passion’s courtiered voice
Category: Writing and Poetry

verily i come to thee, pleasure's journied vessel,
hard in prow, seeking welcome upon the harbor of
thy flesh for joys intemperate and ephemeral,
ungoverned but by these urges, primal in the seeking
of grasping hands and touches gentle upon these
surfaces, ours incendiary, our sparking fingerprints,
this dance divine and temptuous...
and this good cloth netting of night's design about
thy limbs give good sheen and bare smokey cover
to thy nakedness awaiting lips, mine, and lips my own
give rise with kisses upon thee, to give thy breasts
good cause and invitation to my mouth's desires,
and peeling from, the ripeness of thy waiting fruits,
succulent against my tongue . . .
open for me, too, that these loins, their heated purpose
and sport such joining find and commune with the very
angels on that heaven's edge, our mere mortal endeavors
delivered on the blade of my dagger, such deaths little
and sweet into thee, thy impaling..
enjoin me, this here, this now, in passion's most fiery
embrace, let us entwine thus, and do around and in,
the other wrap and writhe, into that broiling breach, our
releases seek, and in the seeking find the truer meanings
for this that our blood gives passage and pump, this
mortal engine of our being.
let us, more, this motion and clasp, in spirit couple
and couple remain, that field, spent, uncovered but by
trembled touch and cooling winds of aftermath's gasping
over our sheened flesh...
i am come to thee on the tide and upon this beach,
sensual, i await, silent promising . . .   ..

1:43 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

autumnal art
Category: Writing and Poetry

fall tries its hand at
yellow journalism
in the trees around me...
an artistic sensationalist
statement of death in tones
before business-like winter
comes through with its endless
supply of liquid paper
to make the  canvas
cold and white once more.

6:07 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

another slice of life from the melting pot pie of chicken downtown
Category: Writing and Poetry

there's a man on the corner, he's sandwich-board advertising
the end is near, like a bad cliche of every downtown, he's
a ventriloquist in gray face, getting other people to read his words
aloud, validating public schools' remedial success. all he needs
is a soap box to stand on to make him complete. doomsday
is hearsay in a schizophrenic mind -but wall street's mortar is
going soft and a house of plastic cards is always susceptible
to rumors' winds ...  bad news always travels faster too with
iphone and ipod people living in phones in their head in their cells.
it's august and an alto saxaphone street serenades us with
                        "summertime" and i pen sometime
                                                                 rhyme
looking for in this life, the truly sublime . .
maybe i'm not the clown prince of poetry, maybe i'm
                                                                 a mime
that can't force his way out of this box of contemporary culture
all to versed in cons. no prose in advertising at all, not even in
"the end is near." no poetry either in fear -just "you are here."
and i was with my pen, again, a chronicler of a time that thinks
itself an age, an epoch without an epic and signs that point every
direction but which way to go. and personal choice is threatening
to stop at the bedroom again. it fills and spills from my pen
in ink that has a fetid stink not what should have been ..  .  .
maybe that man is right and maybe the end is near, though he
never said the end to what, but isn't it kinda nice to begin again?

6:58 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

thoughts on art while watching a DVD about the hermitage art museum
Category: Writing and Poetry

art mirrored life
portraits captured expression
still lifes captured the moment
epics captured on canvas that which
the mind could not imagine
priests decided theme for canvas
painting read for the illiterate masses
what they could not make of letters
on page between covers ....
religion killed painters

photography killed portrait painting
movies killed grand epic painting
television killed movies
computer killed television
iphones are killing computers
instant gratification is killing the mind

michaelangelo, raphael and da vinci
are now spielberg, lucas, and zemeckis

we are a shallow culture hurrying the
process of maturing with makeup
alcohol and wars
as we coddle athletes playing games
and models holding onto youth.....
we try, too, to stave off at the same time
the lines, the failing muscles
the falling breasts
the deteriorating mind
the emotional changes
that we call age, with a pill . . . .
while we venerate the child . . .  

art is taken from the eye of the beholder
placed in the mind by schools of thought
from which there is no graduation . . .

life mirrors art mirroring life
mirroring art in prefilled glasses
of emptiness calling itself substance . . .
it is all package . . . .
we are the product of technology
that makes truths of lies
in appearance, makes moments
of epochs and life a binary coded
data stream that is au currant ...
a river that takes us farther away from
our reflections in paintings
we rarely even look at anymore,
let alone even remember .  . . .

12:16 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

socratic suicides
Category: Writing and Poetry

i will not, any socratic death,
endeavor myself and drink
the koolaid of so many's slaking
these last eight years of tragedy
and government-endorsed fear
combatible only by consumerism . . .
it is tainted of jim jones and other
untransubstantiated claims
of godliness. christ has already
been spirited away from christmas
and it is always halloween on that
hill, failed empire-building in their
costumes of the elected of
the people. their is a nefarious
hemlock on choice and compassion
as the coffers fill coffins, spilling  
to gird up for more war. to live by
arrogance and ignorance is to die
as ignobly, with the polluted waters
of this greed-based ideology
used to make the koolaid. i am
either part of the solution or part
of the problem in a house divided,
trying to convince itself it can remain
standing. a foundation rebuilt
on body bags and pauper graves
beneath the ever rising and falling
corporate and banking towers cannot,
for long, stand. even thieves cannot,
platonically survive, to cannibals
become at their own banquets.
the three blind men still cannot
determine the elephant from beneath
its hijacked return wearing the chain
mail of a false crusade. the allegorical
cave remains dark, this 21st century,
hiding behind a crumpling wall street
while the river of koolaid runs
through it. they dance at their altars,
proclaiming "at least we will not thirst!"

8:30 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

more rain in the forecast
Category: Writing and Poetry

the sky leaks like a geriatric bladder
during a weekend drinking bender
with no supply of depends and an all
you can eat menu of pretzels and chips.
the monotone sky bellies up to the bar
for more while the  weepy-eyed drunk
chick at every end of the bar and corner
in every party adds to the water count ...
the weatherman is a tampon puppet show
with his strings attached forecast...
his dehydrated personal warmth shines
through as he sloshes and shucks his
teleprompted words and his blue screen
posturing -only the misanthrope artist smiles
like a vampire who lost his wisdom teeth
but still has a smart mouth and a biting
perspective about the zombies of culture's
making... at least the downtown jugular
of pedestrian traffic won't coagulate ...
aint no one walking on water anymore
and nobody wants to walk in it ... wet
behind the ears don't wanna get wet
between the toes or wet between anywhere
else ..."let a smile be your umbrella," that
idiot on the tv says, "cause it looks like
                                                more rain"

1:09 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

joe six pack
Category: Writing and Poetry

joe six pack
not johnny pipe crack,
he's under attack
-new GOP hack
yes, the one with the rack,
she wanna bitch smack
that donkey pack ..
wanna win back
that big white shack...
she don't cut joe slack . . .
so joe gets flack
with his brown paper sack
his chug a lug snack
he don't know jack
and he aint black ...

meanwhile
      hockey moms
and nascar dads,
their aryan spawn
and hanging chads
their wanna-bes
and shoulda-hads
and christian soldier
undergrads
are revving up
more attack ads . . . .

cause "joe S,P."
has A.D.D.
his memory
can only three
words, ever see
to lead the free
to "glory be!"
not "jubilee!"
or apostasy
or heresy
make "roe, wade V"
soon history .  . . . .

joe six pack,
meet boots concrete
winning is losing
ask da feet . . .
you were too easy
too incomplete
for voter's minds
to make ends meet
on cheap cliches
and sound bites' beat . . .
here's another term
"hind teat" .  . .
you're gonna pay
and no receipt!
november comes on
frightened feet     . .

12:34 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

five AM, october ninth, 2008 . . . .(or the butt crack of dawn really needs washing!)
Category: Writing and Poetry

five bells beyond the witch-infamed,
dawn still waiting like a cold blanket
for its autumnal cues through my
windows... the apartment lies in perpetual
white-noise silence in my ears, searching
for some broadcast signal, some hint
of a waking world -even the shadows
still sleep, too heavy for any light's chase
from the corner of my couch-bed. sand
land, too, still echoes with the shock
of my early arrival into night's infancy
like a whore in church, or a beggar
waiting for its doors to open and scraps
to be thrown to me, the pariah target
for the papparazzi and column writers,
my lights out before the nocturnal vigil''s
first steps from its east bound crib at 11:30.
memory's librarian cannot even remember
the last expedition for infamed sleep
that had such an early departure, back
when the navigators were trying to prove
night was, indeed, round, and part of some
orbit around a clock and other columbus-
mad heresies waiting for the monsters
at the edge of dreams to devour them.
the sun feels no hurry, yet, to drag day
over the horizon, my mind smelling of
loam from the graveyard shift change
long before its normal clock-punching
as downtown yawns to the first rising odors
of fresh ink on newsprint stacking in door
fronts and belching gasoline emissions
from idling truck motors under the snaking
whisps of caffeine's lingering infusion into
human veins. but here, in this monochrome
bee hive waiting for daylight to make it
a brownstone again, it is cold and carbonated,
my caffeine -as coke should be, with allergy
pills and a couple handfuls of cap'n crunch
chaser -the breakfast of champions to
kickstart another journey for daytime's
clues for why i rolled from bed yet one more
time. 6:10 now and the house nanny in fur
has joined me in this odyssey -as far as her
food dish is waiting, empty, for someone
to fill it- already trying to guilt me by licking
dust from some corner across the living room
from me. funnny how "free loader" does not
have a place in her vocabulary of "feed me
now so i can go back to sleep, you can pet
me later if i'm in the mood." nothing like canned
cat food to wake the olfactories. 6:30 now
and i can hear the first constipated grunts of
day outside my window to the beat of some
woman's heels on the empty sidewalk....
my mind is wide awake in dreamland, already
miles down every road possible, but my body
wants to stay under the covers, ready to make
the caine mutiny look like like a meet and greet
at the water cooler. this is not a good time
to not have any chocolate cake donuts in
the frig, making the ass crack of dawn that
much more compressing as day tries to fit into
its pants ...
              that morning smile is going to have to
wait for awhile now. . . ..

11:51 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

meanwhile, outside, next to the dumpster . . . .
Category: Writing and Poetry

they lay like crumpled suicide
success stories, jumpers
from molted snake skinned
moments of life, next to that
dumpster, in the rain,
the final collection plate of
naked truths in the church
of now. jeans, shirts, socks 
someone no longer needed,
forgot, or threw away,
and someone will come along ,
pick up then drop them again.
looking for something better . . . .
all honesty is existential
when it lies empty, but filled
with stories no one cares to read.
they cared enough to jump.
to their early conclusions,
waiting now for someone else
to pick them up and add to the story

1:34 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

when rabbits write of romance
Category: Writing and Poetry

why not a philospher?
the poet bunny asked the paper
dangling inflections where
carrots would have been preferable...
all the chocolate martyrdoms
in early spring -and that silly
hide and go seek business with
the eggs, never mind all the disgruntled
artists who had to color them . . .  
"all the world is a tortoise
and the world hates a bald hare . . .
but march hares are all mad
by april to be sure, running through
mirrors with a stopped watch will
do that to you." he bent an ear
then, looking at his "peter cottontail
was a traitor!" poster and wrote more .  .
"if it didn't make me such a cannibal,
i would, the chocolate rabbit ...
                         out of habit
and a sweet tooth
-and reckless youth ... but no lucky
sole am i, rutting as i am .  .
a rabbit without the "t' is still no
holy man, and a hooker without
business has no trix . . . but in the end,
never put all your eggs in one basket
when the bunny trail leads to a mansion."
another paws -not lucky either . . .
"oh! rabbit! write! rabid writer! ......
the old whoary hare is not a hairy whore. . ..
and the hardly hinted at is hep
and happiness is the whole hearted . .  . "
he smiled his bunny smile ...
"and to hump would make me happy too!"

1:12 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

words for the herds, unheard
Category: Writing and Poetry

stop and spell the roses,
let your thorns down for awhile ..
open up your eyes and let
the world in, see if you bloom .  . .
photosynthesis is not always
a camera -turn that thing off in
your pocket, it doesn't get
the bigger picture anyway . .
the only thing on hold should be
what you have in your hands . . .
autonomy isn't always behind
the wheel, there's no fast lane . . .
mojo really doesn't mean more
coffee either while the adman sells
more sleep on the wings of glowing
butterflies -it's just a cocoon,
and few break out -they only
want moths to emerge and fly into
the line of fire -body bags don't
fill by themselves and they still
don't stop the flood of tears ...
neither will all those beers . .  .
and fear and fear and fear
and fear and fear is still just fears ...
rhyme is really not as it appears
time is not so much the sum of years
it's just everything that passes
by when the world is asleep ...
and herd mentality is just another
way of saying deaf ..  .  . 

7:24 PM - 2 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

vikings 30, saints 27
Category: Writing and Poetry

vikings 30, saints 27    10.06.08

oh when the saints
they run two in
punt returns and lose
it's gotta be a sin
oh! sure.  .  they won
in total yardage numbers
but the vikings
come away with a win . . .

now the complaints
ESPN
they do their thing then
and spin and spin
and how they'll juggle
all those numbers
but still it comes out
a viking win . . .

there is no joy
in new orleans
their kicker went
and blew it again
two missed field goals
oh yes he did! -what a bumbler
the vikings kicker did not miss
so the vikings win .  ..

i could go on
but this rhyme wears thin
because the saints
couldn't march one in
can only be so clever
with these numbers
but in the end
the vikings still win . . .

6:48 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

mother’s frozen tears
Category: Writing and Poetry

mother's frozen tears again
early autumn falling, corrupted,
streaking, staining those
older windows to the soul ...
gray colorless sky
the vagrant squatter, silent
guttted in the shadows of those
cold steel giants, reflecting
his abandoned age in their glass
a shell of what was, loitering now ..
october is not as cruel as december
but still no sympathy for those
unwanted. just nature early
frosting broken windows in
another condemned brownstone

3:34 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

life is poetry
Category: Writing and Poetry

the poetry is in front of your eyes
you've only to look to see it . .  
my pen was not so accomodating
on the paper wrote "so be it."
it all depends on the inner eye
but my eraser would not free it . . .
reality is all in the mind
the easier to hyperbole it
the bitch is the itch to run away
but like a dog you cannot flea it .. .
life is paper and you are the pen
waiting for you to poetry it . . .  .

3:34 AM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

stock piling
Category: Writing and Poetry

of nuclear weapons, why we
and none else?
what WMDs are not ours?
               who empowers
us thus?
what more intelligence,
that we so enlightened
the whole world frightened
when we filled that hour glass
with gun powder,
serving it to the world
at the saloon of diplomacy
for world piece .  ..  
what compass more moral
ours than theirs?
our god, of course, is bigger than
their god and his wrath is righteous
how is our cause greatest
        we, the more, latest
to the grown-ups table
of world powers
in our brash youth
in our small size relative
to the rest of the world . . . .
when did our fuse become
the longest, slowest burning?
and it's always the eleventh hour
on that atomic clock, nuclear now . . .
the damoclesian pendulum
already knocking greece, rome,
spain, england off the pulpit .  . .
how we sanctimoniously teeter
with the weight of the stock piling body bags . .  .

10:40 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment