i love stumbling upon advice from wizened ones,
who'd 'semble the tao of writing decent poetry
into clever, lengthy monologue
read years earlier (just a few), it might save me
a hundred odd embarrassments
that, today, bear my name
like the time my kid balled his fists up
'cause i said so
but got knocked down, again, by the playground bully
not a Quakerly thing to do...
i'm still learning, too
but maybe i didn't teach the right stance
or perhaps we learn more by our failures;
my little boy's muscular, a confident wrestler, now...
gets along with everybody
and he writes pretty good poetry
all by himself.
Oh my, my, my...
It's a toss up really
On how much time I could spend
Reading the novel vs drooling
With fantasies firing like fireworks
Over the gorgeous muscular alpha male
Who could take me to such passionate heights
Of all kinds of enthusiasm
Making me screen in ecstacy
As he roars in beastly conquering!
If he weren't just a picture on a cover....
Well that excitement lasted like a second
Brainless...that's what he is...literally.
leather of codes
child of no garden I want to be trash shining metal bucket streets
echoes of his scars crash deeply from his quick glance and words
his crushed inner faces blow by me like shotgun shells flipping ejected
a warm burn enters my ear and falls to the ground like pure seed
there has been a siberian tiger heart perhaps
a trumpet's bright coming tip in the night is his voice
but night has no color, only the air of space and eternal infinite collossalness
he has not been there, he knows I think I have been
his voice hunts in silence the opening of his throat
I never felt my neck arch as though I were angelic spinning holy pollen
my feet are broken from my birth's uncertain angles
my white skin is somber to me and it dreams of thick, muscular hair
his back hunts me like a prowling silent perfect killer
he has no meat for me in his most beautiful kind thoughts, nor ice
I know he does not want my soul, its irrelevance like bad country music
he glares at me his eyes are beautiful in their transubstantial wizardry
as though I a child with no hope to ever be less or more
this is the way beer cans bounce of cars better than wet silken breasts may rise
he has felt his lover's wine fully enter him in his sweetest moments
I am a child of no garden he would have
but thoughts of exclusion are often only private codes of want
his serbian tiger motion is utter but I am child of no garden until I can dance
I know he so poignantly relevant would in some fierce and mad
teach me of my father
that I might be coddled beyond redemption my white skin
he wants to giggle a soft stance or a minion of pretense
I am fully truly what he sees, yet I cannot touch him
he has no time for me I would see my heritage's murderous take
he knows I bow down to his conspicuous innocence
he has forgotten the child he knows I think I have been
he wears a leather of codes I can never remember
He's a bit odd, this groovy guy
without cash it seems and young, so young
and strange, new age and runs barefoot every day
and oh, what muscular legs he photographs and one day
he'd done it before, but one day, a picture of his legs and dropped shorts
surfer shorts, keys on top, at the pinnacle of some hill
Kind of a thrill and he posts his feet running, running
up and up and then a view and I love to think of him
And imagine, and yet I know how silly it is to think of
his strong arms, and such well formed body
working out his core, always the core, everything
is the core, the core
Working it out, with me.
If I were a bird,
I would fly over to him
And sit on a branch by his window
And sing melodies all day long.
If I were a lion,
I would leap on to his bed
And lie down beside him, heavy and muscular
To give him the strength he does not have.
If I were a flower,
I would grow tall and graceful
And give out the perfect aroma
As he sits on his garden seat.
If I were an angel,
I would float down and lift him up in my arms,
Leaving the disease where he lay
And restore and return him to you.
If I were the sun,
I would shine hot every day
To provide him with the warmth and succour
That his ailing body craves.
If I were God,
I would cure him tomorrow.
I am none of these things
But I am his brother
And if all the love I feel
Were transformed into a melody,
Into the courage and strength of a lion,
Into the perfume of the finest rose,
Into a choir of angels,
Into the hottest sun,
Into the most powerful deity,
He would rise from his bed like Lazarus
And be well again.
the whole goddamn wooden bench-
must clogged lung,
of the wine soaked skin
draped across a sweat shinned tanned muscular back
the sheer power crushes my civilized brain into a thick primal
consisting of countless animals and plants
under pressure for millions of years-
now able to
I see the muscular shoulders of this boy and immediately melt
only because I
I spot a boy in the halls about your height
and complexion of skin
and my heart quickens
only to find
my arms won't ever
have to go the same distance
to reach your neck
as they did with you
My eyes search for yours in a crowd
and when they find them
distant looks flit away
I remember how they used to linger
With you, I'm vulnerable, my thoughts so susceptible!
Naked, in your arms,
Your muscular embrace so alluring.
My visage buried in your biceps.
Oh! Your warmth, your breath, so tempting.
In your arms, I'm vulnerable!
Gazing in your eyes,
Transfixed by the beauty of verdant.
Sensual yearning vanquished by love,
Your iris burning an ardent.
In your eyes. I'm vulnerable!
Craving for your lips,
My thirst quenched with your mouth on mine.
Your lascivious tongue sliding down my throat,
The taste of warm, red wine.
With your lips, I'm vulnerable!
Trapped under your chest,
I feel your breathing against my heart.
Slamming with passion, my longing desire,
Only breaths apart.
In your chest, I'm vulnerable!
My lips on your centre,
Fingers trailing down your thighs.
I feel the heat from your calluses,
The burning need in your eyes.
With me, you're vulnerable, your thoughts so susceptible!
Cyborcorps. Sold to WorldCong as the most cost effective
military unit for interstellar warfare.
Developed in the Amstats by the University of California General Atomics,
the Cybornaut was basically
a brain in a ‘bot, as detractors would say.
Less oxygen required so that microscrubbers supplied
an infinite amount of oxygen and returned the carbon
to the bioenergy recycler that supplied reused nutrients to the brain.
A microarray of photon receptors for solar energy
could be extended from beneath armor plating
and a 10,000-year plutonium pellet for a mini fusion core.
The military possessed an almost immortal soldier, if, for the right price,
they could get volunteers to temporarily give up their bodies
for a tour of duty.
All the biologics a Cybornaut required was a brain, spinal cord,
and trigger finger.
Strangely accuracy improved by 2.5%
if the Cybornaut retained the human touch of the trigger finger.
Most Cybornauts joked that they wished they still had
their middle fingers when given orders for particularly dangerous missions.
As the illegally conceived third son growing up
in the hydroponics sector during a time
of increased mechanization, excess labor, no athletic scholarship,
and the economy being what it was,
the only option Jesus felt he had was becoming a soldier
when he graduated.
It also helped when Janie saw him in his infantry dress silver and blacks and said he was,
“yummy, yum, yum, handsome,”
leaving the sultry reddish glow of her neonized lipstick
tattooed on his skin.
When he returned on leave, standing taller and more muscular
from the military hypernutrition fitness program,
he was ecstatic when Janie said, “yes sir!” to his proposal.
Betsy was illegally conceived on their honeymoon.
His pay grade could not afford the legal fees for his daughter.
But that had happened a million light years ago.
The sun hides behind the clouds
but I see feet beneath those curtains
on a Sunday a girl with short hair and lesbianism smiles at me
You shouldn't mix plaid with stripes
that's like fashion 101
so I walked down the street
buttoning my plaid shirt up
when I fell down a man hole
and a mole man said to me
you shouldn't buy those Adidas shoes
they treat the workers horribly
so I took them off
and cut my naked feet on rust ladder rungs
I went to the top floor
they told my I shouldn't wear my jeans so creased
they scoffed at the words denim
so I took my pants off and made them into a sail
I went to the mirror
and it told me I should fit a size bigger
and that I should probably work out some more
I tore muscular and skeleton systems from the pages of biology text books
and used it for kindling
to warm my cold shoulders