the only word coming...
taking aim in the spurt and sputter.

Why I oughta...
what? (jeers in mocking)
kill yourself? but how?

An explosion of gas and molotov,
with me as the centerpiece
of the blaze-
no, someone will have to put it out
in front of the neighbors (fuck them)

Diving headfirst into rock and shallow brook-
my luck, the neck would break without
the ending... not quite ready for pathetic
paraplegia in the maiming.

Pills and whiskey-
what's available here would only cause a 
long sleep and a wake of shame and body
fluid exudates.

Guns are out, I don't believe in them. Period.

Nooses are complicated, I can barely tied my own shoes.

Asphyxiation - no garage... and besides, where do the
rubbers tubes go anyway?

Train tracks - it's too long of a walk for now.

A slashing - I faint at the sight of my own blood,
and I'm not a real masochist anyway.

Car crash - no, someone else might get hurt. How
would I forgive myself in the afterlife.

No when all is thought and done,
there is no good way to escape
the slow pain of simply existing
in a private hell of sorts...
cigarettes and whiskey might do the trick
eventually...  it's the coward's way out.


Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Tread Mill

When i tire... there's treading
in a a downy cloud of retreat.

A fan in pinwheel shadow
and spin, silently paddles
a pristine orb in darkness.

Closing time in fetid aging
of cheese, dreams and waits...

for the five o'clock somewhere.

If Stills Could Talk

Flesh of dewy wetback drying in the dusty sun,
native tourist wonder in fertile valley of privilege plain-
mashing madness hiding in the toil of broken picking still-
O I hate the wine, whose bitter bash of flush blooms
dreary on a palate of prickly tongue of acid announced.

Crystal goblets tink in heady talk of pompous plump,
extolling slithering gams in full-bodied elixir of bokay-
swirling harvest from sweated toil forgotten from one eyed
slurp in the mixing, swallowing in fragrance or a fine spit... 

Distill me this distaste, from within the contours of label
discreet and no making of a good year... water and ice
forgiving in the dilution of  taste extraneous, yet effusive...
whisking into the golden swirl of a hippocratic oath of hypocrisy,
I nurse in stillness and envy.


Sunday, May 31, 2009

I am a Ghost...

Two eyes of utterance 
can't stand to be seen
in a the shuttering of disabled...
I  know where I stand.

Disabled in the search 
for the meta-for of mail.
It is gone... the last connection,
and cigarettes to boot,
a lasting impression,
one who hates the snark,
the other who won't see
the writing on the wall...
remembering the music.

The light is perfect
in an uncanny shine
of keyboard memories...
the smell of charred meat
will meet the glowing
of the unsuspecting
I know i am dead... 
the haunting will last 
til whenever...

Wear it Well

Anger in loss of control...
is a fringe benefit of love,
otherwise who cares
in the braiding of the 
too trite for words,
the future... too old for
memory of fondue dipping.

Pinch me in tweak,
I know I'm alive 
in the featherbed of dooming,
I've learned to survive...

In so-so sewing
the seams of a trout
jump hither in rainbow,
a reeling of color
and flipping in frenzy...

Shout a silent scream
and all is forgotten,
spin to dizzied fizzing-
sits upon a spam of laughter.

The emoticon wears it's quell
in springing torture
of all is well...
drink deep draught
and despair in hell.

A clash of fisty-cuff 
is still a lashing 
of terror
in knuckled bleeding...

I saw the face of an unexpected 
death, in clarity and clash of platter
I bid it...
go home ... all is well in sweep keeping.

The light has no bounds,
nor energy to sustain it.

The Smirk of Goldilocks

She ate, sat, slept in their 
souls... while they were
jaunting in...
who knows where.

Tried them all
in a daze of wonder
and mischief-
too cold, too hard, just right...
the child resonates
til she was broken and woo'd
into submissive sleep.

And when the beasts
of a tidy convention returned
to the scene of an innocent crime,
the sleeping child awoke and ran...

Not in fear and horror,
but smirking
to a place...  far, far away
from the deadening glare. 

All at Once

We grow in circles
of then, now, and longing-
synthesized in a blue
dome of dreams
as seen from afar.

The Pilgrim* was right-
experiencing in
shell shock the war within..
mingled with bomb shell 
shrapnel denuding the moon.

The dome protects
from inert gases
that keep the circle moving...
the stoppage of meme;
a sure and sudden death.

We know it, forging
through the battledream
of time... those in matter-
of-fact grow straight
to the sun and wither in leaving,
while others watch
the path of mistake
from behind the dome,
the safe place...
it is not a linear haven.

* Vonnegut's hero, not the idiots of the Mayflower 

Saturday, May 30, 2009

View from a Porch

On the rocker in worn paint
and speckled mildew
the coney sits proudly
wriggling a wary nare,
planning escape
amongst the littering of the tu-
tued dropping of petals.

Swinging to and fro in curlish
fold, music rocks in
belted bad girl staccato,
Anxiety... get nervous...
from an 80's avatar- been there

in leather, lace, and fishnet,
pulled from a line of
flannel and jean
as celebrity someone;
if only they knew
I wasn't... a chuckling
in reminisce.

Through gaily painted bannister
of olive and pink,
the sod beyond is high
and applauding in
windblown waves of frenzy...
my audience is
flickering matches
in daylight.

Again the promise of somebody
hopes for a reprieve...

Where, oh where is the hummingbird?


Don't go there... but if you must

Encouraging offspring
to repent from our success,
not in repetition of resent;
in jubilation
of the snuffing
of old ideals
and creaking chambers
of has-been.

Be wary the wizened weed-
we tempt...
wishes of future casting,
that all will change
and paradigms of hat box parcel
and suited huff bluff
will blow out 
with birthday candles.

Seeding is fucking
in a fertilized soil...
withered corn doesn't 
tell lies.

Friday, May 29, 2009

Skipping to Criminy

Happy sunny dial,
wispy hallows
of dried leaves
rattling in moon
and dew.

Point me to the river,
the puffs of dandylion
in white haired silence...
blow and wish away.

Cherubs will see and peek
in glee,
as yellow haired harass
sits silent
in weed... poachers beware.

The ruined green perfection
sits in even rows,
disdain for the wilding
that eluded.

Mow them down, those
downy harbingers
of mischievous seed...
cooked by plots cremated.

Ahhh we remember
the wild...
and won't be plucked.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Moon Moods Have Desisted

Good night all... sleep tight.

Medusa Submerged

In hot toed bubbles she stands strident
defying the scald,
spigot in cold alleviating
lobster flesh... she waits
in indignation.

Lowering milky speckled
scales into the froth;
a slinking and sliding
into slippery porcelain.

Cradled in splay of lotus legs,
elbows and beacons
point skyward, cruel
hands grasp the bubbled
nape in deliberation.

The head thrashes underwater,
swirling mane of snaky
silken wanderance,
the water gushes in murmur.

Eyes closed, nostrils flare
in scent and sigh,
while ears listen to
measured breath in largo.

All is well in this world
of Medusa,
soaking submerged
and alone... from adoring eyes
that she cast to stone.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Mounting the Pillar of Salt

Through darkened mission slats
the teal wall
shadows the form
from sun through setting shades.

A rocking frolic in moan
from slick lips bowed-
eyes roll heavenward
in OMG whisper.

A vertical smile dances
in swollen salivating delight;
a dance in writhe and wriggle
to eyes that peek...

at rolling peaks,
erratic in jiggle of rhythm...
Riding high
on the mount,
soft kissed by Vesuvius...

All forgotten in now
and insurgence;
shuttering to collapse.

In the Heat of the Delete

I thought I knew you in the heat 

 of the night and poetry,

 you tried to get it right in 

trite and the familial.

Failed dive,

but you won,

a disaster of what I do well,

happy face in tight smile,

beat me down in submission

and I say, thank you sir,

your grace ... I submit.

Tucked away in stones 

and mansions. I'm done...

had some fun, raised a tribe...

and now in disaster of what

I thought I could do so well,

glass was broken, I bled...

Unconvinced that it was 

my fault; I succumbed to

your verbiage...

I got patina in the coppering,

blue in a hatred pure,

a delete in the present

is all you needed to do.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

The Search

It starts with subtle wordplay,
a hallmark greeting
meant to send
in time of need, in compassion.

Life happens, it's messy-
all good intentions go out the window...

and alone in highball and hades
you face the demon of yourself
laced in miscontent;
aimed at nothing,
no target
no matter.

Points of time get concentric,
in wandering connivery,
you peek at the spectacle
of yourself.

A conspiring of words
in fanciful flux
submerged to plot
in clever and poise...

it circumvents the notion;
only the elderly demand
happy endings and just desserts.

A swelling ensues
in capricious capture;
the ghost in the graveyard
feels cheated
and bereft.

A vision of panoply
the hints of leave it to rest.

Compelled by the daimons
whose voices were silenced
in muffs of safe and privilege,
the words fumble and prattle
to the quiet depraved...
we listen
consumed in the message-
that if one fails 
we all do.

Gather round.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Waiting to Pass

Hazy waiting for the coming,
the domestic goddess is weary;
all that scrupulous scrubbing,
paper towel waxing and bleach...
lavender for the scenting.

A slow steady disappearance
of memento and souvenir
of the permanent.

Give me a pink slip,
I'm ready to fly
all possessions 
in a duffle bag on wheels
in peace, love, and rocking.

I've learned the art of patience,
tempered at times, but all
in the mastery of wile.

When there's nothing to do
in the making of accumulation,
the desire of the heart calls,
dare it be cluttered
in stuff and mortgage... I think not.

Release me from
this path of rightness-
it was good, but my wings
are beating in the rhythm
of gypsy... the future is waiting.

Each day to be plaited
as a rite of passage,
moment over moment,
wonder over write,
shuddering over shutter,
me and my rebels... a knotly trio.

Deliver us from convention-
we're ready to meet
the milky way, prickly desert,
red mountains under shy sun,
beaches with nary
a beach ball umbrella.

Shiver me timbers
in redwood and mist...
Rainier from a crying forest,
heartland, badlands, wetland,
dusty bowl of wheat and dive...

This highway of now... too slow
for the jive travelers
of a chartreuse dream.

Let us loose,
we're all revved up
in bated wait;
ready to pass...

All signs point to goooo and daddy-o.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

The Calling

Why do I write 
in writhe and torment
when in sleepful bliss
of noncommittal I
could wile oblivious
in graying, wrinkled sheets
to the march of time?

But nooo,
no complacent composure
comes my way...
I have been chosen
in tantrum and doubt
to lead a new age
from dreams of Atlantis.

A fluffy bunny
in striped chenille
mocked in dark shadows
and conservative concentrics
makes time,
as words flip
like hotcakes on a griddle.

The vision came in aural
afterglow of iced magic,
whiskey ether, while nesting
in a religious
ecstasy of suspension.

Woman come hither
and listen...
the healing is coming
to balance the scale
in dark and light
of a fish swirl.

I listened....

Boldly carve your char
and gristle, dissect
the meat from the
bone of your honesty -
let go...

Questions and protests
surfaced and melted...

Kindly find the voice
in words
for laying of hands
to those who would listen -
no tricking,
it's time to care. 

I wept...

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Alone Now, Naturally

I never felt more alone,
and wretched
and free to be me.
A ghost of the past, a 
glimmer of future,
a wisp of my old self
weathered and wrinkled,
dying in the trite
a proverb in the making...
Adjectives just behoove me,
you take that glee.

A dusting of maelstrom
in jokey quota is where you are 
and what was meant to be...
Honesty craves in fervid dream-
no one will really know me,
except in projection;
a silent actress upon a screen
of 3D.

Numbness has comfort
from vain and glory,
it's all just the same,
happy talky talk as
missing dreams.

Illusions are elusive 
in the buttering buttress,
acid rain will wear over time.
The limestone left
drips in sadness 
as tourists are taken
in by the cheap.

Demons hover and savor
in licking flames, as angels
cry upon fruited planes.
What's not told in the telling
lies open for turpitude
slithering into place.

In weariness and tide,
as backlash and foam,
waves ripple as untethered
dreams recreating the mystery
of what is all seem.

In best intent and wishes,
I'd like to believe that there's
solace in wash and new paths
in fresh mud.

Wrong Turn on So Many Rights

Opportunity abounds on a plain of lonely,
everyone wants to share in revel and glory...
a flitting passage of time in the mind.

How right you are is an omen of possession,
a sad depiction of what you could be
when wronged in the righting.

Another lifetime in maybe is all I need
to get it right, when it is defined...
For now it's a longshot, a stretch
of filly finishing first.

Here we go again, Pop goes the weasel
in lofty sentiment of a gloomy forgotance...
acceptance in the ways of the world,
your world, fraught with glamorous accolade.

Do no harm, then do as you will...
in hushed darkened corners
and candlelit spectacle unshared,
except in the shorn of abeyance.

In humor I watch your didactions
and dicker around in adrift,
bereft and into the fray... 
as once again the clock tower chimes.

To where or when or how...
who cares,
there is no reigning when a gypsy
takes flight into the light
of an uneven conundrum.

The winged ones live a little
when out of the wet cocoon,
shuddering into the mist
of a forgotten tomorrow.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

A Man Amongst Kingpin Cheats

Our leader is of black and white,
and anything but; he didn't inherit
the jewels of the past, instead,
in the striving for the win
he inherited a plate of shit
to serve to his followers...
in humble dignity he didn't 
try to call it pate.

His choice in lady speaks
volumes, no wide eyed
aging ingenue, but a force
to be reckoned with on
goddess terms; imbued
with mothering for all...
in the baring of arms. 

Full of hope with words
inspiring, a poet of the practical
in plain terms... for all the forgotten.

Tears well, as he speaks in the art 
of the soothe, backed by years
of listening and thinking
things through.

Hated by the privileged few,
loved by the common all,
he's Plato's best prophet
in a world gone mad...
No worries, no fret...
Speak dear one, you inspire
the hope from the regrettable past.

I sleep well with you at the helm,
but not enough to be complacent.