give me that sweet summer
goodbye stain on your lips
and i'll give you
half my smile
so you'll keep coming back
for more.

~


Lonely nights offer moments of silence

and one dish suppers where candlelight seems a waste

Seated with pen in hand, I smooth the ruffles beneath

as if that will help the words flow



Upon closer inspection I find

heart shaped patterns on the dining room tablecloth

mimic the movements of my hand,

layered one atop another, calling on each to oblige



Crossing lines, intersecting at pre-destined points,

repeating in harmony with one another

as my thoughts gather in the tiny squares

of this colored graph paper staring at me, waiting



Moving in sync with butterfly curves on the corners

and scribbled etchings along borders,

fantasies of a mind in a dream state

swirl, touching each box of this formatted design



Folds neatly collect the shapes of spilled ink

seeping slowly through the cloth

like raindrops on a leaf following the veins

in an abstract yet confined flow



To the blurred eye sits nonsense,

a collection of nothing on a vast white sheet

dancing like uneven feet on a rounded floor

of no particular meaning or feature



Yet to me, my penned innocence calls loudly,

even in the darkness of lost words, these patterns,

as is everything found filling me is you…

and my pen pleads in heart shaped longings

99 cent wars, rooftops, Gibraltar Screaming "god bless the fabulous" Christs;

In the eyes of years
Man is king only over that which breathes,
So let's throw hugs in the air,
sit on flowers and vanish to Cook stones on the hips of Cleopatra
with all of December's left footed children

For through the cried ***** tears of furry German banana caskets,
Eternity awaits
In the failures of our greatest triumphs,

So let's dance

After all, Psychological Wednesday societies
Are only good for curing Xbox manifestos and Tuesday sanities

And if we died one day,
it sure won't be yesterday.

In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.

Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less  pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?

As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.

Dear Children of overwhelming love:

Breathers of Breaths

Thinkers of Thoughts

Dreamers of Dreams



You're on the edge about to fall

It's a selfish place we call home

No one cares to see your tears

In your pain, you walk alone



Heavily laden with dreadful burdens

Will there ever be respite?

Or someone to carry your yoke

Impossible in the darkest of nights


Pull your hair to feel fresh pain

Go to sleep and never awake

If only your mind knew these thoughts

Put a precious life at stake


You run, you run though your body aches

No escape though you scream

In your mind; the only possible end

Or so it would seem...


Your broken hearts break hearts

Surely you know this to be true

Don't become just a number

When there are great plans and dreams for you



They may be clouded, they may be lost

But if you search you will find

Strongest of fighters, Pioneers

Most beautiful soul and mind



So children of overwhelming love please:



Love to Breathe

Love to Think

Love to Dream

And Love to Live

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread

A crease in the socket of emotion
proposed a silent watery rhyme,
swam under the surface of your
thoughts, so as not to disturb
patterns forming, digits and dots
tapping at your side in vain edits

Caught, locked in tights cells of you,
I wound up the cotton reel, mending
the holes of doubt, and arching my
back, I purred along the wall, side stepping
sharp sabotage, where blood spurts,
cuts split their sides, dropping droplets

reddened and dark, stains of a thousand
prints, their script to prevent access.
I borrowed a moment from the street
sellers cart, persisted that I would not
sell him out, that the ground was solid
under my feet, bolt upright, proof

I sang my belief, like a bold penance,
scenes where money would cross palms
of one asking for more, a bowl held high,
armed with charming smiles. their half
beliefs studying my every transparency,
the guttural deluge swiftly passing me to

sewered excellence, tugging my heels,
entwining shoe laced lies. And how I
would fail, unable to shift the showcase
of my life. But, suckered under
the slip stream, I gargled the depths
while you made space for my spewing