Human bodies are soft tissue
meant to be ravished
by love,
covered with soft kisses,
(or) not to be
disfigured
by hate
& jagged shrapnel.

They pick melons
in green vined-fields
as far as the eye can see
because no one else will do it.
And some eating melon,
think life is easy.
I pass no judgment,
only excrement,
spitting seeds.

They're gone now,
our wild reveries
are now replaced by others.
No one will remember
the cannonballs
we exploded there,
blaring AC DC's givin' the dog a bone,
the licorice in our mouths,
or the grain spiked tangelos.

Surely her red bandana
was the attractant,
but it was the way
she wiggled her hips
that truly drew me in.
Her musk slayed me,
it was so ****** delightful
connecting her
beads of perspiration
with my quivering finger,
her breath quickened
between the dots
of her meaty thighs.
I will forget her
some night, but
I am content now,
just remembering
her innocent smile
and the way
she dialed me into
her broken heart.

I layed there
courageous
inside our wetness
and watched her
doe-eyes break in waves,
against the shores
of her high cheekbones,
it shattered my dreams.

And I am really sorry,
feel a sadness beyond belief
I couldn't make it better
for her or that
I never got the chance
to apologize
over the phone.

She's long gone...
I heard she's in Virginia.

It's truly a happy place,
scores of turistas
sitting
under the relentless
sun,
freedom club warriors
inhaling fifty-year-old anejo,
gulping those mezcal stingers
& imbibing golden
beverages
believing every girl
named Lupita
professes
true love.

Hollywood didn't have to spend
tens of millions of greenbacks
on a fantasy feature
about apes ruling a planet.
All they had to do
was make a documentary film
about the world's current leadership.
It would have been
much cheaper
& a hell of a lot
more realistic.

We rolled into bars
like we owned the joints,
everybody had their place,
then we'd fan out
like we were on patrol.
Everybody had each other's six
& we didn't give a ****
about anything.
We'd swarm like hornets
if there was trouble,
for in a moments notice
we could be called out
to ***** real violence.
And we were.
Not that Mickey Mouse
chicken **** kind
at your local nightclub,
but the explosive type
you watched on television
or read about
in the newspaper.

It's lovely
at that time of the morning,
there's no one in sight.
You witness granite
steps disappear upward
into the Mountain Laurel,
hear the Goldfinches echo
in harmony
with the brook,
smell the evergreens.
And as you venture up,
venture up into the cloud,
you touch the spirit world,
hear the Cherokee cries.

I told her to back up,
to back up to my parted lips
& she said
she only wanted to go forward,
yet, she knew better.
Always the trendsetter,
she giggled
in her ecstacy
& mine.

It's the disappearance
that excites me
between the pretty petals
blowing,
blowing in the tempest winds.
And when
I feel,
I feel
your warm breath
on my bare skin,
I am not lost,
I am found.

I know you better
than most,
I feel your need
at the molecular level.
Transfuse me Darling.
Make my blood
your drink.
Think free radical.

I stay up late & float,
haunt the evening airways.
My skin is white
(nearly porcelain)
& my blood is warm
(practically boiling).
But I swear,
I swear
I'm not a vampire.
I have no intentions
of cursing,
frightening anybody,
or biting any necks.
I just want to find
other kindred spirits
seeking answers
for their own
restless nights.

To be sure,
we've all got hard luck stories.
Some are rather gory,
others
some serious allegory,
but what,
but what makes mine
better,
or even worse,
than yours.
I haven't a license on more *******
than all the others,
yet I have been given a ton of it,
and I don't,
I don't want
to feed you
more
than you've already
been given.
That ain't cool
& I tend to think,
I'm seriously frozen.

I wholeheartedly insist,
I do not claim to be a saint,
only an angel,
a dark one,
like you,
fallen from above,
sent here to ravish
your own soul
with twisted
genuine love.

I live in the twilight,
a purgatory-place,
in between
brilliant luminescence
& sheer darkness.
And I can't say
I find total comfort here,
but is there anything that complete?
I mean,
I could be out on the street.
So certainly things
could be
so much worse
than this limbo...
I love this place.

When you get
right down to it,
everybody wants something
from somebody.

And who can give me the feeling
one gets when the sun rises,
cracking the sky
with fiery colors
& making the birds
sing with such joy
like they do?
Pray tell
me,
who?

If someone could bring
me that much joy
then surely,
surely
together,
we would be blessed.

The beat seemed toxic,
rapidly jumping
alcohol-fueled beings
with shellacked hair,
bouncing off the walls
under the spinning disco ball.
But it wasn't disco,
they had moved onto industrial,
trying to make sense
of the wasteland outside,
the wasteland
they called home.

Mark seemed to have it all,
a beautiful wife,
two strapping sons
& he was always out to have
serious
good clean fun.
A hellacious paddler
& consummate fisherman,
always teaching his boys
a higher standard
& fulfilling
his honey-do lists.
So naturally,
it came as a big surprise
when he asphyxiated
himself with carbon monoxide
in his own driveway
during broad daylight.
It tore us apart actually.
At the funeral,
his wife told me he had seven stepfathers.
I never knew that,
but maybe,
just maybe,
he thought he was a failure
when his wife filed for divorce
the morning of his departure,
and he couldn't live with that.
The thought of his own children
growing up like he did,
it must have been hell.
Perhaps
the mystery will never be solved,
but just the same,
all I can think about
is the damage,
the other hell
he left behind.

When it was time to reflect,
I'd always fill up the igloo,
fuel the jeep,
buy some bacon & eggs
& tumble out
into the wilderness.
And it was there,
under God's
little
twinkling lanterns,
hanging solo
around the campfire,
usually dancing in a naked haze
of true grit & whiskey,
I'd find balance.

We sat on a blanket
of the purest white sand
& listened to the gentle surf
as star matter
occasionally tumbled
earthward.
It was surreal,
us giggling,
making our wishes
unto the Heavens
as if the sacred gods
were actually listening
to little old us.
She's gone now,
disappeared on a road trip
to Philly.
Sadly,
none of the wishes
have come true
yet,
so she must,
she must be truly gone.

It's not just the brain
thinking of bad stuff,
it's every single cell
in the body
geared up
on high alert,
waiting
for the enemy
to visit the green zone,
this place called home.
This overcoming buzz,
a cloak of anxiety,
chokes,
stifles the mind.
.

It's like a real Mexican standoff out here,
people are getting edgy,
acting like they want
to mess each other up.
Elephant protectors on one side,
elephant trainers on the other,
the cops are in the middle.
It's pretty ****** evident
both sides are in love with their causes.
Still, I wonder what the animals would say
about this protest stuff,
so much of their habitat
has been destroyed....
and the humans want to ****
each other
to get their point across.

There's a cool tropical breeze
blowing here Sweetheart.
I bet you'd feel it better
with a short skirt on
commando.
You know Darling,
I love playing soldier
with you
in this heat.
Meet me in ten...
privately.

When it rains
fire and brimstone,
reach down and grab them,
they will get you through.
Everybody's got them....
even the fairer ones.

I am surrounded
by a **** accent here,
rare beauty
in a flowered blouse
& holey blue jeans.
Her explosive
radiant-eyes
invite me in.
I trace her outline
in my mind,
thinking about
good clean sin,
stay seated
grinning
& discussing
just the weather.

What a freaking
deadly sight to see,
seated dual wizards
aiming 20mm buzzsaws
& using pinpoint rocketry
on unfriendlies
exercising black magic
shivering in their boots.

I am afflicted,
dreamy,
with vivid visions
like deja vu.
We're seated there,
in uptown Manhattan,
she's sporting platinum hair,
covered in golden fleece,
scribbling
cryptic poetry to me
underneath the table.

Her eyes turn azure,
screaming
daisies
over a plate of alfredo,
I am in a hurricane.

And from the corner of my mouth,
I drool streams,
seeking answers
from outside the box.

Does she feel
like I do?

It's like soft feathers,
a plush feeling
wherever my feet
greet the floor,
light blue
& outdated.

The only bad thing
that really
happened to me
in my childhood
was my mother
constantly
cheated
on my father.
It left no visible marks
or any signs of deformity,
perhaps
just a little,
some invisible pain.
Guess I'm,
I'm the lucky one.

I was strong once.
Like a fortress
with impenetrable walls,
a beacon across the land.
She would crawl through the mire
begging me
to quench her inferno
& I would succumb
inside her
own sweet fort
for what felt like forever,
I let her win,
always seize the moment
to experience the stars.
And my stones
came
tumbling down.
I have none to rest
now
broken,
scars
on her chin.

The old South
good old boy network
is alive and well.
I ought to know.
I witnessed it once
from an empty bottle
of wild turkey,
through the windshield
of Canadian mist.
They might insist
I was lucky,
but actually,
it was divine.
I had an angel riding shotgun.

I watched two of them
divebomb
the old bird
once
and chuckled
at how miffed
the buzzard got.
All it could do
was hold its wings up,
as if saying,
"Alright then,
you got me!"

They tell us how it's done,
their litany of rules,
personal regulations
crafted from
their own weaknesses
& fears.
And
under the guise of caring,
they stealthily
steal your soul
until you are left
with nothing,
just an empty vessel,
a place
where
your heart
used to be.

The second I imbibed
her,
I knew she had me.
It always happened
that way.
That lovely warm-rush
in my head
and her sweet kisses
on my lips,
traveling
down
my throat,
deep
to my heart.
She brought me
to my knees.

It has taken me forever,
forever to realize
these things,
these seductive mysteries,
these succulent sweet visions
are screaming,
swirling around
in my tortured brain
& rising up
from the darkest depths
of love.

And when I piece them together
in jumbled stanzas,
filled
with expressions
of my personal demons,
I am drawn
into even greater fantasies.

Are any of us really rational?
I believe it...to be true.

It happened
across the street
from the elementary school,
after hours,
in a ramshackle house.

You wore your hair
like an Indian maiden
standing on all fours
& taught me
the deeper meaning
of such intimate acts.
I smacked
your **** back
with wild sweet-kisses,
all the way up
your personal food chain.
And once
I was coated
in your special elixir,
you got
closer to me,
even closer than
my own prickly whiskers.
I never,
I never forgot
your raw aroma,
your valley of flowers.

At least
I'm glad we
found Jesus.
& comforted,
knowing
we got a legitimate chance
to seek forgiveness
for such
loving things.
Amen Pocahantas.

Contemplate
the nickname
"Piston Tongue"
and if it doesn't make you
weak in the knees,
quiver a tiny bit,
then you're not thinking
deep enough.

There was a time in my life
when I was an expert
at quarters.
In fact,
I was so good at it,
every time I played,
I would get more *******
than all the others.
It wasn't about love
or intimacy,
it was about being
the biggest bad ***.
But when I look back now,
it may have been about
being the biggest
drunk *******.

We swallowed
anejo and the worm,
walked train-like
through the crowd
outside
into
the splendor
of splashed-stars.

And under
the bloodsucker net,
in between
the pentagram candles,
we made the sweetest love
in the universe,
you and I
found paradise,
so sacred.

Sunlight glows
in shades
of lime and frog
as time literally stands
still across the back forty.
Blankets of fallen leaves
muffle the sound
of lazy airliners
descending to the strips
a few miles away.
And the songbirds
sing below,
unfazed by visitors.

I was told to never say never
and oft I've been
haunted by its repercussions,
for nobody is perfect.

Plastic tents,
these ******* beeps
and maddening
******* sounds.
Dear Lord,
I want to go home...
but I left my legs
in the desert,
somewhere
near where
the pink-mist
engulfed me.

It's strange,
I mean like really weird
to see kids chewing Juicy Fruit,
eating Hershey bars
with nuts,
and smoking Camels.
Some are even handling
guns,
automatic weapons
held together with duct tape.

Imagine a sun
so brilliant,
so bright,
that sunglasses
will not help.

Imagine a suntan
so deep,
so intense,
that even bones
get vaporized.

Imagine...
imagine
crystallized,
radioactive sand
splitting atoms.

If I could capture stardust,
I would.
I'd bottle it up
and gift it to you
forever.

There's a part of me
that wants to write
nasty,
sultry **** to you.
It's the same part you craved,
day in,
day out.
But I just can't
bring myself to do it.
I'm just a simple man,
not a ****.

I knew,
I felt you were ******* crazy,
but not like this.
Kissing at lunch
in the parking lot
like that,
then buying
two huge scoops of ice cream
in a waffle cone
oblivious
to the others around you
smiling so sweetly,
as if nothing happened.

We took road trips
on long black ribbons
into oblivion
with iced coolers
filled with
satisfying
golden beverages,
never really knowing
where
we'd end up.
But one thing was always certain.
We'd be drunk
when we got there.

We were lucky.

It's not the strange
voices in my head
telling me
what devious
things to do.

I swear,
it's the solar flares
that make me
****.

Unless I stop
soon,
I insist
poetry will be
the death of me.

But O Sweet Darling,
my pretty jubilee,
look,
just look
at that wonderful
moon.

I'm sick,
I'm dying
here
with glee.

See me...
read me...

quick.

You chunky girl,
a bit pinkish
you are
around
your hardened
edges

I love
inhaling you,
just to feel
the instant rush
of your smoky nature.

And I get crushed
when
you
leave
my aching body.