i can stir you with a swizzle stick //make a thin neck break: make you
a Manhattan that takes you to Jupiter now \ through the heart rye or Canadian whisky and red vermouth :: we travel the stars buying all the real estate like a bloody Mary and turn your coals into ice or make your spine climb up your back — Maraschino cherry
(swizzle stick) a truce for life up in my room and pull
the world from under you /analyze any faith through the brain
with no antidote — we all know blow-back sometimes for a thrill
but nothings like Earth’s air (we are searching for a place
like Earth to ruin again) light years to go.
Bought a planet called HD 209458 b (nickname “Osiris”)
all they wanted was a few beads and an axe called the “lady.”
reminded me of my ancestors and Chicago. Now I am soiled by
soul; interplanetary officers joke and say, “he would sell
his mother if she was a rock.”
So now i set my sights on a region called Empty God.
No planets, stars, or gases.
Under my console i keep an ancient alien document
no one knows of — therein lies the mercy of God.
After thrusters here i go.
:: 10.10.2020 ::
IT is dark down here & this awful reality
satisfies the ego and frightens the soul
but makes a state of distraction
; an abomination –an abhorrence
for all that it implies -a living organism
as a leaf or a particle.
There is no non-life only emptiness & this filth
whose existence is temporary– a first-trimester pregnancy
in an animal –a rejected spiritual soul, it is real-
life in simple terms– the personal growth we are
so ignorant of the brave face of existence –a thing
we will ‘never’ ever come to terms
with –the vagaries of Time which call to us
‘cross the bridge’ & walk the Yellow Streets
of Van Gogh.
Hav you never ever walked the edge of fields of
so yellow they smell of gold — the wheat fields
of Vincent Van Gogh: he was a bastard
to most but greatly to ‘self’ –> killed the personality
but never the Art
nor the Soul
:: 04.29.2020 ::
rev: 0-10.3.2020 ::
The bed, a crime scene of sorts a passion spilled in sweat
he comes to me in the night. Willingly i go – to my death:
he comes to me in the night. A sword sharpened by lust and
thrusts it into my soul. mother, I’m ready to come home but
the line between pain & pleasure is small compared to the
pleasant death (ORGASAMS); the coroner will say an untimely
passing but my murderous lover knew the timing each plunge
of his knife ever deeper (the hounds of winter).
The best way to slice off entrails — I’m at home like home
on the floor covered with wine and gizzards then I’ll slit
my wrists (the hounds of winters!) it was an accident
I just wanted to see my bruises replaced with this new thing
the slit wasn’t to deep
A season for Joy a Season for Sorrow! So brighten my day
within the winter of Hounds today.
A lonesome sound a lonesome sound this day.
:: maj rev – 10.03. 2020 ::
fatal thunder was the best one had when she came to me for advice about his economic condition.
she was my first client, she said to me: My husband says I’m a fool for waiting for anything. I’ve been a mistress and a wife and a nurse, but I haven’t made a penny on my own. He makes a living as a taxi driver. I live in a modest bungalow and he has a sprawling country home. I make housework and keep the yard and the cars and two cars in good repair. We spend every weekend in our country home and whenever he is away he brings the mistress and the mistress’s boy and the mistress’s boyfriend and the three men together.
He was twenty-six and I was twenty-five when we married.
I’m not a fool, I told him, and here is how I earn my keep. First, I gather the money in envelopes when it is in my immediate possession. Then I write checks when I am told by the client to do so.
I keep the checkbook with me so I know who I have to go back and ask for more. I have a reliable mover. I have a reliable chauffeur. I have an accurate accountant.
This is how I do it.
When I get in the taxi, the driver asks me the destination and I tell him, and when I get there I get out of the taxi and tell him where to go, and when he takes me to the hotel or the house, I give him the key and when I am getting ready for bed I give him the bill for the room and then I turn out the light and go to bed myself.
In the morning I get up and say, “He’s a fool for waiting.”
I’ve been doing this a couple of years, but now I’m running out of the money I got when I first started.
I don’t get any more checks or checks with letters of explanation from my client, and the money is not growing with my business.
I’m sure if I wanted to I could get another job and earn more, but what would I do with all that time?
It might be difficult for me to do.
So silence and pain are my bed brothers. Love is my sister. Together we weep every night.
:: 09.26.2020 ::
MANY times, more than twice have I seen the ghosts of family, friends and then some whose faces that I did not know.
Quaintly, with ethereal elegance they are silky touch, feather breath, and opal eye, outside of the tick-tock of father time. It is most inappropriate to ask of them to state their business or intended pleasure
extend your politeness over scorn I say. But if I may make a brief apparatus is there a paper in the room, a hall-cabinet or a desk on which a white sheet is available? Might I do with the sheet as a summons?
The respect that one owes one’s guests becomes tested with boredom, oft times probed with practicality of thrift for there is nothing useful to be erected in the holder of the sheet.
Only when it is needful to be done is the one supposed to write in it. The space for writing is too limited.
Must the words be in black to be read? Must they belong to make any good or neither would it do to pay homage to the white sheets anymore? Might I pour out some ink, some thread to fashion myself a gnomon of sorts. Searching the paper to be free from ink might I try another opal eye, like my mother and the razors my grandfather used?
To groom his hair, and his kinks, each time they wore them down, but never ending. Might I even fawn over a ghost. Might I shed a tear for no other reason than it would be distasteful, and uncivil, to not do so. The wrong that is done to ghosts, which is, who has time for them when there is death’s work that need be done?
It is said the uncle, being thin, frail with a rasping voice, would sit silent and tired; sleep nearly all day, never greeting the other relatives, as the family has dwindled to once, two at most.
That he would be found some hours before sunset, with no water and no food beside his dead little cousin. Who was his spitting image when his lips would open he would tarry another moment?
Recline again, only to open them and wander the empty halls, awaiting. Someone who could help him with his chores, is the scene I imagine. A half asleep and suffering ghost who will never rest as long as
he continues to obey the order of his keeper, waiting until someone pays his due respect.
Now the spirit, like some phantom to the nighthawks of the wind and the greens of the apple trees.
He moves as lightly as the wind.
He dances like the light of an airplane.
He looks to live yet again.
In a white sheet, with a black script which could read nothing.
:: 09.26.2020 ::
I drank alcohol and now I am fat and laughing inside the dark cave wanting to take all my life back and to be the me I used to be; to be the music I used to sing; to be the sunrise I used to see.
When I reach for the stars and dream of roses above my circle of friends who I’ve fallen out of just like I’ve changed you. This is what love really feels like. Oh my! I wish it were not true.
This is how I feel when I sing but all I need is a kiss!
I had a dream once — a dream that a bottle of red wine got drunk and woke up. And came onto my hand and I dreamed I was singing and a beautiful lady in a wig came onto my legs and I dreamed I was dreaming &
I dreamed I was falling into a purple slumber; I told my in-laws I want to be my own man. I want the necktie to be the peace of mind I need. I want the dreams to be nice & not get me into a world of hurt.
I just want a kiss!
:: 09.26.2020 ::
we have had many hard things so far we’ll have harder times yet to come
it has been a hard year and we are too young to have had so many hard times
there is nothing else that this world ever gave us at least not this year
you taught us not to give things from this Earth
that will rob us of our precious time
You left this Earth without trusting
you left this Earth without giving to those who need
your light; that you held in your hands
unlike anything or anyone we may know on this Earth
there’s not anything on this Earth/ so special
so dear that was you. you could not live on this Earth
so like a human even when you are dead
you live forever in our hearts
you live forever in our souls
for who else in this world can we hold on to forever
we have you
we have your light
you are! we are the millions who followed you
who laid down their lives and you could not carry
the great weight. you carried so we did not have to
one day we will learn to carry this great burden
no human can carry this great weight
there’s only one who can
And now we can
What OF God?
When can I see you?
When will I see you?
why don’t you leave me alone?
Leave me alone?
You’ve been with me for ever, in my bad times,
in my good times, when there was no way out
and no one to understand the way you could see
in a million hands held
The King of Glory.
I guess you’re going to have to leave me now
if you’re going to come back
I guess you’re going to have to leave me alone
when you say my life will not end
So do you see?
How can I see the King of Glory?
Well, if I were to fall into Hell
and be the first to greet the King
then, I’m sure I would find you
But I don’t want to go to Hell
I have never been to Hell
It’s not like I’m afraid of Hell
I’m afraid of living without you
without the comfort of your embrace
or at least the touch of your hands
or the warmth of your smile
or the sound of your voice
or even your kiss
no, I don’t like the smell of Hell
the sky is always clear
and it looks so pretty
when it’s sunny
no, I don’t want to go to Hell
I don’t want to be the first
to greet the King
I just want to be with you
:: 2020 .24.2020 ::
DEATH sheltered upon the spit of dying souls;
sun and heat a giant cat with one flat foot
upon a devil’s wing — the homosexual and
amorous spirits that cross a garden in dead
of night make scary sounds.
my throat an elevator from heaven descending
toward hell with every swallow; my non-
existent ring upon a broken finger as throbbing
to smell the clean spirit of angels are as hanging
clothes upon a clothesline within a Spring’s breeze.
:: 09.21.2020 ::
IF you asked me to use your love
tonight by sunlight or by fallen
night, i could not do so;
while my flesh is hungry for you
my Soul and Mind respects the
Light of your Heart.
and as your breasts heave
with lust, i cannot forsaken
the trust i have with my own
If by nocturnal influence,
the strongest of ferocious urge,
my gaze upon your tender twin legs,
(i mount and mouth in bites the moist
stars of your two eyes)
While my manly chest presses against
your tender female heart; for the ocean
and for the sun’s depth — all of you
is destined for the plow.
i do not shy away but respect
you. when you have come up for air
we shall talk. Until then, my amorous one,
the moon’s tender light ignites your large
:: 09.19.2020 ::
if i had two hearts;
one for your soul
the other for your beauty
if i were a farmer
i would tend to a garden
and gather today’s eggs
but as a broken-hearted
poetry i till words – so
you see, i am not here
nor there — and the worse
feeling is planting Love
and nothing Grows.
:: 09.17.2020 ::