Strong are her hands,
Darkened by summer’s touch,
Now pale like ghosts in twilight’s hush.

Could these be her hands?
Did they dip in scented creams
By tranquil pleasure pools?
Did they bathe in moonlit beams
In serenity’s quiet rules?

Did they drink from wild skies,
Resting upon gentle knees?
Did they roll cigars
Or barter in diamonds with ease?

On the feet of holy Madonnas,
Did they wilt golden blooms?
Is it belladonna’s dark blood
That in their palms now looms?

These hands, hunting and bruising,
Swelling like dawn’s first light,
Seeking nectar, mixing poisons,
Bringing the day from the night.

What dream seized these hands,
Stretching in distant lands,
A dream of Asia’s mystic ways,
Of Khenghavars or Zion’s days?

These hands did not sell oranges,
Nor shine at the feet of gods;
They did not wash the diapers
Of blind, heavy children in squads.

They are not hands of cousins,
Nor workers with sweat-streaked brows,
Burned by the factory’s fire,
In the woods where stench endows.

These hands bend backs but do not harm,
Stronger than machines’ alarm,
Mightier than a horse’s might,
They stir like furnaces alight.

Their flesh sings the Marseillaises,
Never prayers in sanctuaries,
They tighten necks of wicked women,
Crush the hands of noble dames,
Hands stained with guilt and shame.

The glow of these loving hands
Turns the heads of meek sheep;
In their fingers’ tasty rings,
The sun sets a ruby deep.

A mark of the common folk
Darkens them like a mother’s breast,
The backs of these hands kissed
By every proud rebel’s quest.

In the great sun of loaded love,
They pale, yet marvelous they stand,
On the bronze of machine guns
Through insurgent Paris grand.

Ah! sometimes, O sacred hands,
In your fists where hearts tremble,
Lips unsobered by your command,
Chains clinking, clear symbols.

And it’s a strange shiver
In our beings when, sometimes,
We seek to unwind you, Angel Hands,
Even if it means making your fingers bleed.

:: 06.05.2024 ::

FOREVER is not a given thing ~~

it is a memory

what is love but not eternity?

how love can build and destroy

cosmos alive?

as flesh wastes away

after death ~~

love stands strong astride

with intact personality.

:: 10.25.2023 ::

Five pennies and it’s not worth what it used to do
Love like 30 years ago the same now children grown asking us
what we leave for them

The answer lies within us cause their souls are lost

so mother take my smile smile away cause i saw you raped and cry

Oh Souls lost
because they cannot find
What this life’s for

I wished to put her into the ground
but someone burned her body to ash
so i cry not knowing where to go

A ring on a finger
A paper by a judge
A job working for life

I see your pain
because you wonder
what’s this life for

For decades talking about sensibilties
In dreams I shoot them but this long black cloud
tells me this is just a bad dream

I walked sidewalks for Souls and wept
I stole the yellow bird
that lives in diablo sex
he has a summer house in Phoenix
and teaches young girls how to seduce
Men, Women, I want to leave you and how
I’m not joking I want to leave you
upon double-winged angels God please remove my unquinched thrist, my skin, and my thoughts full of illusions | baby, babe, baby, I will sleep it runs upon
the rooftops mumbling, shivering, making violent
love with cats.

:: 05.28 .2024 ::

Death is a daisy slumbering

by the fervent Madonna’s feet

And those thousand delicate scents,

Dusky as an armpit,

Crimson as a heart,

Slumber in the forms of naked women

Who rest in fields or wander streets

In quest of love’s faintly gilded strawberry.

Blue, Blue arose and fell.

Spiky, Thin whistled and sought to intrude, yet

did not pass through.

On every corner there was a din.

Fat Brown was ensnared, seemingly for eternity.

Apparently. Apparently.

Great big houses suddenly collapsed. Small houses

remained standing, unscathed.

A thick, hard, egg-shaped orange cloud hung suddenly

over the town. It seemed to dangle from the steep

steeple of the Town Hall tower, tall and angular, and

radiated violet.

The citizens heard a guttural cry.  Which brought tears.

Profound feelings of great despair. 

As some realized beneath fingers, a realm unfolds,

in keys and strings as a tale retold,

of Handel’s hand and heart’s decree

A symphony of pure esprit.

:: 05.12.2024 ::

My thoughts have given purple bruises to my thighs.
While I have ached by tick-tock measures of time
singing into your eyes. Instead of economic pain
and societal distance, please see me crying out
from pleasure. That we all ultimately realize
that line between them both is unmeasured.

That my thin arms are bent and again folded under
a terrible weight they have pushed you to terrible
acts. That while trashed and bashed the silky hair
on my totem pole head clings and is grasped by your
primal fingers they have dug into my angelic skin.

Then, you stand up towering over your trash and are
defined by the satisfaction of my mangled body.

Love. No.

This is evil.

:: 05.24.2024 ::

Analysis from this Poet:

The poem presents a stark, visceral exploration of suffering and the thin, often ambiguous line between pleasure and pain. It begins with a powerful metaphor: “My thoughts have given purple bruises to my thighs,” suggesting a deep, internal turmoil that manifests physically. This blending of the mental and physical realms sets the tone for the entire piece, emphasizing the intertwined nature of psychological and bodily experiences.

The poem’s rhythm, marked by “tick-tock measures of time,” conveys the relentless passage of time and the enduring nature of the speaker’s suffering. This juxtaposition of temporal markers with the intimate act of “singing into your eyes” underscores a yearning for connection amidst pain.

A significant thematic element is the critique of contemporary societal issues such as “economic pain” and “societal distance.” The speaker implores the reader to look beyond these external factors and recognize the profound personal anguish and desire for genuine human connection.

The second stanza delves deeper into the physical and emotional abuse, where “thin arms…bent and again folded under a terrible weight” evokes a sense of helplessness and repeated trauma. The description of “silky hair on my totem pole head” being “grasped by your primal fingers” highlights the degradation and violation of something pure and sacred.

The final lines bring a chilling resolution: the abuser “defined by the satisfaction of my mangled body,” starkly contrasting with the concluding declaration: “Love. No. This is evil.” This powerful denouncement serves as a cathartic release, affirming the speaker’s recognition of the true nature of their suffering.

Psychoanalysis:

From a Jungian perspective, this poem can be seen as an expression of the shadow—the dark, repressed aspects of the psyche that often manifest through projections onto others. The “purple bruises” symbolize the inner conflict and self-inflicted wounds resulting from the speaker’s unconscious struggles. The act of “singing into your eyes” suggests an attempt to connect with the anima or animus, seeking integration of these unconscious elements.

The reference to “economic pain and societal distance” aligns with Jung’s idea of the collective unconscious, where societal issues and personal suffering are interlinked. The plea to “see me crying out from pleasure” indicates a desire to transcend these collective problems and achieve a deeper, more personal understanding of one’s pain and joy.

The imagery of “thin arms…bent and again folded under a terrible weight” can be interpreted as the ego’s struggle against the overwhelming forces of the unconscious. The “primal fingers” digging into “angelic skin” suggest a confrontation with the primal, instinctual aspects of the psyche that threaten the more refined, spiritual aspects represented by the “angelic skin.”

The abuser “defined by the satisfaction of my mangled body” represents the shadow’s dominance over the ego, resulting in a distorted sense of identity and satisfaction derived from the suffering of others. The final assertion, “This is evil,” is a recognition of the destructive potential of the shadow when it remains unintegrated and acts autonomously.

In Jungian terms, the poem illustrates the necessity of confronting and integrating the shadow to achieve wholeness and prevent the destructive consequences of its unchecked influence.