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.