I've been a slave so many
times.
I've been a slave to
***** and vaginas,
to poverty and the streets.
I've been a slave to opiates
and poetry
brutality and love.

I've been a slave to
the flesh and my addictions,
good intentions galore.
I've been a slave to
beauty and hatred,
passion and desire
the flame
and the
fiery dance with death.
I've been a slave to the
crowd and the pedestal
the morning glory women, and
their spells.
I've been a slave on
the slow ride to hell.

So for the last time,
I'm done with slavery.
Go find a new **** to control.
This rooster is going back to
the barnyard,
chase the horses and hens.
I promise
I will crow at the
freedom-soaked dawn.

The cats gather
en masse every
time I sit
down to write.
One by one, they
jump up on the
big maple desk,
and walk across the
keyboard.

Mojo swats at
Shadow's tail.
Bukowski nips at
my fingers as they
peck at the keys.
It's going to be
a long night.
The cats don't
understand poetry
or marketing.
Shadow hisses, and
jumps down.
Bukowski gets
bored, and bites at
the cords.
He gets overly
excited, and slips off
the back of the desk.
The wild look in
his eyes flash
centuries of power
and sadness.

I think of my feral
days on the streets,
stealing *****, and
sleeping under
bridges in
December.
I wrote my words on
the walls of the
abandoned
houses.
And now,
such beautiful
providence.
I quit drinking and
I live in a town with
a clear lake.  I catch
fish and eat them.
I've published three
books and I write my
poetry on a
computer that my
three cats view as
a playground.

Sometimes,
it all seems like a
furry dream.

To hide one's self; not an idea so mind-boggling.
Though detailed, the mask belies the heart's sand-boxing,
"Immune to all toxins projected in offense".
It's nonsense, but needed for all that it off-sets.

It's hard to find strength in a world that won't want it
And, yet, harder still to sincerely be honest.
Self-critical composure of mine, as promised,
Lives effortlessly on; though hidden, undaunted.

Please excuse me for choosing words plainly unclear;
I am both a survivor and victim of fear.

There goes Vincent with
his jagged sky, and
ragged beard.
His cobalt blue are
stained with the glue that should
hold us all together,
but it doesn't.
His sunflowers are lost
on humanity.
When we can't hold
on to what we pretend to love,
we **** it...
Usually in small
treacherous ways,
like apathy or
arrogance.

BUT THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE

"Are there
really
monsters under the bed?"

"No, no.!" .I
attempt to
comfort her

"Good!" she sighs
" 'cos if they were
they'd get cold!"  

"Right!" I say
seeing her coming at it
from a different way

later I find her
cuddleed up beside
a scary plastic T-Rex

"See..?" she scolds me
"I told you he'd be cold
but he's alright now!"  

the T-Rex looking sheepish
its neck sticking out of
the top of a pink pyjamas

so every night I leave
her with another monster
under her bed she always checks

even a green Frankenstein
gets the cuddle treatment
almost crying to be loved

by the end of the week
she has seven monsters fast
asleep beside her
all feeling ridiculous
in different coloured pyjamas

but loving it

next week she had fallen
in love with a stick...a leaf...a twig
as they become

the new beloveds
to be brought to bed
to be loved as only she can

Here comes another
classic case of
writer's block.
**** soft,
I spew
across the
white pages.
Maybe age is
catching up
with me.
Time has been
a friend,
but I'm only as
good as my last poem.
I long for the days
when songs filled
my heart, where every
part of me smelled
the rain and the
wet dogs, and the
streets of Spain.
The pain was always
fodder, the joy, the sadness
the madness of love and
*** and passion.
The rancid anger and rage
became the words of
a sage when I broke
out the notebook.

Not tonight though,
I will wait for the
******* and the blood
to simmer in
the red dot on the
white snow.
Patiently waiting for
the hemorrhaging of
the soul.