Automatic translation of

An automatic rifle

Goes ratatatatak attack

The field is clear

The ghosts of souls still near

We are A-OK in this situation with this

   AK-47



Peace is dragged in the dirt

Rope around her black stifle

**** around her black skirt

A soldier offers her some water

Her struggles refuse to whimper.



A stout blond-haired chieftain

Watches from afar. Red stains

Of pain and blood subdue her

She will collapse within the hour

All she hears is the rattle of the

Blond snake talking to her



Automatic translation of

The automatic rifle

Going ratatatatak attack



Someone attempts to translate

The anger of a Glock:

“It’s just around that block

That you will fall, Peace

Sentenced by the death clock

Mounted on the automatic rifle

But you’ll be A-OK in this situation we have the

           AK-47”



Trump(ets) of shame echo around the devastated field

They told the blond chieftain he’ll be lead in track and field

In college. They showed him naked models in lingerie adds

They still show up on his LCD screen in apps

They told him he could buy a revolver for a couple of quarters

So he said “no quarters, please take this batch of Grants”

You are A-OK in this situation with this

     AK-47



Automatic translation of

The automatic rifle

Went ratatatatak shot in the back



In between his hatred-filled decaying teeth

The chieftain was staring when she fell, without an ounce of grief

Rubbed in reassurance his bulgy AK-47 for relief

He then came… to the conclusion:



“REST IN PIECES, PEACE”



October 3, 2017

We hiked mountains and dove into ocean temples
We tasted apple candy, fried onions and sushi platters
Without you to nourish my soil, my earth shatters
In my mouth lingers the dry taste of our kindred kiss

Longing for a touch that is now long gone
I trudge when I walk back to where we walked
In dreams I call (your name), in dreams I fall
Back into your arms…emptiness… alone!

October 2017, Lyon
Dedicated to my former Californian lover, Aaron S.

You’ve published your rhymes in print


That’s the shortest way to put it

On a shelf. Now the book proudly lives

Through the eyes of those who read its lines



I wonder why some saw some sun in my blue night

After I did. Darkness and light where? always here

Unequally balanced, always starting a fight

The aesthetics of my mentors, my atmosphere



From France to Bei-

Jing to the Sea

Ty by the Bay

I write swell





The ocean is organic

Odyssey, *******

With the liquid it lifts

And lies back down

Both an eden and an abyss



So is my soul, swerving

In the current, red like,

Redcurrant

Poetry is debased

That is, recurrent.



August 30, 2017

Lyon

Craving the crack of the whip possessing the flesh
Before it hits the air, the breath of the bound captive
Hearing in the silence of the caressing hand a touch
Pored out behind the shackles, the feathers, the rules
Trying to make sense of the frustration and delusive
Desire of the entangled ******* rough and intricate mesh
Taking off all misunderstanding, embracing your blush
A sort of rituals of carnal, Sir, Mistress, Save Our Souls.

Bound to love the feeling of expectancy in a dark room
Dealing with all traumas and successes bending a knee
Savoring the exquisite or frightful balance of pleasure
Muttering an ****** language known by all yet dreaded

A scene in which your persona stages a fantasy
With a consenting partner or in your mind, it is easy
There is no self-help book for this topic, it all takes place
In your body and your heart, you decide if you keep pace
Power plays challenge your equilibrium, your lust
Whether you believe in a prophet or in flesh and dust
The beginning is near and she carries all your hidden rites
If only you would disrobe and lie down in many of your nights.

Lyon, July 28, 2017
11:04 pm

Marine stretch of many mysteries
Dome of underwater dreams and miseries
Home of many a shipwrecked ship
Score of a mermaid, the waves her luscious lips
I bathe in the salty swerving swell:
My ocean and sea, I know you all too well.

The Atlantic and the Pacific were adamant lovers
They made my head and body spin
The rolling waves made a tumbleweed of me
On a bed of pebbles, sand and broken shells.

The Aegan was cold but inviting
A pathway of black urchins paving
The way for the deep and intimidating graves
Of many foreigners Greek gods and runaway slaves

I answered the call of the Indian Ocean years ago
A normally peaceful lagoon had a wave hit my thigh
I remember the rising and falling of life wherever I go
I most cases it is, of mindlessness a sigh.

July 17,2017
Onboard a train from Chalon to Lyon

Memories of your heartening smiles
You are an Angel of America across the screen
Of voyages. I’ve pinned your words
Papers and thoughts of the utmost kindness
On the window of my soul, of a one-of-a kind gentleness.

I remember your office and that smell of Christmas cookies
Permeating the air. In the middle of March, silly senses
I believe meeting you was like stopping
In the middle of a mythical glade, embracing a wild wholeness
Your voice, like Virgil’s through this dismembered (s)hell, second circle
Guided me.

Last night, under the canopy of Zeus as Taurus, beloved
Europe, I let my guard down and Orpheus handed me to Morpheus
You were here, alone in a bare room, I joined you, I just knew
It was you.
You wore a tight grey shirt and I put my head on your lap
Relief of the dream state
Queer, good, silent, compassionate.

In that dream, drained, dreary, I desperately donned your tenderness
Raiment of an enlightened being, soothing.
When I woke up with this odd sensation of well-being
I just knew, it couldn’t be otherwise
That I had seen you, your keen, wise
Eyes
And I arose anew
I just knew
It was you.

June 28, 2017
5:08 pm
Lyon

To Allen Ginsberg and Frank O’Hara


Come out, ye boys of my literary dream
Frank, stop discussing this Rembrandt painting
Take a good drag like I never did, and come out
Down the street, down the ***** ***** days of madness
Allen, talk some sense into these selfied statuses
Come out, ye boys and talk into the microphone
Loosen your tie, Frank, show us some real art
Lose it on the sidewalk ye boys and let’s break
The rules, the locks, the prisons of the soul
Addictions, fears, anxieties, inanities.

Come out, ye boys and throw some rhymes to us
So we can think about ourselves while worshipping you
So that some people out there can stop *****-shipping
Sending our lukewarm bodies and fluids against the wall
What would you say Frank, of all the Rivers who
Try to reproduce the beauty of the human body on screen
Without the aesthetics, without the knowledge
Of what love means. Garter belts and welts, is that all?

Come out, ye boys and let’s be graphic, let’s be artistic
Teach us how to spread your love your legs and your legacy
Pass on this fearless gait, this adamant will to keep on
Despite the junk of our cities down the ***** ***** streets
Come out ye boys, admirers of poetry and people
Come out under a rainbow or a ring, SM fans or prudes
Let’s march on an on an on down our ***** ***** streets
With ye, boys.

June 21, 2017
Lyon. 10:36 pm.