it is morning and
love hides in the bed
linen where
still-sleepy arms
and legs start to awake.

the scent of rose
on the pillow,
the scent of love
blossoming with
a kiss beneath the sheets,
honey limbs
roused in the sunshine.

late november and
the leaves fall,
spiralling to the
floor, browns and
golds, sinking,
earth bound
in the crisp morning
air.


sunshine
pouring through
the window,
a thin sun
stretches out,
the grey-eyed winter
waits like our
kisses, sweet as
cherry, sweet as our
yearning lips.

cloaked in Winter night
we hibernate, once more,

remember the dead
their darkness, ours

this shared blackness
a painted mystery

long nights
shorter days.

A living skin, a skein of green briars
where a half-hinged door is wagged by the wind

Good-natured god, decay’s stigmata-stained spires
nettles paint the stairs splotch patterned, olive skinned

Glass window shards grab a slip of silk curtain
pick-pocket beetles engrave brute luck broadside

Chimney thrushes cabined in ash are certain
cynicism’s growing sums are rectified

Blue jays opine time’s cuckoo clock mocking
worms ply enormous copses, scrawl casts of clay

Autumn gusts and rains whirl detritus stocking
flung colors Pollocked, clutter’s chaos array

Hours dissolve the acorns and soft seeds scatter
as grasses grown tall have turned light yellow

architecture’s flourishes are picked off
crumbled valuables filched and turned to dirt

tumult’s passages dug the driveway’s trough
carrion feeders pull black quills from their shirt

slugs smear a rainbow trail and mice scurry
collapsed walls fall to the slush of leaf slurry

Drag/Queen

... he points his toes
like a swan stretching its neck :
smooth calves in fish-nets
to slip into stiletto heels,
        performance art of a deceptive nymph

... grace on fine-point tips : his gift - in stiletto heels,
impersonation or personification of feminine beauty
leporine lithely limned
delicate dancer
       it is almost as if floating across water
       he mimicked once more before
some inner mother's nature took over

façade of savoir face - voila! a star in it's place ...

... It is her face when the night creates a cape
borne with Van Gogh plumes sufficed with self
she paints upon his face : starry nights
sun-flowers, irises covering the welts...
comparably museum worthy, imitation flames
yet like any other canvas
          beneath it could lie disappointment and mistake
          drafts of inspiration, cover-ups of cynicism
          another creature - some creation unlike him
what was before / her soft curtain / kept unseen,
but what if ...

... the truth and process to what presently others see
     to believe or not
could be / only an amateur attempt:
moments unfeeling under layers & layers
of blush / trial and errors / sharp contempt

      would you wipe away Mona Lisa's
      smile so devilish with wicked secret
just to uncover blemished a masterpiece:
an ugly Danish duckling underneath ?

To  prove his swan-lake / a gent

... to evolve from broken eggshells
become a song sung timely
hummed & remembered well
(hells bells and *****)
Drag queens’
priceless history / murals' on passing face
No broken naughts
While performing down his lace
      define yourself, she affirms her mirrors...
The harsh flight of life from the embers,
      happiness pursuant to tender
Fully free with goddess grace,

it is the power of creativity / the spirit's ability
to overcome adversity
the art of divinity - that is
what he is practicing  
                                 This trumpeter
                                 swan in stiletto heels...

Bugsy's dream                                Operatic fountains synchronized streams
                                                     Dead music legends interpreted by cirque
                                                     glamour the eyes neon and distractions

gangster's paradise
imploded and expanded                  stars in the sky out shined by fluorescent sands

desert roads in summer throes
craps and snake eyes
piercingly like void venom              artifice and slots easy as swallowing shots
                                                     life: a machination of mannequins
electric pulse of a new heart
as mob money mobs                        sincerely catering service champagne rooms
since greed barely sleeps
and lust is always hungry...             it be only history now viral and industry

sin city  
once only an idea, a peanut
from - y'know - "like whoa! what the frank??..."
but gotta hand it
the business took                            legit crooks, stashing books, making whoop...
dream getaways by blue moons      
in blue pools
privacy like freedom is a pension crap toss
EXPENSIVE...

where those blind to consequence
can witness
(convertible caddy)
the highway to losing grace              seeing is half believing when gambling
                                                       feels like a game, and the surroundings
                                                       rarely change.
Where the indifferent ego
Idled by self
becomes a parasitic pretender
talented liar
actor to some...                              walking among
                                                      the vapid vehemency of true victors & kings
brilliantly glamourized
in billboard lights
numbingly blinking                          hypno hyper active analogues
                                                      of high def diminishment
of common folly logic
displacia of senses
fairy-dust of forgetting                   (in a Benjamin straw)

duty discarded
familial responsibility a hollow weight
a close second to desperations

the hustle was once a dance

the true crime and you
metro and the fool
willing food                                   flash floods and tour buses full

just to be had

gangster pimped out a city
called it "the table"
dubbed by sin
stole some cash

catering to our vices / service entrance in the back

"What happened in vegas...?"

some call it  being had ...

One of those north face nights
cloudless, dreamless
thousands of feet up and clinging
Wedged
between cold and moonlit— still

Red digits cannot contain
the 3:15 that they proclaim

Breathing sideways
to get enough!

The air is paper thin

Idle snow—
loitering….