The poet dies
with every line
and is reborn in the next --
Inhaling silence
and holding it there
until an intuition
forms [itself],
A small round gift
that jumps from zero
smooth and precise
but without limit
meant to arouse
something unseen
that results in the
tumbled joy of
breath and poetry
in freefall
happily plummeting
without thought or reason
through new skies
borne of a poet's dream --

House feels damp
in between
seasons of life
where I try to start a fire
Sky tonight was an amethyst fan
on a ruby line
the sun an ember
rolling golden years  
down the Hills of Scranton
to the city's lights
Across the town
toward that bend in the river

a driving dusk

I could feel the blood rushing
to my head, bloodshot eyes
drifting off into space, floating
and swinging along with the rings
of Saturn, a million voices echoing
in my ears.  Sultry sounds, milky
cream finessing my soul, musical
clouds careening inside my cells,
so smoky and scarlet-black, slippery
dream states and sensations taking
me across various destinations,
perceiving sudden realizations
and calculations.  Immeasurable
conceptions and perceptions
gliding through my mind in time,
inhaling this smoking high, this
riveting grav filled with bliss
and lustrous kisses, rocking
revelations and enlightenment.
my fingers pressed against the surface
of this blazing joint, embracing the pure
seduction, the sizzling steam, the heavy
frequencies taking me into eternity,
relaxing upon my skin, intoxicating
my dimension.   My lips stained
and numb, my body staggering
in a sea of wavy emotions, my soul
crimson-colored, thick, bedazzled,
a ******* beat rumbling through
my belly like dancing drums.

It is
a sweet sweltering
summer ‘s eve
that culminates
in a late
cooling breeze,

followed by
blinking bug **** lights
that dance
across a
dark blue canvass.

Flickering forms
almost as familiar
as the twinkling stars
are followed by
the sound of
castanets clacking
and patrons laughing
whilst a lovely
black haired beauty
who is dressed ornately
twists and bends
her torso and limbs
with feline grace
and the eloquence
of the wind.

Deep smiles
and curious grins
follow her movements
to stunned silence.

Bare midriff
exposes a perfect
belly button
and abs
as her silk scarves
carve
the night
like desire’s knife.

The music ends
leaving men
quivering
and staring
ravenously,
hungering
for her
hard body,
but suffering
the sweet ache
of desire denied
as she exits
at her own pleasure.

warped,
weird,
whirling,
wonder-filled,
a garland of words
eulogized by occidental cosmologists today
to deify the milky way

for five millennia,
in clandestine chambers of
the temple of the lord with a lotus navel,
oriental sages, finely tuned into
ultimate mantras of the cosmos,
initiated ‘twice born’ namboodris of kerala
into a mellifluous sanskrit verse....

a potent heart melting hymn
where our star-studded galaxy,
milky in complexion,
is seen as a spinning jagged-edged discus,
worn as an ornamental ring
around vishnu’s slender index finger,
from whose whirling lotus navel
originate the birth of inseparable twins:
warped space intertwined with flowing time

now this is a garland of exquisite beauty!


© 2019

He gives her the butterfly as an act of beautification
Hoping nature can exemplify his feelings; A fragile life,
Balanced between death and existence in his fingers
Making sense of all the nonsense in his head.
He gives her the flowers in an act of affection
Even though they both know they are dead,
Only water prolonging the inevitable demise
Of colourful blooms returning to the earth
From where they once grew, like their love
Beautiful under the sun, natural and charming,
Until you told them that love is shown with silver
And gold, diamonds and pearls, chocolate and cards
High octane fast cars, exclusive meals in top restaurants
Theatre tickets and front row concerts, but the butterfly
***** it’s wings and somewhere in the world,
There is a hurricane.