Grass grown at home, ******* dances at “the studio”

And then arrives crack, black, speed, & degradation

Needles and needfulness, both get tucked in.

“Just waiting on my guy to re-up at the Meadows…”

As Calypso drums and reggae plays to mellow yellows.

A golden pinwheel.
Tall and proud, the face of day,
Bright love’s bountiful.

The Strip is teeming
Youths high on debauchery.
Needs to feel alive.

If worship is to Love,
As *** is to Lust
Why has church on Sunday
Become whispers of vespers
Fear mongered full of
Prayers?
If Love is to worship,
Who do you love enough
To die for?
*** is to lust as
Coffin is to a graveyard pit
Love is worship don’t get it twisted
Hail Mary hallelujahs
Praise no over lord
Your soul...?
Live a good life.
Be.
Peaceful.

The kind of cold that sinks
Into your bones, seeps past the skin
and thin barriers of coat or scarf,
The kind of cold that grips from deep within
as though death has its hand upon your soul
The cruel cold that breaks the heart
watching the world dismiss you
while seizures assault you, a passerby, a lark,
just another casualty of Sin City nights
The unkind cold we all feel
When love departs.

O Crescent Moon

In the heights of Midnight

So bright, so still

Across the night sky

As daylight and forests burn

On the other side,

While here I am on Earth

Gazing up tonight

“Beautiful” I cry

A drowsy eye shines!

O Crescent Moon!

Do you see my love in the dark?

So still across the stars...

In desire we see ourselves twice
Once through the eyes of another,
Without the guise of needfulness
within the lies of forsaken fodder
In desire, **** finds boot, point blank
Point moot.
In desire discover your truth...


Love is like stepping in ****,
Or a bird dropping on your shoulder
Consider yourself lucky.

Nothing and Power are opposites,
Both are illusion, things unreal.
But men have made giants of them,
Creating something that they run
Away from or towards.
Don’t believe in the illusion.
We create our own hell becoming prey
To the gods we kneel down to
Belief and grief are monsters we
Must slay, to see a better day.
Namaste.

They vie for corners
Young beggars in Chinatown
Scrap for the best spot

The intersections,
Piece of cardboard box for work,
The hard-pressed traffic

Yield better odds for
Hand outs from passenger-side:
These Horse gifts for mouths.

The lovely daisies
in a row on window sill,
look Up at the sun.

In the silence of our melancholy,
all presence stands still
So still that you begin to believe
you can’t move your limbs,
spilling your body onto the floor, given up.
In the silence of our sadnesses.
Struck

Don’t take one late nights,
Drunken tourists ride the C.a.t.
Smells of Treez and ****.

Flu year of living
precariously like rats,
hiding in shadow.

Did you know that the elephant is the same as the mouse?? —oh yeah—Why do you think the elephant’s so frightened then, when looking down upon itself so small?
Because it sees the Power of God
Having been its self once so small...
In a blink of an eye.
It’s the elephant in the room.

Social Distancing.

Can’t be social being six feet apart,
To be social, one can’t be so distant....

The spaces within, spacial spaces
Of places that deface & remake us
Though each race—a different god,
What is man without life or being / loved.
What is nothing without our fear
The special midnights standing here
The light fills the eyes bright with love,
Wonderfully my dearest dear.

He's looking for Snipes,
Gone is the love of his life
Steering him towards home.

Smells like teen spirit and a
Halfway house full of squatters
It’s the bomb on porcelain thrones
The white in & under the nose...

They say, in country songs' cliche: live like you're dying.

I say *******! Would rather live like I was born yesterday.

Loving the world anew...
What say you?

It's a ****-hard life, Baby,
Annie get your gun.

It has taken too many
Years of broken
Beer bottles
Porcelain
Pictures frames on the mantle
And promises to not notice

Mr. Glass is loudly belching
Mumbling songs off-key
In the kitchen
By the sink and Fridgidaire
To the soundtracks of John Lennon's
Lemonade love songs
Hitching a ride on Cat's peace train
Or manic for the Beatles
(British Invasion on vinyl)
He has lost his collections
Soaked and ruined
From a flood aboard his battle ship
He reminisces like this
Or as a mud person hippy youth
At Woodstock

Even when tucking himself in
My barely and not legal sized bed
Naked, laying with He-man themed sheets
And grumpy bear blue
On my pillow,

I wake to find him
Native and fetal
I am too keen to sleepwalk
So I pretend to
Toward the living room couch
Just the right size
For my eleven year old height.
I don't mind sleeping on the couch,
would rather not get soaked
In Mr. Glass' yellow
Miller time dreamscapes
It would be easy
To blame me, the kid, for bed wetting
After every twelve pack
Every couple of hours,
******* in the sinks, slowly
Losing his six pack
And or his composure
To tell tales, tall stories
To hear reasons why the cat
Ran away with the spoon
The nostalgia of his
Man on the moon...

Mr. Petty officer (1st class 2nd 3rd)
Has rarely lost his stomach
No stink of *****
Or pools of shrink and scram
Marinated in Coors and Budweiser
Weimereiner mountain man
Has his virtues
Or is it a skill?
Mr. Glass keeps it all in
Well
And rocks my sleep
Zeppelin
Half dozing to be fulfilled
I am those nights, nervous
Wreck and awake

Even as he breaks
Down nostalgic in his weeping
My ears become selective
Hugging my pillow
Listening for his fumbling
As he sways and crashes in my room
A clumsy beanstalk
Head in the cloud kingdom
Fe Fy fo falling
Down

Well, it's just the broken harp
No golden eggshells
But porcelain mosaics
Beer cans and wishes
Echoes slurring deep in the well
When he snores
I migrate my mind
Away from his hell
I shrug in silence
To its frequent scenes
Yet in the morning
We both slept pretty well
As far as I can tell
From my father figure
Deficiency

All is
So seems
And he means

Well.

Oh well.

Beneath ash dark sky:
The Unremembered halls of
Men, unforgiven...

It’s what I miss the most,
The touch so tender yet gripped with yearning
Moist eclipse of our lips in a kiss
Electric goose-flesh, a quivering chill
Climbing up my back
From the tips of toes below
To the tip top of my skull.
Love, you lift me with a taste of morning,
Noon & Five o’clock shadows,
I miss you the most in our kiss
Audibly i moan, in such bliss,
******* follows.

Gripped in passions burning,
Love makes a blaze
I’m afire, learning ...
A real life kiss for a ghost,
After all, it’s what I miss the most.

Break him down, then build him up—both requires strength.

Home Sweet Hoes for Hommes.
Pick of the litter sales pitch,
'gets to **** her first.

A dangerous thing:
Inspiration’s fragile wings,
Metamorphoses.

Coddled sons become mama’s boys, while daughters get lesser toys.

The ends we face
Has a face of a clock
With hungry ticking hands

Loss is a shadow which fades
Like all mortal things of men,
In time, lost in ill thoughts,

Over time's mindless swallowing
Each second, hands minutely giving

Minutes to hours men forsake
For they are
Aging, passing as quickly
As the days
Lives looking ahead
Regretful of yester--
Years wrinkled on faces

Mortality: a wink of a wrinkled eye
Blink & You may miss
At the end, face it.

All hungry things
And wrinkled hands
Of clocks,
At the end - never again.

(A Hungry thing).

Those things
What was said
The man I was
Inside my head
Inside the truth
What we had
What we said
The life we'd collect
Inside my head
Love was one of
Those things..

Lovers often times become enemies, be friends first before that.

Broken pieces make
the cathedral of your soul.
Stained Light still shines through.

High on candy-land
Miss Sugar-lips plays all day.
Forked road like her tongue.

Thanks! Coronavirus—for bringing my whole family together this Spring. No more dreaded holiday reunions memorizing old folks names, no more uptight rich ***** looking down at me, and no more school! Gosh there’s so much to thank you for. Thanks so much, Chinese contagion! Now I know who my real dad is! (Cut! Fade to black.)

If it weren’t for that pesky respiratory disease, I wouldn’t have known what true freedom felt like, since we aren’t allowed outside. Are we children, being grounded? Are we so stupid unable to follow instructions—wash your ****** hands before you eat!

The president says he’s going to get me $1000–per household, for bills and what nots. For toilet paper, bottled water, because we’re all too lazy to boil the water from the faucet ourselves. Sucker better not be lying, cuz I needs that you know? Yo, ***** better have my money.

Thanks again Coronavirus, reminding us of our oppressions!
Fearful of human expression.
It’s not the flu, it’s Covid 19! Oh thank goodness!

Poor Mrs. Sincere Lee
Stares longingly at a frame
Gilded gold and empty
On her wall
Once a portrait of her younger face
If only her wane and fading
Mind beneath her thin thin crown
Of silver white,
Could she remember
Nimbly
If she could only resite
Brush stroke memory
Back to life

Since thoughts have drowned
In misty loss
Her youth and summer gowns
Gone to distant shores
From regretful ocean of forgotten
Melting days before
Like Salvatore Dali clocks mocking
Time in dreamy lacquer.
Her emotions turned against her,
Enemies at the door,
Draining the vivid Now demurer
Most recollections are merely
Half together sewn no fervor,
But Waves of ups and downs
Cast away in an album of
Forlorn, her own war
Old timers Alzheimer
Fading to devoured
Mindless hours staring
As colors fade to
Frailty to
Deathly
Darkly / But only a black
Black door...

She recalls her own demure lil curtsy
She was as loyal as a pet rock,
Still she stares at the blank canvas
Rather than the dawn on the dock
Frozen in the lack
Of having not known nor found
Someone
More than this
Silent dame of down,
With more to her than some
Husband's name
Mrs. Sincere Lee in her pink
Lingerie
Can only stare not at the painting
But it’s decaying frame…

With a thinning crown
Of silver white
Of wish of need of crave
The days without an empty canvas
Or her sentence
of self blame
Time is leaving her
Frozen In such hollow canvases
Not angry but a foggy haze
And a wrinkled touch of
Shame.

Ennui.
The trenchant ocean
Burns with out a flame.
Truth is a light
Love guides your way.
Forget me not
She says, to the ocean
Why stay...?

Sparklers and fizgigs,
Explosive screaming rockets...
Night sky sheds its grace.

Something we often forget
To read and learn from, to grow with,
To love and cherish,
The world is a book, a most important
One, beyond biblical stories,
Or spiritual bedlams’
Darkening our minds to never
Care to continue the saga
That’s the book of life,
If the world were a book
Read with care—the characters
The cast that collectively is
It’s heart, the world
The home that is our   Nature.
Is this a ****** mystery?
Tragedy or poetry?
What’s a good word ... beyond you and me
Beyond fear and love
What doth the truth mean
Without or within   Us?

The world is a book of strangers
And spiritual bedlam.

At times I need to glance at this.
When you’ve gone, I'll think fondly of
all the summers in your smile,
you’re just so beautiful here.

And now as I look ahead
at the times I'll again need
to rout the insufficient days without you
my eyes will fall on this

Thoughtfulness
fraying at the edges.
An old glossy paper memory
kept perfect, still —your smile,
that's mine. I’ll hold it near & dear

with me.
without you…

Selfishness is akin to jealousy, do not covet our love.

It is difficult to love here
You elsewhere
I’d rather feel at home
in Your Poetry.

Poetry is pink
Lemonade on a hot Summer’s day,
Poetry is the sweat rolling down your neck
As you drink deeply...