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.

Spare Me the Bravado

I'm the quiet type,
not big on braggadocio...
somewhat pleasing to look at
if that's your calling-
I don't think much about it.

I like up like neon
in the lowered lights,
hummed in purring, 
staring dare... eyes open,
watching... no baby-talk and coo,
I don't do cute.

I want the gentle man
who keeps me guessing...
no need to impress or 
pronounce every thought.
Deliver me from the macho,
only the small need to shout.

The quiet ones like us forgo
the chattering drivel, while
the bold and overt flaunt
their gifts, neglecting nuance.

He will know my body better
than I do, my thinker can tease
to a frenzy, we will wile for hours
in the foreplay of living...

Then when a sultry message, wink,
and crooked smile seep out,
my quiet one will take my hand
and lead me to words outside
my imagination...
I will respond in reciprocation. 

I've practiced in the silence
of poetry, abstracting the mundane,
building a fortress of passion for
the one who feels, watches, shares
the burning desire at the temple
of temptation.

I am man enough for myself,
no boundaries here...
Keep your bravado away-
it's a scratch on the song;
grating to a bundle of nerves
that won't be found in the 
mysterious worlds of the silenced.


Thursday, May 14, 2009

A Poet's Priori

Once upon a shadow,
some words held true
in a corinth of leave
to a poet pondering.

A small and humble jester
in mull and spice
dabbled in the inkling
and a genre was transformed.

An innocent of freedom's plea,
devoid of diary weep
or opinion rendered;
words great and sparse fell
in the quilling.

He wrote as compelled
by lyric and meter,
amused in the unknowing...
"Nothing," he said, "came to mind."

The words in number
became equation...
in mysticism of
mythology and music.

The masses awakened from
diversions of frivolous;
a puzzler they loved
and hoped to understand.

The poet in earnest, smiled...
in the finish he blew the message
to the wind...
no apology, dissection, 
defending or solving.

The words will melt
upon minds who
do not seek his truth,
rather, they question their own.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Forbidden Fruit

Caught in a tangle of vine
ripened by the rising sun,
moistened by the setting moon
in dew and dripping rain.

Plum licked lips
on strawberry tongues,
triangular kiwi in whee
and murmur.

Limey eyes and dilated dates
gazed upon themselves,
bittersweet in the stare
of the smile.

Raisins in the sum of touch-
erect to the pinch in
golden and dark...
a hint at the grapevine.

Guava is ripe for the seeding,
the nectarine morphs fuzz
and static of peach.

A watering slurp of melon,
red, dark, delicious
in scented lushness of summer.

Passion arises in taste of banana,
peeled, firm, and perfectly curved.
Grasping the ridges of avocado,
skin warm and swollen
to summer exposure.

A salad of fruit in a melange
of just dessert...
tart, sweet, ripe, raw,
no need for condiment
of saccharin or sugar.

The low lying is plucked
waiting the peak...
sip of coconut in milking exposed,
tandem juicing of ecstasy's mount.

Navel to pith in seed chakra
rising in the slumber
above the plane of fruits
to ripening of grape
in supine elixir...
so fine, so fine,

Monday, May 11, 2009

Eleanor Delivers

A party, a picnic in the hot July sun.
I fainted at the parade in front of a
stranger... the orange boats of 
breakfast floated in the deli john.

So sorrys and thank yous were
delivered amongst the smoke and coffee.
Take me home, take me home...
where's Mommy?

As flags waved in the hot potato salad sun,
adults in innuendo and chasing,
sent us packing to the fields without
a bat or ball... just anger
and unanswered questions.

Away from adults, I was safe and sure
while chasing the bugs of crepey cloth
awaiting display of lightening.

Boys got bored and Eleanor appeared...
in girly dress and curly innocence.
Carried to a stump, "my sister is stupid
do what you want," he said. 

I watched with others as she stood smiling
in jeer and mockery, a sweet child,
stripped of dress, cotton panties on display.

Down they came, as fingers poked in laugh
and sniff, "she's just dirty" like a Venus
on display without the tufted treasure...
only a gap toothed grin.

An when the defouling occurred
in her giggles and acceptance,
I was deflowered in chastity...
she became the plaything of desire
to a pack of dogs.

I shivered the suffering
and disappeared to nurse
on honeysuckle in the setting sun. 

Cherry Picking

Tiny kitchen in tidy sparkle,
filmy curtains with flocked
cherries... so cheery in
tight lipped scrub.
Scampering subdued,
it isn't home.

A nap gone awry in stronghold,
enfolding in foreign breath 
and waxen hands
to calm sweating curliques
of angel golden.

I felt the grip of defeat and despair,
no, not here, not now in animal
innocence. A frightened mammal
bites to the face... 
only a human would slap. 

I searched and cried for the goddess
of deliverance, she took to hug
and with squinted seething
held her breath. The cuddle was forced,
and in secret silence told me to forget.

I only remember the wind
blowing the happy cherry curtains
in frenzied contempt...
the sound was SSSHHH.

Half and Half

It's half past ten
at half baked alley,
done to a crisp
in other worlds... fried.

Chewing my tongue
in tied died fashion
of yesteryear's fad...
where did the time go?

Slurred melt down
in tinkling slug trickles
just this side of trite...
neat napkin wipes the chatter,
the highs have come in,
grandiose clamor...
the lows are coming up soon.

Water me down with vitamins
(no B12) and melatonin. I need
sleep and nightmares to remind
me why I'm alive... to awake?

The dead of night is corrugated
in thirst and dread, no time
for cleansing thoughts
in this hour... maybe tomorrow...
as the cigarette glowers in the dark.

I retreat to the porch surrounded 
by night prowlers... even the skunk 
smells sweet as words dance as demons-
so haunt, I capture and scribble.

Violent tapping at words inscrutable
in the glare of an appleshine
no need for lights, the dark of the soul
knows it's way in the purging.

Tomorrow's chirping will hold
the promise of a new day, a chance to change,
no bull like red bull (it's the B12) and 
hot shower, boots and erasure,
demons exercised, the freshness
of uncooked food... sustenance in sunshine...

The nights will be the same.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

A Mother's Remininese

Gone are the days of cooing 
and endless diapers, nurturing
rhymes, patching boo boos,
fretting fevers, "eat your greens,"
N-O spells no, countless games
and shows where my eyes
saw only the glory of their

The lioness defended 
and would attack the world in 
their honor. Authority has it's
place in compassion, dare smite
my child.... they're just rebellious...
it's normal... so was I and look
how good I turned out... 
skateboarding isn't a crime...
you'll be the prettiest girl at the prom,
even if the hairdresser was an idiot...
I'll fix it for you, I will, you're all that matters.

It's quiet now, Khalil called it.
Your children are arrows...
you cannot be their future...
I knew and accepted the launching.

But now, in moments alone
with each and all of them,
I hear as they preach to me
what I wanted them to understand.
No need to talk back... I listen
and learn once again.

The future looks bright.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Junk Man Philosophy

Some of life's best lessons
hit home when spoken
by the least likely philosophers.

It was an attached garage cleaning,
nasty business...
broken furniture, old boards and
windows, leaves, a dead animal or two,
a scat filled disaster.

The young men toiled in silence;
the buggy-lugging of debris, the cutting
of wood... they sweated profusely
in shirts logo emblazoned.

The final inspection.... pristine,
only the rungs of an aluminum ladder
decorated the walls. I was satisfied
remembering their last visit
when important stuff was hauled away
mistakenly... though it was never missed.

As I relayed my tale of the last junk
removal debacle, the worker smiled at me
and said, "Everything eventually becomes junk."
As if hit by a two by four, I thought,
Well said my friend, well said indeed.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

To be Desired

Love is such a strange word
mixed in so much meaning
tied to so much cliche.

For the love of God,
a child,
a rose,
a sunset,
a quiet beach,
a partner...
all heavenly sentiments...

There's also love of:
in purgatory preach...

To be desired
is almost a religion
unto itself...
it's all I ever hoped for.

So Much Time, so little to do

A wracking wrap of cough
speaks volumes in quiet candor
usurping the energy 
that drones within.

Each breath a sigh in stifled
sugar coat, sponging for
expansion in the heaviness of doubt.

Moments tick as hours in glasses,
gazing at memory of work
to be done in a matter of time.

Restless staring seeks the
solace of drawn blinds, honeycomb couch
with feverish arm rests.

A lone tear is released
and trickles to tightened lips
that part to breathe.
The tongue perceives the salt
upon the bitter buds.

Bereft of Frost

Spring marches on in usual succession
renewed budding by day, denuded natal by night
in flights of crepe and torn kite.

Tailwinds and tailspins do their part
in the cleansing soak,
bubbles in warmth hold enchantment.

Winter pales in comparison
in expectation of a new birth -
seed and toil from cold misgiving.

By a stroke of luck and equal parts
madness, a reckoning occurs,
darting through meadows
resplendent in weeds.

Wild ones lift lonely shoots
tilling the soil of another tomorrow;
dreamers still find reason to fly
from the chrysalis in the early dew.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

The Intuit's Dilemma

There's a knowing
in dispended judgement
coming from shapes
and forms of disbelief.

The chattering mind
fights and dispels
in incalculable cruelty.

The heart in steady
flowing accepts the oracle
and soothes in transformation.

A crashing sense,
a flashing vision
steals the mundane
when nobody's looking.

Warily the shrouded
verdict takes hold
in thought and escape.

The mind sees calamity,
the heart holds peace,
but who decides?

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

A Rain for the Making

Silenced in sequence
of ponderance spare
the gutters are full again,
dripping with mournful refrain.

The windows pastiched
in yellowing lace, hide the panes
of despair. Even the birds are silent.

The dark night of the soul
has its place in palliative beckoning,
but the afternoon rain in soggy gray
makes no sense in the killing.

Might as well start a party of one
and laugh at the flickering ash.
Touche the karma rolls in thunder
even the lightening lost it's way.

Where are my gods of beauty and wonder,
hiding in drainspouts of seasonal waste?
Rain hard if you must, there's gloom to share;
tomorrow's rust beckons the gold
in the seeking of sunny day trappings.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Witchy Tie Tao

The Nature's knew
a song so sweet
in buffalo wing philosophy.

The witch, wench, whore, woman
in salty spice and
blue cheese tasting
pursued by beard,
rises to the peyote chase...

Rippling trails in minx and mix
morphs the dance
in mingling of senses...
head of Salome
sipping a grasshopper.

She saw, she came and danced
in the hiding, they controlled
in mistake of gossip wonder.

We're power in numbers...
sweet Chatterley
jump for the moon.

The Royal Flush

Hear ye, the high and mighty
gluttons of a wealthy deal.
Where's your King of Club...
do you know how to feel?

Your time is over
in self satisfied glory,
the buck is broken,
the soft doe rises
to a kinder, gentler deal.

The meek have been waiting
to inherit their worth,
the Mother force watches
with a waxing mirth.

An ace in the hole,
just another deal
for assholes grabbing
in last straws of chance,
in side parted helmets
of an era gone past.

Royal lizards with slivery tongues
can't mask their cunning
to the lowly ones.

We sink, we seek...
not in poor me, the flame
flicks higher where words
have no meaning.

Come play the hand that caresses,
the cards are in the reading.
A royal flush is a Tarot's
dream of oblivion.

Friday, May 1, 2009

My Master Piece

He hangs in matted grace
as canvas caressed
in silken brushstroke.

Swelling pride sweeps
and stirs in hidden
places and rhythmic repose.

I see the face, the eyes
etched in stirring,
lips soften in quickening glance.

Mastery of mystic knowing,
speaking in tongues
as sensual watching.

As close as touch,
ecstasy beyond
delight's boundaries...

No words can match
this Master...
king of the night Om.

Awe and admiration
from a faraway smile
surpasses understanding.

Is a masterpiece less beautiful
from a distance?

Gazing in silence
beyond words...
I know his resplendent beauty
was meant to be shared.