No silver spoon fed my mouth,
it was something different.

The school of hard knocks
rapped on my head &
I worked
my tail
off to get my gold.

And despite the glitz,
all this glamor,
there’s still
something missing
that's killing me.

We sat stupefied with the expats,
eyes wide open telling lies
between repeats of
La Bamba & Lady Grinning Soul.
Peter Gunn screamed sax
through the hypnotic-haze,
the place was a ******* rat hole.

Sticky seats smelt like
****, burnt toast & dead feet.
A one-ton greasy bartender
sat on a low stool,
drooled on his cigar
rather than smoking it.
He counted his dough
about every six minutes.

Shadows of waifish tired-women
floated by us like wispy-clouds.
With tricks hand-in-hand,
they moved in and out of
the proverbial back rooms,
an odor of primordial-slime hung.

This was what they called
the tropical-island high-life,
a swanky place where ten bucks
could get you an hour of *****-thrills.

It was actually a cheap-*** brothel
disguised as a night club,
tucked away somewhere
in the middle of nowhere,
the skankiest
of Never Never Lands.

It was by far,
the saddest place
I've ever visited on Earth.

He’s journeyed many a treacherous route, scuttled ancient-ships,
ridden the skyscraper-troughs of crystal-seas, hunted enemies,
alone.

He’s guided by the lamps of the Heavens, the countless stars,
the sun and the moon, calculated the astrolabe,
alone.

He’s braved hurricane winds, the triangles of Bermuda, windless days,
leviathans & squids, scavenging whites and other such hungry things,
alone.

He’s got the strength of a Goliath, keeps his tenderness guarded under lock and skeleton-key,
his wounds bleed forever in the brokenness of a self-induced solitary confinement,
alone.

He’s the truest mariner, fights black-tempests within, protects himself from overexposure,
from another broken heart,
alone.

Inspire me. ****** me. Serenade me.
Send to me ******* rhythms and let
the ****** hymns play... And then the songs play as we lay.
Frank Sinatra has us on the road, Irma
Thomas telling us to be ourselves...
Love me like Aretha has never loved a
man, move me like Nina Simone, just
you and I alone. Dinah Washington says I should teach you, Etta James
warning me not to tear your clothes.
Let's play some Sarah Vaughn and
Fontella Bass. Ease me with some Diana
Krall and Dianne Reeves, swing motion
with Chris Boti. Tell me you love me Inside Out as does Shara Nelson. Let's
fall in love to Cassandra Wilson. Let us go the jungle and listen to the
bears sing, the legends of love lore...
Sing and groan; Some Isaac Hayes,
Barry White, Teddy Pendergrass,
Marvin Gaye, James Ingram, Gary
Taylor... Let them play, let them sing. And some love bees; some Betty
Wright, Angela Winbush, Regina Belle,
Sade, Marsha Ambrosius... Tone it
down on a spunky blue with some
Meshell Ndegeocello, Janet Jackson,
Laurnea, a bit of Floetry, some Incognito and Karyn White. Max it up with some Maxwell, Rahsaan,
Ralph Tresvant, Glenn Jones and Tevin
Campelle. Let's jazz it up with some Fourplay,
Brian Culbertson, Quincy Jones, Euge
Groove and Marion Meadows... Lounge
and spice it up with some Prince Alec,
Hed Kandi and Kalliope. Funk it up with some Rick James, Ten
City, Brothers Johnson and Billie
Ocean... Let us ****** and swim in the
love ocean. Making love in a Time Machine,
fading through timeless scenes
listening to stimulating music
searching for a combine that is our
fusion
Biting on some dust and swallowing colour
lush are the strips that are dripping
from the trees of chemistry
dancing to music lively, singing to
blues puzzling
beating to jazz dubbing, responding to ethereal loungy sound
music and our souls will be one
in a time machine, learning
combinations orchestrated through the
ages
We will evolve and be sages Until time linear is more sincere and
eternity for us is here. Let the music play, my bed will be a
time machine, shut never your ears
listen to the music that does play and
wipe them tears
all the drama you've been through all
these years in a second we'll be naked and
climbing stairs
we'll be invited to the kingdom of
Romance and Serindipity
You can be the Queen, I'll be King
Poetry painting neverending pictures surreal
in a world ethereal and the real will dull
feel
and forever you and I will be, if we
journey in the musical time machine.

Today, words
are flowing
out of me
like
honeydew-wine-water.

O Mr. Haiku,
from the bottom of my heart
I thank you kindly!

Who knew
you'd
be the one
to expose me!?

Intergalactic
Meteorite-spore-plague
Apocalypse now

Evaporating dew
Chorus of songbirds singing
Work comes way too soon

Chicken-games with dogs
Spinning circles around trunks
Birds of prey waiting

I learn lessons the hard way,
it's always been my forte.
In fact, they called me 'Rock Head' in the Army.

I can surely go the distance,
but when my romantic heart dreams,
it's time to call me silly putty head.
I can't think straight,
my mind goes blank.

Quite frankly,
that's difficult
for someone
who prides themselves
cerebral.