She is equipped with sensitive nipples
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, rubbish removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no.  Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a shag?
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for  
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope  
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can hump it in the kitchen, who  can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, and who has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
even after all of this,
it would be dishonest of me to brag
that I know much
about women  at all
because I'm really a total ignoramus
and I'm just another work in progress.

A lusty wanderer,
from life to life; I am a butterfly,
fragile, but my desires take me from,
flower to flower, in search of new flavors,
I often find, myself  in quandaries, quagmires and coal fires.
And at the end I am left with nothing else, but unfulfilled desires,
the nectar, that used to be my bait, I thought would be the end I seek;
but now it is clear, there is a jewel I want to adorn on my crown: Enlightenment it is.
Now I am aware, a seeker I am first and last, my hungers will vanish when I embrace cosmos.
This butterfly's flight through the mist will end when a flower will  feed me with nectar eternal.

Hope you pardon my intrusion for
I am here as messenger alone.  The
King asks for you to feather a journal
that will hold value resilient to time.  
Your invitation he has written for your
acceptance or denial.   A summon not
for carry,  for seven promises (men
and women ~ fair in wisdom) will mind
this also.  Favor to join is idea the
King will mention.  
I hope you will favor in ponder, this as
a token for your family to venture.


As your shake is firm I feel, in you I
sense a humor and honor to astound
even my father.  Direct in this appeal
we wish for you to join in many of our
meals in days afar.  For your intellect
to preface these journals in daily
is of excellency to the crown.  This
endeavor is gift to King’s laureate and
family privilege.  


Time who is clever as any, with
eyes to contest its followers, is my
father’s enemy.  Never the less he
insists to fill your mind with the
divine poetry of detail ~ all in time.  
Absent from conjecture and mundane
in matter.  Amend his will in a tone
compassionate but clever as a jesters.  
Understanding cleverness is knowing
silence is his magic.  Laughter is
louder after silence, as every moment
leans with a commence to it.
You attire in a dressing of language
lost.


In you the truth will contend in
this forum, all minds beseech your
presence at once.  Spoils will riddle
you queer as you must be quick in
gather as to fuel the idea.  Without
taste for regret you must serpent the
poisons for the benefit of an ideal, this
shall be done in solace alone.


Soil your apologies in poetics.  But
pressing your wisdom as dressing
within these works, lay unconventional
and wastes our King’s time.  And is
self ~ servant.  The King wishes you
a retrofitter, not designer of ideas
embellished.  Value what’s ideal.  
Something is found when wise men
seem broken in accepting less, but
as surely have escaped sure death.  
Treaties decree this vision so.


The ground we walk upon is justified
in conformity and  rests within
individual principles.  Uncommon are
the steps prevalent to understanding.
Some come to muse.  Then master,
but revision the first for the wise seam
better.  Wisdom is genuine in repose,
when a wish ~ gone ~ regret, passes
by as your mistake.  A same a mask to
a jester.  So alone is this jester made
genius in his King’s court.  Finding
only solitude when joining the show.

Brother Freedman, I am but
messenger and son of our King.

I serve with solitude, such the Lion
stares afar may feel.  With time
alone idolized, and profound ~ this
beast is demure and  truest of any
~ trusting his strength.  Calm in
demeanor it is destined and such is
blessed.  My father fairs his share
of similar characteristics.  In so
many compelling ways.  Principles
to maintain,  just ~ and in prominent
formality.   In such I will address you
as first intellect.  


In my vision I have sent my son to
question the seekers of this leisure.  
Address of the street you call home in
pleasant chatter, is yours to give your
kin if your decision is in favor.  Token
to a pure education shall be warranted
for your children a~same.  

My autumn is as golden as the seams
that vein the leaves.  So falling is
justified for even Kings.  The wind
beneath my leaf will bend and carry us
free.  Concealed and closed are those
who fear ones own insight.  Humanity
is the story here, and we must verse it
write, to justify our common appeal.


Common sense will be the milk of
this birth, a child, rising in small feet
of first steps.  Simplicity for mind
to meal.  Ideals better the soil if in
sow ~ they again seed.  This wills the
fruit ~ in folds.  Similar the mind kept
in ritual of change are rations for
reason.  This is the cycle of seasons.  
Metaphors and imagery shall suit our
souls ~ in step we mend ~ luster and
defend.  


Uncommon are the King’s measures,
ideals are what drives his carriage.  A
life of duty and by his peoples mention.
They rest on his deepest notions.  
Words he rests upon and are carefully
chosen.  That’s where you come in my
Sir Laureate to be.  You shall stencil in
his every mention.   Also when in the
company of others, for our home shelters
the wise and few.  You shall know the
trust he imbeds in his last desires ~
and your duty to carry them write.  So
willing if you may ~ cement his vision
as your duty ~ and leave your craft for
a journal of reason.  Your feather shall
carry you kindly if you choose to write.

to be continued...

I'm hiding here
in this space where
I keep brutally exposing myself
I'm not really My self
I wear masks
and pseudonyms
and there's certain things I can't say
won't say
because I'm afraid of who will read them
and what they might learn about me
And sometimes I feel that makes
all of this
pointless
I am torn between two
equally important desires
I need to be raw here
I need to be violently open
I need to feel free to express
whatever I am feeling
for no other reason than the simple fact that
I am feeling
But I am also afraid
of the reactions I might get
afraid I might hurt someone
afraid of someone I know
learning something about me
that I don't want them to know
afraid they'll use it to hurt me somehow
I need to be wide open
but can only do it behind the safety of a mask
and even that isn't good enough
I still constantly self-censor
I have pages and pages of writings that no one
but me
has ever seen
will ever see
Even now
as I write this
I can't help but wonder at the reactions
I might get
from people I know
in real life
or people I know
in the wire
or people I've
never met
and that wondering changes me
changes my feelings
makes me second-guess
what I'm going to say
The only way my art can ever be
absolutely true
absolutely honest
absolutely Me
is if no one ever reads it
But what good is Expression
without Witness?
I need to have
an audience of strangers
for each poem
total strangers
that I will never have to see again
Or I should tag my poems on walls around town
in the middle of the night
like my little brother
(oh, gods, what if he reads this??!)

Fuck you
I'm leaving it in

*Silhouettes dance around
igniting what once was
the silence that shrouded
the relentless longing desires
entombed underneath
the very essence of my existence.
I 'a fool' fall easy prey
to the deceit forged
in the white winter of my heart. *

So calm the city night that quickens the heart of stone
An awakening of immoral desires the day will not condone
I seek thee now oh burn of lust such thrills demand control
I catch and taste my delicatessens upon these streets of gold
Passion toward thy beautiful ones, the sculpture of such healthy bones
A large array of breeds to choose from with skins of many shades, textures and tones
These neon nights never seem to dull, a thirst for excitement at an endless beggar's ball
The power of magic, the star-struck eyes, the crystal moon so high in the sky
The illustrious fashions of the filthy rich, the seductive lure of the promiscuously charmed witch
Such smells and sights has only the night, as I turn to the shadows and take to flight
Here I am sacred, here I am whole, the night sets the stage for my finest role ...