Spring memes
Cuddle under iced sheets
Seduced by frigid lies
And a burberry scarf;
As snow ploughs rule the runway

Glazed rosebuds,
Thimbled thorns,
Strawberries wrapped in cashmere;
And a carrot-nosed character dressed in white,
Play the fiddle

Naked limbs creep
Into the sky,
Seeking green accessories
For fashion week in June
Amidst global miles of warmth

Grandfather's  clock
Ticks wisely ahead,
Hands free of politic;

And the memes of Spring delayed
Propagate through verse
And cliched controversies...

Eclipsed by tweets from the Black Sea.

~ P
(#TheMemesOfSpringDelayed)
(3/7/2014)

Many games ago,
When  radios reigned
And the tube had two colors,
We played tag in the rain
And threw rocks at window panes
Of abandoned homes;
Just for the hell of it!

Many fads ago,
When Afros reigned
And the Ojays made Money
In zoot suits and bell-bottoms,
We shook our groove thang
And showed them how to do it;
Just for the hell of it!

Many rides ago,
Before Beamers and Bentleys,
When GM was King
And MJ was just a Prince
Of Pop,
We did the bus stop
And didn't stop
'Til  we had enough;
Just for the hell of it!

Many flicks ago,
Before Spike did the right thing,
And Sydney was king
On the Big Screen,
And MLK screamed from
A balcony in Tennessee,
And his blood stained a nation divided...

Still...

Ductile...

Shall we be...

The object of parody...

Just for the hell of it...!?

~ P
(#JustForTheHellOfIt)
3/6/2014

I foraged
The universe of words
Seeking a few
To remotely
Define you;

But I found
None...

Love...

~ P
(#FromTheHeart)
3/5/2014

At the party,
I saw faces
    painted passionately
In  smiles and laughter;

Eyes sparkling
          like Crystal
In every hue of inebriation;

Hands clapping
     Extended waves
Of cheerful celebration;

Lips smearing
      lavish layers of
Love on captive ears;

Friends toasting
   The Life
With Ciroc, Moët and beer;

Hollywood wannabes rocking
     Bootlegged Ray-bans
In the dark;

Buzzed ex-lovers
         waging battles
Of the heart;

15's smashed
      into 10's,
Flashing rolls of flesh;

Uncle Johnny
    in his Walkin' glory
Stumbling way past 'when';

'83 Hustlers
         in furs and fedoras
Feasting on free treats;

Soul Train rejects
    moon-stalking
On two left feet;

iPhones and Samsungs
     Making memories
For the curious web;

PotHeads
   in the smoky loo
Getting bloodshot red;

At the party,
  The  living colors
   of life
Piqued my creative core...

And
   I saw
poetry
      in motion...

~ P
(#AtTheParty)
3/3/2014

Like human drones,
They trailed the messiah
From Frisco to Guyana,
In search of Eden
Among anacondas, tapirs,
Diminutive Wai Wais,
And Purple-heart giants....

Where torrential rain
Blasted the ****** soil
Like B-24 bombers
Over Normandy...

And piranhas
Shredded human flesh
To naked bone
In black-water creeks
Coursing through the Amazon...

And a fledging nation
Of less than 1 million
Navigated the treacherous canefields
Of independence...

Why....?

The question lingers
Like maggots on
900 rotting corpses...

Why....?

The answers wither
Like 900 minds mesmerized
By Jim the messiah...

Forfeiting lavish luxuries of freedom
For the Temple's tickets
To a worry-free ride...

To Heaven.

~ Pablo
(#JimTheMessiah)
3/1/2014

I looked at the beggarman
Wrapped in a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
With a royal smirk on his face
As his eyes pierced mine
For the second or less
It took to wander by
His space of rest,
His makeshift nest
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...

Today he laid
On his side,
Knees slightly bent,
A blue Bic gripped loosely
In his right fist,
Notepad white
In his right...

What does a beggarman write
From his sanctuary
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
I wondered?

Could it be a sign,
A plea for a penny
Or a piece of bread?

Or was the beggarman
A thespian well-read
With a tale or two
Trapped in his troubled head....

As he was,
In his bastille
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...

A Danielle Steele
Undiscovered....

An Amiri Baraka
Reborn...

A literary genius trapped
In a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt
With a royal smirk on his face.

~ P
(#TheBeggarman)
2/28/2014

The seed of my dreams
Is neither greed
Nor grandeur,
But a simple need to be...

Valued as an ear of corn
To a starving child;

Respected as a medal earned
For the fastest mile;

Judged no more or less
By the skin of my flesh;

Rewarded like a sinner blessed
For ace-ing the Test;

Loved like a ray of light
By a budding rose;

Remembered for the path I chose...

So layered in burdens...

So littered with woes....

Yet Oh....

So very fulfilling!

~ P
(#ThePathIChose)
02/28/2014

He spoke of God
In a lucid  whisper,
Probing questions rolling
Off his manic tongue
Like the crunching wheels of a train
Well-rehearsed in the verses
Of the Good Book,
And the third rail...

Having failed shock therapy
And the system,
He rambles in public spaces,
Eyes glazed by the passionate brush
Of a missionary
Who missed his calling...

By a manic mile...

As he smiles
On the corner of Bliss
And Insanity...

Switching seamlessly
From:
Probing preacher
To:
Choir teacher
To:
Sister Hillary...

The hand-waving,
Foot-stomping sister Hillary
From a baptist chapel near you...

Watch this,
Dear commuters,
On the 5 to 9 patrol...

This train runs Express
From Hopeville to Reality,
Local to Utopia,
And derails at Bellevue...

This probing preacher/
*** choir teacher/
*** foot-stomping sister,
Rambling on the corner of Bliss
And Insanity...

Could be you!

~ Pablo
(#TheThirdRail)
2/22/2014

I found a note today
Drafted by Future Me
On a virtual cloud of 2053,
Gnarled knuckles and knees
Buckled by
Life's raging storms
like leafless trees
In a hurricane;

Cranium overran
By plaque invaders;

Multiple meds stacked
On  a lonely nightstand
By my single bed
At the senior center;

As bb king sang the blues
And the thrill vanished with the wind
Into an abyss of oblivion;

Everyone will be a stranger then,
It read;
Including snapshots of you...
And us...
And the life we shared...
Saving for the rainy day;

Not this terminal tsunami...
This atrophy of love
And life...

When a man looks
At the tearing face
Of his faithful wife...

And sees a stranger!

~ Pablo (#FutureMe)
2/22/2014

Ice cakes stick like
Bricks on Brownstones
And Brooklyn sidewalks,
Strangling Michellins
And mice in polar death grips;
Suspending alternate  parking
Indefinitely...

Street sweepers sleep by the Bay
Dreaming of spring
And summer's stifling heat;

Garbage piles rise to the sky
From graves of snow

A stray cat named Rufus
wrapped in extra layers
Of fat
And black fur,
Streaks into the night,
Looking for love
And mice...

Two hookers in heels
Case the block
Flashing random Johns
And Jills
For 10-dollar thrills

Salt, shovels and greased elbows
Battle ice and snow
And frozen mountains grow
In the aftermath,
Strangling Michellins
And mice in polar death grips...

For Rufus...

~ Pablo (#ASCNR)
2/19/2014

Her camel Tims hit a slick
Of black ice
Pan-caked to the curb
By February's fickle frost

She slipped
But didn't fall....

Gathering her cool interrupted
And all,
She pointed a manicured finger skywards,
Fixed her wig
And resumed her shuffling jig
To Van Siclen,
Evading winter's treachery...

With an assist
From her guardian angel
Dancing on a cloud over Brownsville.

~ Pablo (2/17/14)
(#IDIB)

Misty eyes of a familiar stranger
Swallow my inhibitions
Like evergreens the drifting sun

Thoughts darker than midnight emerge
Feeding lines sublime
To erstwhile tied tongue,
Now ready to roll

Bold strides glide the gap
From day dreams to fantasies
On the eve of fulfillment

Then I see her Adam's apple...

~ P (#TheUnbittenApple)
2/8/2014

The tireless wheel of time
Spins change...

Change of weather;
Change of fortune;
Change of heart...

And though your day seems
Lost in a blizzard of darkness
And sorrow...

Be encouraged beloved...

That change,
And a brighter day
Are but a spin away...

That your gift of sunshine
Is wrapped in layers of pain...

That your seasons of joy
Will be enriched by the rain...

That your twin towers
Of Love and Happiness
Will rise again...

And the code to unlock
Those harrowing chains
Will be written on a rainbow...

For your eyes only...

~ Pablo (#forYourEyesOnly)
1/29/14

Falsetto screams of beggars and teens
Shatter my dreams of slumber on the subway,
Southbound
and stacked...

Unwritten boundaries of propriety crumble
Under petulant pleas for pennies, compulsive giggles
and a mindless medley of random profanity...

My urban shell swells,
Adding a coarse layer of indifference into
the ever-shrinking space between
sound values and the urge to crudely pound
A defiant fist into the rude faces of insensitivity...

Instead,
I lower blood-red beats over
my sleepy head and
turn up the volume....

~ Pablo (#brooklynTough)
1/25/2014

Tiles damp and unforgiving
Like granite
Cover his bed;

The rock of misfortune is his pillow;

On a broken public stool
He leans,
An urban fixture
Unwashed and unseen
For every ruthless reason between
Hopeful birth and grateful death;

He once played lead guitar
In a band,
In Tennessee,
Like Jimi,
He says....

Then he landed a gig in Woodstock
Planting poppy seeds on fields rife with fertility
Where cash crops thrive
And feed hopeful babies,
Cheeks plump with the promise and pride
On which great nations thrive...

Then the monsoon descended,
Sweeping sown seeds and trees in full bloom
Into a desert of despair;

And no one cares....

That tiles damp and unforgiving
Like granite
Cover his bed;

That the rock of misfortune is his pillow;

That he leans on a broken public stool,
An urban fixture
Unwashed and unseen
For every ruthless reason between
Hopeful birth and grateful death....

~ Pablo
(1/20/2014)

Four frantic  fingers flicker
Over parallel strings
And a classical lullaby
Thrills the ears of passersby;

Chopin du jour
For the masses
Served gratis by a diminutive maestro;

A fleeting fixture for traveling eyes....

And the random audience of curious strangers
Heaves  a collective sigh,
Touched by the uncommon brush of a diminutive maestro...

Plucking parallel strings
From a busy sidewalk in Soho....

~ Pablo (#ABSIS)
1/15/14

Flames flew from Salem to Soweto,
Fanned by freedom's winds
In sails stubborn like mules
Seeking the rights of  thoroughbreds
And the thrill of the trifecta;

But in the land of speed
Horses and zebras reign
And the mules,
They dream of pristine barns
With piles of fresh hay
And corn...

Dry, white, primed
For revolution
by fire
Like crimson race-cards
And threadless black tires...

~ P (#burnfree)
12/20/2013

Monday morning commuters
Wrapped in layers
Of wool and polyester
From China,
Spill off the train
At Grand Central
Like grains of rice
From a busted bag,
Rushing everywhere
And nowhere...

Can you scan me through
Sir?
She queried, a flicker
Of hope in her weary eyes
I'm trying to get to
The homeless shelter.

Was it a lie
Or a ruse?

Was this brown-skinned woman
With a mole on her cheek
And a flicker of hope
In her weary eyes,
An artist?

Wary eyes trained to detect
The giver within
And among a bustling throng
Work-bound,
Bearing finite degrees of discretion
In their wallets and purses...

Her pleading brush chose me today
As I ran up the stairs
Strides fueled by Maze...

Spirit stirred by Saint Nick...

I succumb,
Granting her wish
At the turnstile...

As a few men in blue
Huddled nearby
Cradling morning brews
From Dunkin...

~ P (#asfrh)
(11/25/2013)

Excuse me while I insert
This logical probe through the frontal lobe
Of my emotional epicenter

This is a latency test....

Ratings of my muse
Are falling like waistlines at the mall
From the best of rhymes
Tacitly turned on wheels of subtlety,
To the jest of all time,
A lyrical mockumentary,
Starring Miss Pellings
And her first cousin Cliche

Excuse me while I excise
The phobias, limits and lies
Polluting my paradigm of choice,
Diluting the core of my creativity,
Muting the "i" in my voice

This latency test is now complete...

Welcome to my new Literary Bar
Raised beyond the average line;

The stars of our poetic destiny await....

~ P
(#latencytest)

Red rooster is yet to crow
but I feel
my pulse racing to
to embrace the new day.

Shadows of the night
cling tenuously to
parked cars and trees
awaiting the golden brush
of dawn's early light.

Sleepy elbows and knees
complain in vain;
my brain yearns only
for the kettle's
shrill persistent refrain;

caffeine's coveted crutch is near.

Roasted vapors of
Kenya's finest beans
thrill the air
with redolent coffee streams.

Breathers flare,
lips quiver,
tasters salivate,
first sip is here...

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!

My heart sighs...

It's time to write!

~ P (#writerscrutch)

I listened to the rain
And its pitter patter refrain
On the roof top
From a feathered pillow
Below,
Comforted by cashmere,
Chopsticks, Chinese take-out
And the memories of love made
And discarded
Like the red, white and blue wrapping
On my favorite snack,
*******-jacks...

Memories stuck between
Lust and commitment
Unflossed;

Leaving cavities of remorse
In the core of my cupid compulsion;

And I am reminded of the fabled lion
Whose toothless roar
Triggers not fright
But laughter
From his prey...

He savors and dreams of death....

There are no dentures
For toothless kings
And carnivores.

~ P
(#mycupidcompulsion)
(11/22/2013)

A lazy stack of gray clouds from london
Hung somberly over white plains yesterday
After the rain,
And work...

As I walked on the damp sidewalk
Under a tree;

And I gathered my thoughts,
Grim and overdrawn,
Like my checking account on payday....

As I walked on the damp sidewalk
Under a tree;

A bird dumped on me...

And I cried,

Like a MAN...

~ P (#asiwalked)
(11/19/2013)

Friday last,
I found the nerve,
A dubious dendrite
Dangling in my grief
Like a  stubborn kite
In a midsummer's storm,
Flashing razor on her tail
Slicing through the wind
And every norm of propriety;

As the cryptic  cord
Wrestled my right hand
And my ambivalence
About letting go;

A battle of wills ensued:

The stubborn kite, glory-bound,
Vs
the grieving son...

And the kite won...

Last Friday...

~ Pablo (#lastfriday)
11/17/2013

The storm window to her room,
Fused shut by time and inactivity,
Bears witness to all,
Especially fall's nose-dive
Into winter.

Bubbles of condensation gather
In cold clusters at a leaking corner,
Seeking the warmth within;

And the silver radiator blows her top
Like a chain-smoking choo-choo train,
An hourly refrain  
Of dreams interrupted;

And the mirrors weep,
In this lonely room
Where my mother slept
For 40 years;

And prayed with a white cotton sheet
Over her head,
A nightly soliloquy
For the Gentle One.

This room has seen
And heard it all:
From the supple nakedness of youth
And the  physical betrayal of age
To the immutable sounds of lust, love, laughter,
Screaming siblings
And coo-ing babies;

This room knows
The cycle of seasons
And life only too well;

But it'll never tell...

Its solitary window
To the world
Is fused shut...

As the mirrors weep,
And my mother sleeps
in eternity.

~ P (#WeepingMirrors)
(11/14/2013)

These random thoughts
Are mine,
And that finite act of doing
Defines the essence of me;

Vacillate like a squirrel ?
No....not I!

The monster storm I shall ever chase,
Channeling fear as fuel
For the engine within,
A cerebral turbine
Hell-bent on exploration;

The mythic mountain I shall ever climb,
Stains of sweat and struggle
Streaking over her peaks
And jagged edges,
Bleeding wisdom into callouses and scars
For future wars;

And the roar of the rhythmic river
Hurling  waves high over
Hidden cliffs,
Her furious fall
A source of energy
And joy for all;

Here I shall ever swim
On  a dare, a whim
Or simply because she's there...

Calling!

~ P (#stormchaser)
11/14/2013

'Like platform shoes
And bell-bottoms
I miss you

And those soul train  moves
On Saturdays,
I still can't do
Quite  like you
But I try

And I cry
Through my smile
Like rain on a sunny day,
As evergreens sway
To the riffing wind

A natural fusion
Of jazz, thunder
And flashes of light
Prey on my mind

And I wonder
If you miss me too

From up yonder

Or down under...

But we didn't pray
So I can't say
If you are flying high
Or frying deep

So I'll keep dancing,
Kicking and dreaming of you

'Til the music stops...

~ P (#ttms)
(11/12/13)

Piercing rays of Sunshine
Thawed the chill some
And I shed my black cashmere scarf
With subtle silver stripes,
A birthday gift from ma,
Dear departed,
Who loved God
And wanted to preach on Sundays
Like Jimmy Swaggart
Or Bennie Hin

She'd write checks
Of a thousand or more....
'For The Lord,' she'd say
'They are doing The Lord's work!'

And I smiled like the Saturday  morning sun
Over Canarsie;

My tearful tide had crested on Friday at sorrow's peak;

And I stared at the clear blue heavens,
Scanning the clouds
For the smiling face of a new angel
Who loved God
And wanted to preach on Sundays
Like Jimmy Swaggart
Or Bennie Hin

My grieving eyes soon  found
A solitary bird,
Wings askew  and waving,
Dashing with childish glee
Through the skies above...

A whistling dove,
Or skylark,
Or perhaps the mariner's albatross;

Her work on earth was done...

'Twas time to fly...

In Paradise

~ P (#attf)
10/31/2013

I will hear your voice
Singing joyful hymns
Between chores
On Saturday morn;

I will see your smile of radiance
On the faces of my sisters and nieces;

And your boundless energy
Will manifest in the limbs
Of my sons and nephews;

And the legacy
Of a Nubian Queen
From Islington Village
On the breezy bank
Of the majestic Berbice river,
Shall reign eternal...

~ Pablo (#formom)
10/25/2013

joy to most
melancholy to many
and the clouds descend
even on sunny days
or Christmas Eve,
leaving sorrow....sorrow

toys and loved ones
know the ritual,
the ebb and flow of sanity
like falling snow
or balloons deflated
from full moons
luminous with love
to crushed souls
filled with sorrow....sorrow

when the shrinks surrendered
I knew the battle was lost
that causes unknown
would define my fate
and my autopsy would be
an airbrushed question mark
on canvass
in black and blue
like sorrow....sorrow

~ Pablo (#sad)
(10/22/2013)

she shuffled aboard
on the tail of rush-hour,
at bowling green,
brooklyn-bound,
70 unwashed scents in tow,
and a purple bergdorf-goodman shopping bag
stuffed with stains and soiled rags,
a crumpled ny post
and a white plastic bag,
the focus of her bare hands
as she sat down;

hands wrinkled and worn
but tough
like a boxer's;

silver strands of knotted hair,
fell over her face
etched in age and acrimony,
as she  rummaged through the bag;

right eye closed,
feigning sleep,
I peaked over the aisle
through the left;

she untied the white plastic bag
unveiling dinner
in a styrofoam take-out container:

rice, beans and chunks of meat
smothered in red gravy;
a 5-dollar special no doubt,
stuffed into her mouth
with  a black plastic spoon;
slurp....slurp....slurp

burp....lick..burp

she looked up,
flaunting a toothless smile of extreme delight

"SAY YOU LOVE ME!
SAY YOU LOVE ME!"
she screamed
to no one,
and everyone...

then barged through the door
at franklin,
scents, stains, rags et al,
tossing spoon and styrofoam
onto the
floor...

but for a few shaking heads
and wry smiles,
most were unmoved,
and glued to digital magnets;

she was just another
nut-of-the-day
on the ny subway...

~ Pablo (#fcbb)
10/21/2013

take me down
that poetry lane
where complex thoughts
and emotions reign

tease me 
with your radical  wit,
riffing rhymes through 
torrid twists 
and tacit turns 
of whim and satire

****** me
with copious sips
from your cup
of cryptic allegory
laced like lyrical  jello shots
for literate minds

rock me
to the beat of shackle-free verse,
channeling countercultural cues
from cassidy to edson
and jack

shock me
with lucid volts of eccentricity
from every storm and saga
in your life

make me
yearn for more 
of your creative core 
and essence,
scouring shelves 
virtual and real
for another surreal rendezvous
with a poignant piece of
you
down 
your 
poetry lane..

~ P (#Pablo#PLII)
8/18/2013

between wrinkled sheets
and a week in september,
her voice swims through my dreams,
a misty fusion of exotic blues,
samba and a tropical breeze
from rio;

smitten by the  melody,
dripping promises of ****** delights,
lazy  days and long steamy nights,

I plunged in,
arms of impulse,
***** of steel,
eager for a spin 
on her heavenly wheels;

and my head's been spinning
ever since,
stuck in a vortex
of blissful regret,
memories I'll never forget,
of that tropical breeze
from rio..

~ P (#PabloATBFR)
(8/17/2013)

if my pen were a surgeon's blade,
cutting edge,
razor-made
to excise secrets suppressed
in closets of guilt
or shame;

like the married bishop
with the mega-church and
tera-ego,
trading ****** fluids
with choir boys
in the 9th grade
on wednesdays,
after bible study...

like the senator
with two right feet
preaching chastity
while playing footsie
with perfect strangers
on public seat # 2...

like the donald's high-ranking apprentice
who pulled the plug on mc
as he slept
then wept like boehner
all the way
to morgan stanley and
dean witter,
allegedly...

like the mayor out west
with pinocchio's nose
and jefferson's zest
for extra-marital ***,
lies
and belligerence...

like the late king
of pop
who so hated
his beautiful black skin,
he beached it white
then paid m. lester
of similar hue
a loot times two
to weave a blanket,
conceive a prince
and deliver a french city,
allegedly;

I would be a lyrical surgeon
with a passion
for incisive prose,
spilling truths hidden,
whole and half
with the cutting edge
of a poet's pen

~ P (‪#‎Pablo‬#ls)

(8/14/2013)

immigrant eyes,
damp with elation
and anticipation,
crowd oval windows in the sky

that first glimpse of lady liberty's
hand....inviting....extended
from her storied isle
on the hudson,
is euphoric like
must-see reality tv

millions yearn
but less than a privileged few
earn that coveted stamp,
the dream of peasants and chiefs
from distant shores
where operas and iphones
are rare luxuries

and a minimum wage
dish-washing gig
at olive garden
is a bed of roses
in full-bloom

then the snow stormed
on the summer of my dream,
and spring's effulgence
withered like seasonal leaves
in november

and the greener grass...

~ P (#Pablo#tfod)
(8/14/2013)

my date with thc,
serendipitous and sublime,
like the first time
curious george killed
the black persian *****...

got me sky-hiking
in a cloud of delusion
and creativity,
climbing ladders of abstraction
for nine mystic rungs

from mundane muse,
regrettable
like drunk ***
with an octogenarian

to lucid peaks of eccentricity,
a vaunted house built by
jimi and john,
long gone,
but resurrected
this date

we split a dime
into 3 nickels
and rolled every penny
into a top-5 billboard joint

we sprayed the submarine
purple
with haze
then made the wind cry
mary
as we gazed at two
giraffes making babies
on the serengeti,
laughing hysterically
like schoolgirls watching
riding miss daisy

then the cbd kicked in
and I toodle-ooed
my two
ungratefully dead hippy
stoneheads

and crashed from
the ninth rung of
the last ladder
onto grandma's bed,

clutching the first lines of
my date with thc,
serendipitous
and
sublime...

~ P (#Pablo#hcgktbpp)

(8/12/2013)

my critique of
them
when I am of
them...

with no keys for
them
to drive from
them
to
us

thickens the line between
them
and
me

and these  divided social seas
on which we sail
shall ever
be...

~ P (#Pablo#TKC)
(8/12/2013)

she was 13
going on 23...

I was 10
going on 2 ...
inches...

her tongue tasted like
jello pudding...

~ P (#Pablo#FK)
(8/11/2013)

when words are few,
or stuck in dictionaries
unused or unknown
like
compassion,

tyrants and wife-beaters
scream
with iron fists,
silencing fluent lips
in clotting streams of  blood

...and machetes,
severing lucid limbs
from able bodies
in active states of articulation

...and guns,
the kryptonite of cowards
and buffoons,
the callow voice of philistines
and goons,
blasting cogent words
and vocal women
into oblivion

....and laboratories
where forensics of
fingerprint and dna
scream loudest,

sending tyrants and wife-beaters away
to sleep with the devil
in a shallow cell
on earth
or
hell below...

~ P (#Pablo#OTAWB)

(8/11/2013)

one lazy tropical afternoon
in June,
a green coconut fell
from a 15-foot tree
in my backyard

a tree I'd planted a few years back

not in a climbing mood,
I grabbed a 10-ft pole
and stabbed the bunch of swollen nuts

stab...
stab...
stab...

then my neighbor yelled:
'pablo, pick one for me..'

and I turned my head
towards her voice,
then back
up

the green coconut fell
from the 15-foot tree
in my backyard

and landed on my face...

~ P (#Pablo#PC)

(8/10/2013)

between giggles, toys and text messages,
dolls emulate strippers and **** stars;

~ did you know...?

between lights-out and sunrise,
sleep-over tongues and pubescent fingers linger
down-low deep into the night;

~ did you know...?

between the final  whistle
and the minvan-drive home,
men and boys mingle naked
in shower stalls
eye to eye-ball;

~ did you know...?

between study hall and midnight,
the temperature in boarding rooms
rises like butter beans and burritos
baking prurient pies to last
a lifetime
or 2;

~ did you know...?

between the clean wedding and nasty divorce,
covers are blown
like crack **'s
hustlin' for a hit,
exposing every vice
and the woeful frailty
of man

~ did you know...?

between birth, puberty and death,
humans emulate dogs,
weasels,
and fleas;

~ did you know...?

~ P (#Pablo#DYK)
(8/10/2013)

In this rare natural preserve,
cardinals cheer from nests in tree towers
sheltered by veils of plush green leaves
as frisky herds of  baby deer
hop, skip and dance
with the grace of ballerinas
on the grassy knoll below.

The keen ear discerns
the whisper of streams
spilling over shallow beds
of igneous rocks
spearing through the translucence
of aqueous purity
not yet muddied by elements
destructive  to the green movement.

F**ar removed from the huff and puff of industry,
where a breath of fresh air
is a luxury long forgotten,
and wheezing lungs abound,
the natural preserve
takes us to higher ground
where the scenes and sounds
of natural synergies
touch the heart,
cleanse the spirit,
and soothe the soul.

~ P (#Pablo#hg)

I found a penny in the sand
As rusted as can be,
But when I held it in my hand,
A thought occurred to me...

Why mint a coin of idle worth,
That beggars would eschew,
Then leave her buried in the dirt
Beside the ocean blue?

There mighty winds would roar and wail
And blast riptides ashore,
To brush his head and wash his tail;
What boy could ask for more?

The months and years went by and by
Without a saving grace,
And Johns would gather on the fly,
A piscine meal to chase.

And when it seemed that all was lost
And Penny's fate was sealed,
A Nickel by her side was tossed,
Her destiny revealed....

~ P (#Pablo#apits)

I'd rather be dead
than call her ...dad,
he said
~
the autopsy
showed
his skull
....fractured

his legs
and collarbone
....shattered
~
my 4-year old
slipped and fell
in the shower,
she said

his cries...
of  agony

his pleas...
no mercy

his mom....
an accessory?

stoic like these walls
and silent,
as her bully's bare fists
battered
her only son...

you will call me dad!
she said

...between head shots

I'd rather be dead!*
he said

~ P (#Pablo)
(8/9/2013)

I once slept
with a few sophisticated rats,
5 to be exact,
on a pull-out couch
from a garage sale
in corona, queens

they had ivy league IQs;
double majors in
evasion and skullduggery,
and a crush on my left thumb....

the  one you ****** on as a kid...,
posited dr diaz,
my shrink with an md
from the lesser antilles

like freaks,
they came out at night,

in indian file...

as the raging moon dipped
below my cracked glass window,

and  a cimmerian shroud
swallowed its receding light,

and I snored...

on the couch,
left thumb hanging loose
near the floor
where a heavily highlighted
textbook lay wide open...

cued by the dipping moon
or the rhythmic rasp
ripping through the room
like a stihl chain saw,

the curious 5 whisked
over the persian rug,

or was it soiled chinese?

like I said
they had ivy league IQs....

thus my heavily cheesed
wire traps
remained engaged

but cheese-less...

as the curious 5 converged
around the couch
for dessert...

~

I skipped mgmt 301 at 10
and dr diaz gave me
a rabies shot:
4 doses ig,

a sterile bandage
for my shredded left thumb,

and a referral
to his realtor...

~ P (Pablo)
(8/8/2013)

she plants her lipstick
on my cheek
or forehead daily;

her stamp,
she says

leaving her puckered claim,
she says

in case some young *****
with game
throws a slow hanging curve ball
over my plate

and I'm tempted to hit it
like a-rod,
hgh and all,
up and over the outfield wall

then slide into home base
later

like it's batting practice
or

a double-header...

~ P (Pablo)
(8/7/2013)

before the wall
came down,
there were lines
12 hours long
for bread and kielbasa;

and nuclear warheads raced
rhetoric east to west,
and back,
and rhetoric won...

I sat on a train
westbound,
idling on the left side
of the border

the 'gestapos' stormed aboard
with their black leather boots
knee-high;
stern angled faces
missing smiles;
eyes of winter
and steel,
unblinking....blue,
sending chills through
and through

'you,' he said
pointing at me

his open fist
flipping the universal
'come here' signal...

60 minutes later
he conceded...
reluctantly...

the 15-year old
black face smiling
in the mug shot
on my passport

was indeed....me

not some ****** student
trying to flee
the misery
behind those curtains

to freedom...

without walls 12-feet high
topped by razor-edged rolls
of barbed wire;

without food lines
12-hours long;

where choice
and opportunity
know no bounds...

~ P (Pablo)
(8/7/2013)

I think I'll buy a book
tomorrow;
maybe an autobiography
of a young black kid
who made it big;
defying odds
and urban statisticians
who had him in the pen
by 19;

a shallow grave
by 29

with pages of preparation
and focus;
perseverance
when failure became
a formidable foe;
a social sledgehammer
slamming him
back into his basement
studio
with the rodents,
chronic unemployment
and piles of unpaid bills

and diplomas on the wall
framed in gold and mahogany

and photographs of fleeting
scenes of success
and hope

fleeting...

banished by fate?

am I destined to be
old, gifted and poor
like my fathers before me?

what dreadful deed
or sin
has sealed my destiny
with such savage sorrow?

maybe my hero,
the young black kid
in the book
I'll buy tomorrow

who made it big...

will have some answers...

~ P (Pablo)
(8/7/2013)

lessons of life's sanctity,
clarity of reason
and chastity
elude
the sociopath unglued;

clouded lens
filtering threads
of sense
common from extreme,
relishing shreds of conspiracies
unfounded...

tying the falling dow and twin-towers...
to  call of duty and

the man....

in the slick blue suit
with the funny last name
sticking it to us,
stripping us of our  inalienable rights,
god-given,
taking our bibles and guns away
to mombasa

spiraling memes of dysfunction
programmed to propagate fallacies
in minds unhinged

on the fringes of reality...

like paranoiacs
sipping green tea

or a.m. fanatics
fueling the frenzy

of sociopaths unglued,
licensed to spill
sacred blood
of the masses

at a crowded school
or movie theater
near you

now previewing:

~ mass homicide XII
&
~ teenage terrorist in black - the sequel

home-grown
&
fully-loaded...

~ P (Pablo)
(8/5/2013)

he wore it
like stripes
and patches earned,
stitched to his chest
with needles through flesh;

...from amazing face at birth,
fresh, with cheeks to cash
and grow into
something valued like
commitment  or blue chip stocks

something his children
could latch on to

that's my dad...

like medals and awards
and highlight pictures on the walls
of foyers
and family rooms

like gates to
the family's estate
swinging free of debt
for generations
next
and beyond...

something his children
would embrace
not erase

like foul stains
on childhood memories
in the making

like the illusion
of traditional ties
and vows

like graduations
and weddings
missed
and new births;

...to the lifeless face
of another casualty
of addiction;

cheeks pale like ashes,
cashing
only dust

~ P  (Pablo)
(8/4/2013)

she passed me
daily
by the door,
saying hi
only when our eyes collided

they were sad eyes
and swollen,
unable to hide
the pain inside

of malignant terror cells

of failed chemo
and kidneys

and marriage...

'mama's' eyes were wide open

when she died
among friends

on a hospital bed
in oncology...


...yesterday

~ P
(8/3/2013)