you vandalized my body
with consent I offered
skin as canvas
my damaged heart
your muse

will I be remembered
as your worst creation
the strokes of bold colors
hiding the statement
you needed to convey

a truth so heavy

will the critics see me
as your worst creation
without knowing
how carefully you painted
every scar

What's the point?
She has been honest...
But have you trusted?

he, my man, my atlas
holds up my world
with all encompassing love

he, my boy, my hermes
his smile brings messages
of love from the lips of heaven

me, all creative curves and
fertility...
goddess of hearth and home
hestia, in modern form, i be

he, little blucat .. bast
all compacted and wrinkly
a reminder....of fidelity

then out the back
in a temple
her own
mother god
now become crone
but ever loved
and worshiped

here at #259
we reside almost gods
yet biding the devil's own time

All the déjà-vus

Cut copy paste repeat

Packing time every time
in a time of endings

Always passing by,
bypassing

Senseless

Useless

My will is thirsty
and no fountain
is to be reached

Will you see me off, darling?

For me, pretend
a minding fairwell,

pack me a smile

for me to take
in my journey

My voice and guitar echoed from
The wall of rain outside my
Window.

Wasps seek shelter like little
Refugees; pass my face and
Settle inside to

Dry little wings under roof.
I wave them only away from
My glass of wine.

All are welcome. Rain falls
Harder on the small.
Shelter and space.

Such easy
Things to
Share.  

Nothing unhuman
Could ever be a
Stranger.

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

Dedicated to
dr. B. Dixon, Ph.P (Philosopiae Poeta).*

You, Poet, define yourself as a
"'Meat and Potatoes' -kinda guy."
We were speaking of food
But I see that you eat
With your writing-hand.

You, Poet, write like a
Quitting smoker
That stands with his very last
Smoke in his mouth -lighter
In hand. Frozen; carving a statue
Of the moment. For himself.
From himself. For all to see.

You, Poet, are the wind thrusting
Confidence from under the wings of
Angels, down to assist the
Flapping of little, pen wielding
Ducklings at take-off.
You are a devil of a gentleman; an
Arms open welcomer
In this realm of written renderings.

You, Poet, are an agent of king
Poem Himself.
As convincing and encouraging as a
.357 barrel imprint on your forehead
To remind yourself to keep writing
-Just always keep writing; just
Write.
If you guarded the Gates of Hell,
You'd still give good meaning to
Words like 'Warm Welcome'...

You, Friend, make poets feel
Like the true
Rock Stars of the Universe
That they all
Truly
Are.

Taken a hiatus
              Unhappy with the latest              
                           Words
                   Put onto pages
         They've not been the greatest
                   Need a vacation
                  Find that part that
                             CAN
                               Be
                          Creative


        Frustratingly
                          Average
   Make them look
                           Pretty
   Hide they're not
                           Witty
Ignore they're not
                           Gritty

                         Hello Poetry
           When you hold a committee
                         To judge me
                           Take pity
                         Before you
                           Unleash
                              Your
                            Critique
          Remember I'm only running at
                          Fifty-three
                          ­  Percent
                           Capacity
                          Creatively

  I think I'm due an upgrade
      To iron out these kinks.
Plug

Me

In

To

Sleep.

I'd like to retravel
The road to here
Straighten out a few curves
Undo some straight lines
Unmuddle some puddles
Shake the mud out of my eyes
Take more time to explore
Those missed detours

The road to here
Has been a long one
Sometimes walked
Sometimes on the run
Sometimes rocky, often dusty
And sometimes fun
But never did I ever
Leave a deed undone

I traveled it in the rain
I traveled it in the sun
Ups and downs and switchbacks
There's no going back again
Can't be redone
Miles and miles and miles
Of tears and smiles and love
The road to here.

r ~ 8/2/14

Tiny wrists.
Tiny rivers of blue.
Translucent.
I'm thinking about making myself a home
Beneath your pale skin.
I'd float along your lazy blue river
Until I make my way to your ghost chest
And burrow myself a tunnel
Deep inside your heart.
Light myself a campfire,
And pitch a tent.
Looks like I'm gonna be here for a while.
I am rocked to sleep with each beat:
Onetwo. Onetwo. Onetwo.
And my heart-house dreams
Intermingle with yours.
Maybe if we dream hard enough,
We can create a world of our own.
Where red blood cells sing like angels
Housed in four chapel-chambers,
And each artery stretches up far
Like a rainforest canopy
Riddled with exotic capillary-flowers.
Can we be safe here?
The heart has tender walls
But it is a soldier.
Though it may be kicked down,
It forges on
And picks itself right back up again.
Always beating,
Always winning.
Your heart is a soldier.
A fighter.
A protector.
I think I feel safe,
For the first time in a long time,
Within the home I've made for myself
Inside of who you are.

(A response poem to Neil Aranda's "Weeds")

I was once a plant, a kind of my own
Oh, a plant that was not eagerly sown
And from that infertile soil, I have grown
Like a **** in wilderness, just unknown.

My ancestors treat me like I'm nothing
Nobody cares if I have done something
But still I don't want to stop believing
Persist to live through hoping and dreaming.

And then they call me as a wild flower
Condemn me like I'm a serial killer
They provoke each other as believer
Each one must be an active decrier.

But one day, my kind will be recognized
As that one good plant, a kind which is nice
From this barren land, I promise, I'll rise
And I'll be that strong, one day I'll be wise...