as a white American
few words hold power
the strength to stop traffic
the ability to curb enthusiasm
the worth to end conversation
‘****’ is such a word –
to write ‘****’ barely
invokes an emotional response
just four little letters on a page
written in such a way as to possess
meaning
through the organization of
consonants and vowels
creating a linguistic circus
which we can all enjoy…
**** –
merely slang for a feminine body part
or saved for those who infuriate us
nearly beyond measure
we throw it around, but not haphazardly
like those silly British:
tossing bleeding ***** for fun and frolic
while ******* a ***…
ah, the majesty of vernacular
**** –
she acted in such a way;
he made me so mad;
that dog **** on the floor;
come here honey, let me lick it
stick it
and slap it once for old time’s sake
**** …
more magic than Siegfried and Roy
especially when offered to a young boy
as a shiny new toy …
****
who knew it could bring forth both
such pain and such overwhelming joy
**** –

rapping with rappers on the radio
filling the gaps with extra lyric
mapping the sappy way they pretend
and offering 16 beats a breath like a boss
rick ross looks lost when handed floss
and jay z is crazy lazy in May, maybe cause Beyoncé’s
bounce house lacks compressed air
and the weave in her hair ads to the growing despair
like Dr. Dre cares about flared out khakis while Rakeem’s
grill gleams like flava flavs time piece –
b-boy stylin while in the dance hall
and balla’s with creased collars
throw dolla’s at bithces locked in the twerk
jerkin off in the corner lil kim seems thin
since aids came to play
and fat joe and heavy d sit with harps
lookin down at the crowd jumpin around
they floatin on **** clouds proudly
snoop’s pound frowns at clowns
tryin to be down
but really just hangin around
like the Mississippi mounds
poundin ***** like Tupac on acid
and that lil goblin from hotlanta
actin like he steady mobbing
they robbin the hood for goods and services
while talking **** to easily impressed suburb kids
acting like they got a message
but only KRS got anything to say
and that was just the one time
chuck d and that insane griff
talkin mad crap about gay rappers
and casting couch happenings
has me reacting like maybe I need to a new faction
cause I ain’t into none of eminem’s new action
and poor ole busta
nuts bein busted
in those funky *** dreads –

the CIA will never make the money off ******
it made off *******
******* is for parties
dance clubs
good times in social settings
******, not so much
dark alleys with ***** dealers
selling black tar
to hopeless souls
Mexican mules with **** cavities
brimming
carrying kilos into Nogales
or maybe Calexico
bow legged and sweating
just 35 more trips and sweet little Consuela
can be an American
until Trump gets his wall –
article after article relaying tragedy
the poor, lost in addiction
desperately seeking a coping mechanism
something to stem the tide of despair
and general malaise
dead in their prime
over a twenty sack
and low self-worth….
many friends and family this same tale…
some folks heritage is in ranching,
thousands of head of cattle
driven across the open plains
grandfather to grandson,
uncle and cousin….
others,
political dynasty
papa congressman
and auntie judge
but not mine –
the crest of my tree looks like the biohazard symbol
as generations of drug addicts litter the undergrowth
their weight attempting to hold me
lock me into familial history
unfortunately or fortunately
my will, and recognition of god’s power
flowing within me, as it..
I am my own master
and free to fashion my branches
to whatever my liking desires –
undercover government agents line street corners
whispering illusionary tales of release
stories of becoming void of pain
parables relating a free mind
to personal freedom
through chemical alterations
I whisper back
“I bet my **** is delicious,
wanna taste?” –

Leave your slippers at the counter
said the watchman at the gate
an empty sack I put them in
entered temple on bare feet.

The walls were carved in fine granite
idols beamed in marbled shine
incense filled the ethereal light
breathing the air was purely divine.

After about a charmingly spelled hour
in lithe spirit I came out of temple door
presented the token at the shoes counter
poured the sack's content on the floor.

A strange pair mockingly looked back
not mine I shouted at the top of my voice
rows of sacks stared back from the rack
home barefoot wasn't a prospect to rejoice.

Obviously a wrong token was issued to me
the slippers therein belonged to someone else
and there I was arguing awkwardly
cursing high pitch over temple bells.

It took five minute's terror to find them out
so my feet could kiss the familiar smell
though not much something to write home about
those were the moments paradise felt hell.

Turns out, perfect weight

     is **** ******

             livin’



                            total despair.

Garibaldi with a hot tub
Dear friends and chilled drinks
As we celebrate another harvest in the books
And the comradery shared
The double dozen produced
Like nobody’s business  
Leaving with a bumper and the potential
To fast forward two years of payments

Another Baileys and ice for me, thanks

Soft footfalls in the hallway
Another flavor to savor the way that your
Grandmother asked you to chew longer
In the autumn on the veranda…. Or whatever:
I crack the jar and am met with a blast
Fresh smelling, properly cured,
Green, and beautiful
Did I mention effective?
we puff and pass and laugh
sharing these moments of triumph
enjoying each other’s company
on a clear and cool night
along the Oregon Coast –

1-
T’was dark when the time came for breakfast
I looked down at my untied shoes
With a spirit only able to be described as broken
I left my abode to stand under a lonely lamppost
And let my body quiver and quake with rage
As I thought about the night’s voyage

2-
Raindrops coated my new suede shoes
As I felt myself lulled by the buzz of the lamppost
Her face filled my mind and I savored the rage
Knowing she now was far away on her voyage
If only I had asked her to breakfast
If only I had complemented her shoes

3-
Looking back towards the house, and my now cold breakfast
I thought about her asking me to join the voyage
But my heart was already broken
And her query only further filled me with rage
She knew I had left my only shoes
Sitting in the rain under the lamppost

4-
The dampness chilled my bones as I stood under the lamppost
Exhausted from so much time lost in rage
My belly ached from having no breakfast
And my body began to feel broken
As if I could not even walk due to the tightness of my shoes
But there was nothing left but to begin my homeward voyage

5-
I glanced at my watch in the light of the lamppost
It would be too late for a McDonalds breakfast
Even if I could find my shoes
It was a seven block voyage
And when I slipped, stubbed my toe, and realized it was broken
I felt, once again, myself fill with dangerous rage

6-
From a distance I heard high-heeled shoes
She approached from a different kind of voyage
In her hand she held a bag of breakfast
From the McDonalds with a sign that was broken
Instantly it left my body, all that rage
And we held each other, under the glow of the lamppost

Lungs filled deep the sweetest smoke
and gave a dizziness to the scene
I felt on an island cold and remote
as if just awakened from a dream

calloused feet touched lightly down
on rocks and stone worn smooth
I heard the church create such sounds
my body trembled with the truth

t’was my shoes they sold at the gate
leaving me slightly unnerved
knowing blisters were to be my fate
I complained it was more than a tourist deserved

I had paid all fees without an issue
even purchased a souvenir
with all my crying, they only offered tissue
and continued to look at me queer

I hobbled off, cursing under my breathe
knowing it would not go well
and now as I sit, so close to death
I look back at that place as hell