My expression in verse and word.
It is my rock.
My salvation though I. Walked away when limbs were healed. Over the
Years. It sat in dusty corner like the forgotten bookcase.
Runway living.      Reaching for the next thing distraction.

Social interaction has become a relic. As we wiggle and prance but
Speak less about truth. Face to face. Eye to eye.

Raise your hands out there if you hear me.
Look up from. The screen if you know. Ditto.



Pain is the great equalizer. Fatigue makes cowards of us all.the mighty has a date as well as the meek .
Nod your head if too weak to speak.

I swear. This coil.

This man-ifestation of struggle and toil.
Fear not. The bottom approaches with a rush. A sudden stop.
It is the anticpation that tingles and teases.
Breathlessly we glide.



My words are my blessing and damnation. Barbed and tipped with buffalo ****.

Sweet as the sweetest nectar. Volatile   and ******.
Willful and recklessly they exit to strike and injure.caress. Convince.

My fathers legacy. Process of elimination.
Truth. Has gone wanting today
Never to return I fear. A vagabond.outcast.
A *****.

The wellspring rustles and bubbles patiently not stagnant.

Time is of essence an essence. In essence. A dab or two behind each ear.and sodium pentothal. politicians fess up.
Money caves see sunlight in all corners the thief has absconded. The judge

Slinks down from his perch blood red hands clasped behind his back

There stands the summit. Still I must climb. Unknown the other side.
Will truth abide? there .Another expanse of lies and  distortion.Trickeration says I.
a misty bog. Listen. Bagpipes ?. The leafless branch vibrates  a siren song to the sod.

The shimmering pool in the parched desert of god.
I stagger foward now unaware. No I am past caring. The will still is there
A ghost. Soon soon.

No ?. No. A mirage

We sat in silence on starlit nights
on the rooftop in summer.
Looking at the city, the stars and beyond.

In silence. breathing softly.
She only held my hand, it seemed for hours.
And so it was. for hours.
except for" How are you doing baby?"

"Just fine  darlin" my reply
And so I was. We looked into our eyes then
returned to the silent journey, hands closed gently. What a ride.
And so it was.

She would sit between my knees as we journeyed sometimes.
Her head resting on my chest. Both gazing into the twinkling nighttime.
My arms wrapped around her, her hands holding both of mine.
her breath would fall and rise.

The sweet fragrance of her hair as wafted in summer air.
The eternity of the moment.
The cadence of her heart barely sensed.
The eternity of those moments.

And so it was.

A casual thing so slight and airy
     Splintered hearts ground to fine powder.
           Hard leather heel ,headless on the pivot.

Next casualty in the reticle
grist for the mill
cordite in the breeze.

Shadows on the wall
rendered by the blast.

A  casual thing so like a fairytale
   Wintered in the north , now the thawing out.
          Cast with ease behind her, no crying if you please.

Werewolf.
My cousin Floyd was one.
He would prowl the night spots
When the moon was full.
One minute. Shooting the breeze

Next he would excuse himself to use the facilities and sneak
Out the bathroom window.
Quiet as a weremouse.

They say he was smitten
And bitten by the girl next door she

Was a bit hairy but.that's no reason to
Jump to confusions.

what about the gent in sheep's clothing.

When I was a kid if you were accused of
selling wolf tickets, you had a
poker face while holding a bad hand
Or.
Feeling froggy but having no hops was another
Lycantropic adventure.

Lon Chaney JR.
howled at the moon in black and white

In that case his howl was worse than his bite.
this poem is lacking in teeth.
goodnight.

I sure didn't see this coming
You weren't even on my mind.

I sure would have stepped to the side
And missed one heck of a ride.
Hell baby, you ain't my style


Living dolls break easy when
I hold them close to me.
Bad juju baby
Black cats line up

Mirrors laugh and jump of the wall
Cause lover
You ain't my style

You pulled my number from the bingo hopper
Lined and hooked me good an propper
Thank you darlin cause you just wasn't my sttyle.

Don't even know when I stoped wiggllin
Trying to spit your hook

Cause darlin you are my style
Can't stop cheezin and cooing

Don't even know what I'm doin
My baby. My honey
My better than money
Oh baby you
Just my style.

My brother Phillip was a smooth operater
I called him. Mahatma Dandy.
Kissed the girls and made them cry.
Made them sigh.

Dandy was always flying off to somewhere.
Charming and disarming. Six feet four.
Smiling like the cat from Cheshire.
But bigger.
Dandy loved all and all loved him

A heart of gold but subject to frosty weather.
Dandy could never seem to get it all together
But. The boy. Had style.
Should have bottled it and sold it.

Easy street.

Granny.took a switch to me.

But I insisted on raiding the big mango tree.

The big rainbow  ones hung kinda low.

The sweet yelllow ones were close to the limb.
They would sometimes come down In a huge carribean gust.
And splatter.

The young unripe green ones. Were my favorite. Treat.
With crushed habaneros mixed in with some salt.



Or mango. Sweet mango ice cream.
Oh. Yeah let me dream.

All  bull and  brass.
Ready to stomp your *** and
talk to you while doing it.
He would never start one
Kinda slow to anger too.

Thirteen and Yolked like an Ox.
Strong.

They stretched his neck in Texas
when he was twenty.
On a bogus charge.
Unfulfilled potential.

The boy was an A student too.
Please and thank you.
Women loved him. Men wanted to
be him.

Written.

What was it exactly about this rasta.
He seemed so to be out of time an oddity then.
He stroked the gong that resonates still

Nothing can dim his light
His message still reverberates
With all who hear his call.

A natural mystic sinking tap roots from far out.
Kaya budz meets Buffalo soldier and they journey to Transendentia.
Dread lion with Dread locks . Earth shoes and soccer socks.

Ras Nesta walking through di concrete jungle.
Nevah know what sweet rest is in disya concrete jungle.
When you think it's  peace and safety.A sudden destruction
Collective security, for surety.

From the Tenement yard to  a Pimpers paradise .
Lining up to run in the rat race.
Live if you wanna live .

Glazed over Duppy conqueror. Seeing past all limitations
Rastaman vibration. Positive.

substance of the senses.
If you could not see would the cherry in the cherry red paint job matter.

If one could not hear would the pavlavian clink of the winglass matter.

If one could not smell would the aroma success register the same.

If ones tongue were rendered tasteless would it matter what spices

If skin had no receptors would her/his. Tactile journey resonate.

All said and done.

A wistfull one she is
The only one is she my girl

would walk out of the city on Sunday afternoon after Sunday Mass
Dinner at noon was the custom. then the city would slip into  Sunday coma.
Mantovani, Acher Bilk, and the BBC wafted from the Television less homes we passed
on our way to the river.

Old chocolate men reclined on rickety old wooden porches smoking hand rolled
whatever as we strolled by giving us the lazy eye. All knowing , know nothings.
Sun beaten and calloused to lives of hard labor. every now and then one would just give a
jaundiced nod and look away/ Live to smoke another day.

Half paved tar and gravel roads simmered and writhed in the distance.
but our bare feet.
slapped in rhythm .cut off knee pants and skinny bare chest attested to sparse living but we
never knew it cause the mangrove jungle was minutes away and big
unwanted catfish to hook and throw away. Disdainful (Kiatto).

Off the simmering road now hopping toads. Johnny fiddler ***** for bait .
The canoe awaits us two small school boys in our natural state. One seven one eight.

Pelicans survey slowly above where the river meets the sea A small ripple and down he goes. He knows where school is in for mackerel and terrapin. Bone fish too.
We small boys with no fear . Innocence a pole and cork. One hook apiece is our gear.
Knee deep in mire as we push of and jump. A paddle apiece as we stroke against the tide to traverse the emerald river wide. The far bank. My Aunt Doris's shack.

Man over board to tie of the. Bow.

A snack of tortillas and beans then up the river no fear. Fun and the fish
Sun and the wish for an endless Sunday. We hate Monday. Back the priests and nuns.Slate writing board and times tables.
Let's fish.
Let us dream.
Tied off in the mangrove shade.
Swatting horse flies quietly. Quietly?

Like bird dogs we study the floating cork.
A wiggle, a bob. A bob. Set the hook and out comes the prize.
Then more. More flapping underfoot.we can hardly.walk. The glee
A bonanza.
All fried up and crisp.Catch and release. What madness. Catch and consume.

Day is done in the Carribean sun.
Home eastward. The pitch road is more forgiving on bare feet now
with the September sun at our backs. A leisurely stroll back to the
house. No worries,

A bath  and change for the Sunday evening show.
The Thief Of Baghdad or  maybe El Cid.
The Duke Audie Murphy in a double header.

The walk home along the moonlit seaside.
To start another Halcyon stream.
Another time and place rooted firmly in my memory.

Man has the power to
Engender greatness and to
Persevere while
Holding great burdens upon his shoulders.
In spite of the dark regressions
Steeped in his fiber and core.
To levels unspoken. Master
Of all that he surveys.
Passions abound and goodness of
Heart. has
Elevated him over and over again to
Leave animal instinct and  
Escape and to great heights to
Soar like an eagle past Satan's grasp.

Places where I go to conjure still mystifies me because when
engulfed in smoke and whirling mist, time slows and stops then moves again.

Some small strand of self slithers out and looks about then returns with small inspiration
Some morsel or crumb.

An otherly finger pokes in.
It plants a seed then stealthily recedes

The road lurches slowly then smoothly , tilting this  way then that way.
Questing, cohesion. A bolus of inspiration.
With sticky tendrils gently unfurled

This thing makes made odd.
My wife looks at me as if,as if, as if.
Always been a bit odd.

Oblique. after all.
Weird. Round peg in a square hole.
**** it.




.

Sounds techy.
Lock down.

Lock up.
Confined.
Calaboso.

Three hots and a cot..23 in
1 out.
Hilton or Ritz.

Just thinking bout
Going there straight gives me
The *****.

Never been there.
Got no plans to go.
This four square life.
Is good practice though.

what do like ? she aked
Never really narrowed it down I said.

Legs or *** or ***** She asked.
I like them all I said. Why limit my options I Said.

You dont Have a preference she asked ?.....

I guess I am an eye guy I said.
An eye guy? She said.

Yes I said. When I look into yours, everything else fades. I said.

Her eyes dropped for an instant. Her cheeks flushed.

She looked me in the eye and her lashes sent Morse code blinks like
a ship to shore message.

My heart skipped.

I Kinda like the female variety.
The male... uh not so much

Hard to not wonder
What exactly lies down under.

******* on Equipoise.
****. She caught me looking.

That woman really messed with my head.

I think she had issues. She left me whispering in bed at night while staring at the ceiling.

Ever recite her stuff in an altered state ?  California for instance.

"Sing a song of sixpence". ? Twisted.

"Pease porridge hot" ? My word.


"Wee Willie Winkie" ? I am scared of you.

Great stuff.

Thanks Mother. No really

A  Beautiful mind.

You stop to start my dear heart.
                                                 Whispers of cannot be invade your ears.
The night is cool and sullen. Your crystal ball swirling.musical chairs. Winding stairs with no answers.

The ceiling mocks your hopefull stares
Your pillow caresses as passion fruit swirls like crimson clouds.
Mocks aloud.

Easy to be hard.hard to be easy.

Rusted splatter lingers echoing past injustice.with scars stretched taut.

Sullen is the night.

                                                We ask the question.the answer stands akimbo. Glaring. Defiant to the senses.
Beginning's end ushers end's beginning.

Who is to blame?
The moth or the flame.           Truth is farce. A tepid liar.

Rules are amourphous. Real or tristy.
So. We ask.again.again.

Who is to blame?       Careless moth?
                                  Mercilesss flame ? Who.is to blame.

Hip hop. Equals art stop. That crude **** stopped musical fusion
Right in its tracks.
When it first landed, it was still music with a lotta spittle flying.
Not naming names. I listened to a lot of it.
Then Gangsta rap hit. Oh ****

Cant accuse me of blind judgment, I still check it out from time to time
How do you say.Get diverse mud flappers. Know the history.
learn to play an instrument and read it so you can write it. Then come back an see me.

Who am I?.
John Q public.
Pavlov's dog.
Tin Pan Ali.
Long Tall sally.
Sachmo. Scratch less.
Yard-bird.
Donald Bird.
Stubborn ****.

Stuff out there is weak as thrice used tea bags. And cost more to get unless you  got
a peg leg and a parrot ******* on yer shoulder.
Lyrically, man my six year old says more about less with **** left over. What?

Flame out digitized No talent constructs that make me wanna hurl, url give a dog a bone.
Tin eared, tone def hoochies and synthetic cool cats. Not to mention the rough neks.
Looking like they pooped their pants six times and forgot how to belt up.

There are some real deal talents out there but it is like pickin peanuts out ****.

After disco died. Yes I said disco. It has been a circle **** in the cemetery after dark. Naw mean.

But I digress.
  .