stubbly cheek and chin run along
a smooth creamy leg
the faint sent of pre-*** wafts
as a slight moan escapes her lips
the back of a rugged hand brushes away
fallen hairs
laying haphazard across a face
engrossed in ecstasy
gently rubbing the nub behind decorated *******
drawing forth inadvertent twists
and a few giggles and excited noises
teeth grip and tug at elastic
exposing a trimmed and curly
treasure trove
I dive with abandon
enjoying a meal
saved just for me –

I am not here for accolades
hearts, notifications, messages
this place is a way to develop
hone skills and become better
I appreciate the love
but would rather have
real editing interactions
based on critically critiquing
and attempting to re-create ourselves
into the greats of tomorrow…. or today –
I find it difficult
to read piece after piece
love poem after love poem
discrediting my landscape
though so much fodder
very few truly grab my attention
and in complete honesty
the first 5 lines decide if I continue my read –
I am a poet
lamenting, sullen, fixated on despair
enthralled by beauty
natural and interpersonal
devastated by incompleteness
and ……..
it would be nice to hit 50 followers ;)

my eyes were caught by the midday moon
the gravitational pull grabbed my arteries
and influenced my veins
tugging as if I were part of the ocean
and releasing me back into my body
it were as if my very cells themselves
carried tiny tidal pools
forever driving in and out
by the forces of night
and the power of Luna …..
the moments stretched out
moonbeams elongating over an open field
seeking the shadowy places
within my heart
all the while birds chirped and the sun shown
lawns were being mowed
as grocery carts found themselves emptied and returned
the world traveled as it does
in the sunlit afternoon
and I stood
impressed and motionless
by the influence
of the midday moon –

glossy thick succulent leaf
collecting dust behind bars
and walls of brick and concrete
pushing forth delicate pink blooms
in a place void of color
sans the blue gear
of the incarcerated man
variegated patterns
soft red lines weave
amongst the dark green meadow
as if streams after a spring torrent
were breaking new paths though fields of green
seeking a river or creek
a transporter to grant them every droplets wish
a trip to the ocean
varying stages of bloom
crispy dried
and new buds barely escaping
just offering the slightest breath of color
gifting the drab yellow walls
a splash of hope
tinged with pink –

moonlight on the bamboo shoots
falling stars mark sharp edges
cutting skin with blades of grass
the roots push the concrete out of socket
yellowing drought bringing out
bucket handles and flowery gloves
shoving back the strawberry runners
two by four planter boxes
rot –
brown blueberry leaves crunch
corpses of raspberry stocks bend and snap
complete lack of moisture or tending
rendering fat of homeless cats
in a vat of future soap
gifts for loved ones
never realizing the suds
were once fluffy paws
and sweet meows –
summer drags, the fifth month being the hardest
lard fest at the local poke’a’pig
barbeque, burning maple…
giant oak stands guard, devoid of leaves
only helicopter seeds wait for a breeze
my sweat soaked sleeves need that same air to flow
but, no…
we must languish in the swelter
lakes fade and long dead tree stumps
see the first light in 100 years
fighting for shade, boated fish
swish scorched fins
desperate for any reprieve –

t’were the fattest of heads
got lodged in the slats
poking through red faced
freckles seemingly expanding
from a cavernous face hole
came the moaning of despair
the wail of youthful embarrassment
followed by the sniffling sobs
of one who has given up ~

water balloons flew
open-handed slaps
visited the wedged bully
spittle rained from above
a child with yellow liquid
told everyone he peed in a cup
as it streamed around his forehead
and passed his cheek
we could all smell the lemonade ~

parents and police
firetrucks and tears
fat headed bully was finally freed
glowing face became soft pink
leaving only the freckles and hair
to show red in the evening sun ~

steaked cheeks flashed angry eyes
fists clinched and opened involuntarily
silent mutterings of vengeance played
across bloodied and bruised lip skin
he closed his eyes tight
picturing only his father’s pistol
and the lunchtime
or recess
that would change everyone’s life /

~
nuclear blasts leave an orange glow
           Trump sits upon his tower in a cape

an aura of ignorance
   and entitlement surround the quaff

hooded figures encircle the compound
           burning effigies chanting hate
                         waiting for new commandments

trading science for fascism
          he holds seven billion
                    human lives
                             in tiny hands     /

a loud click rings through my head
two teeth meet where once
fingernail lived
as if I were a ******
tiny little gnawing nibbles
travel 72% across the plain of my nail
when at once a slip
pulling tear…
upon inspection and to my horror
what was a clean cut
has become jagged and frayed
looking like an oak bough
with long hanging moss
but this moss is attached to the nail at large
gripping the offender tightly
and with a quick jerking motion
an attempt is made to remove the blight
without pain or fanfare
to my dismay it breaks free
just at the edge of the nail
I can see the reddening start…
immediately those same to teeth go to work
biting and twisting the tiny attached shard
drool trickles to the second knuckle
as I, totally engrossed, do my best cannibal impression
removing my finger from my mouth
a deep sadness cross my face
there will be no way to avoid bleeding….
with a renewed vigor akin to feverish
I once again attack my own hand
teeth gleaming, ready to savagely destroy
the surrounding flesh
I feel myself clamp down
frozen with fear I slowly pull my head back
tearing skin makes a slight squeak
and an iceberg emerges from my nail crotch
instantly I smash the now bleeding hole
into my tee-shirt
the stain a small price to pay
for the relief I will feel in a few days
once the swelling goes down –

Dreaming of freely bringing my ***** out in public
not for *** or show, no
but to catch a breeze or please a passerby
give an old lady a sigh, and why not?
we are so hung up on these ideas of modesty
and deftly trying to live up to an ethical and moral code
that was written in stone 3500 years ago
by a man with horns
who spent 40 years lost in a desert….. nay, I say
whip it out and swing it about
the same with *******
give them girls a tan, and when a man stares
poke him in the eye with an ***** ******, it’s simple
soon, **** dimples will be the norm and only in stormy weather
will we worry about coverage….we are above this rage over
breast feeding babies and ****** and rabies
one humanity naked in the sun
all skins bronzed
all eyes mere slits to the brightness
of the whiteness of my ***
it is not about wealth or class
or poverty hags with well-groomed half-breed puppies
it’s all about me and my needs to express the sin of skin
to all but my kin
as that just seems weird –

dingy yellow
peeper
crossing the prison yard
as if crime and punishment
were faded reality
waddling with purpose
to a low spot
flippered feet slip discretely
into what seems only a mud puddle
but for this brave baby
the entirety of his aquatic life
learning to swim
and forage
where the hardest of convicts
drop hundreds of pounds
back into the weight pile –

~



you look deep into my eyes
turn your head slightly to the left and
smile with teeth

I hold this moment all day until we
sit again within each other’s caress
I experience the economy of love

harsh truths of a life addicted
play in the backdrop of our marriage
she tells me we are o.k.

and I believe

as years blend and time fades
we share these moments of fresh air

as we travel hand in hand
this road of relationship

planning always for the next incarnation
and finding one and other lifetime after lifetime  /

tan hair with white spots sway in the passing breeze
black hooves clatter against the asphalt
large blue eyes reflect in the Halogen headlamps
and I try to swerve without killing everyone in the car –
standing above the fallen baby
I can only sigh as my heavy chest heaves
as the sight of my first ****** in near 20 years
sends me reeling.
Bumper be ******!
light fixtures can be replaced through a junk yard
(or refurbished/ new-to-you auto parts center if you prefer)
this was a life!
Somewhere in the trees, she watches me…
the mother who carried this precious angel to term,
suckled and nurtured its tiny body,
taught it to hide and to survive…
all but me and this road –
Picking up pieces of plastic
and scooting the lifeless body to the berm,
I take one last look at my new karmic debt,
…………..
We shoulda ate it. –

reaching out my nervous hand
I met my first “real” poet
excitedly I introduced myself
wanting desperately for him to know my name
but for a better reason

even the greatest artist produces trash
so what chance did I have?
an assignment gone astray
turned into a meeting I will
never
     forget

I attempted to recreate drivel
and succeeded beyond compare
eventually turning myself into a goat
complete with horns and an attitude
I just hope redemption
can find the non-Christian

many little moments comprise this ride we call ‘life’
some inconsequential
some life-altering and forever remembered
……….I wonder which today’s will be

absentmindedly picking individual notes
plucking the ole acoustic
fingerpicking style
she moves into the room
silently
and sits alongside me
right on the dog hair coated floor
and hums along
as if it were an actual written tune
softly I feel her head light upon my shoulder
and my heart nearly skips one beat –

brambles hide the brown thrush’s nest
giving seclusion and isolation to pink skinned babes
mouths agape, little wings outstretched
beckoning to be given a small taste
of life giving nourishment –
tiny bills protrude  
offering slight squawks of discontent  
eyes unable to open as the curse of youth stands strong
even in the avian kingdom
undeterred, miniscule vocal cords push forth
with the force of fear of death driving
chirping into the void
awaiting mother or father
and the blessings they bring –
satisfied on meal worms and grub bodies
three lads nestle in for a quiet nap
as a warm Spring breeze passes nearly unnoticed
except for the movement of brier leaves
and the rustle of newly forming feathers –

I pulled him in the little wagon
the dry grass was browned by the sunshine
his joyful squeal egged me on and I ran faster
the uneven ground was deceptive
and one wheel caught a hidden old gopher hole
the wagon bounced high and flipped
as I let go I saw a different expression on his face
one of terror and uncertainty…
the wagon flew towards the old red house
as I tumbled to the ground
I looked back to see tears trolling down his cheeks
but of laughter, not pain
when finally he could catch his breath
he simply uttered,
“can we go again?”

electric tingle travels spinally
and I exhale a breath 17 years held
double dose gel cap
freed again through LSD ~

vibrating with bass drops
howling without control
fixated on raindrops sliding
along glass
behind the pane
wet leaves tremble /

furrows of worry smooth
deep inhalation
and memories of peaceful transgression
replace twitching eye lid
and monetary concern ~

having forgotten my old self
what a pleasure it is to see me
again /

angry wasp nest
meets
disturbed ant hill
the fire in her eyes
has the ability to forge
lightning lacks the intensity
of raw female emotions
wasting years trying to understand
how such unabashed hostility
phollowed by a ***** phrenzy
equates love, honor, and commitment
it is not mine to openly question
only to accept with open arms
as she is the gift from above built special
just for me
as I am for her
I just don’t live irritation
well, I do
just second hand

sing song poems make me mad
reading rhyming prose is sort of sad
thinking it is so clever to come up with similar sounds
in my eyes, you’ve been had –
some eight grade writing teacher gave you ****** advice
and now you can’t get rid of it, like dealing with head lice
stuck in the same old rut, just sort of hanging around
if it were up to me I would put your hand in a vice –
there is a man, they call Dr. Seuss
after his books, rhyming stopped being of use
he would make up words that no one had ever found
but, when I read your “love, dove”, “mine, fine”…it seems like abuse –
if only you allowed yourself the freedom to really shine
leave all those templates and standard structure behind
pull the corn cob out of your *** and try to get unwound
it is my contention that you might find some piece of mind –
the problem is that we can all go on like this all day
never really presenting ourselves as if we have something to say
following the mold, adding to the mound
if only I could inspire you all we might find a poetic brand new day –
I doubt it, and I am sure I will continue to read this trash
probably, stupid rhyming couplets are the only way to make some cash
but thinking of that just makes me want to hang my head down
**** the wheel into oncoming traffic, cause a horrendous car crash –
of course, this is the way of things and I might as well be spitting into the wind
no one will listen and tomorrow will be the same thing again
I will look it over and wonder what it is like to drowned
….shuffle back into the darkness, consider if I have just sinned –

One day while taking a dump
I considered a President Trump
My *** got so light
I could not see the light
Then suddenly shat out a stump
Speech that was of my own
Something internally grown
A speech for mankind
That would give piece of mind
And I went running right out of my home
Into the street… oh no a big truck!
And wouldn’t you just guess my luck
I wasn’t quite dead
But the hit on my head
Turned my stump speech on Trump into junk
You can imagine my sadness and shame
For the country I took all the blame
Could have saved the day
If I had looked both the ways
And now things will stay just the same –

foreboding shadows elongate
giving the entire property
the feel of a cold October evening
when the first frost lays delicate
on the tips of the crab grass
sending sparkles dancing
across the still cow pond …..
a mounting sense of dread builds
as each step weighs
with the heaviness of broken hearts
and balding men being divorced
overweight girls in gym class
and a backpack full of river rock
at the end of a long hot trail …..
the wooden door looms
looking like the elementary school principle
after the first real fist fight
an angry parent
holding evidence of lies
the boss the day after
too much drink at the holiday party…
a shaky hand reaches for the ****
akin to autumn leaves rustling to the land below
after a stiff breeze
in the cool evening –
upon opening the door I pay for
a soft sigh passes my lips…..
he is not present
and so,
at least for a moment,
I have peace in my home –

1 –
backlit hand drummer
perspiration flies
low cloud hangs
feet in rhythm

2-
jiggling flesh
paint smears
and runs
musky lust fills nostrils

3-
fat fingers pound
pressure variations
timeless chanting
congas and djembes howl

4-
shutters snap
cellphones extend
capturing images
leaving feeling to memory

5-
eyes sting
throats contract
dust and sweat mingle
rivulets of joy
delta

I watch the dogs roll in the grass
watch them eat new shoots.
I watch the thrush on the fence post
watch it peck at something in its talons.
I watch the sunrise over the Cascade foothills
watch rays of morning light pass through distance fir trees.
I watch the leaves burst forth, elongate, turn green
watch them fade to brown, fall, and slowly make their way to the forest floor.
I watch the rise and fall of my lover’s chest
watch her sleep peacefully in the bed next to me.
I watch the second hand
watch it strain for each new minute.
I watch my eyes in the mirror
watch wrinkles form on the outer edges.

I look across the garden
look at all the medicine growing.
I look down at my hands
look at the roughness of a lifetime of toiling in the soil.
I look at my little black and white cat
look at the patches of missing fur.
I look back over my shoulder
look at what I have left behind.
I look at the stars in the quiet of night
look at the vastness of our galaxy.
I look into the coy pond I dug by hand
look at the fish still swimming the same circles five years later.
I look at the bamboo I planted to give them shade
look at the disaster of an invasive species taking over.

I see her in the window
see her looking back at me.
I see the sun high in the sky
see little droplets of sweat form along my forearm.
I see the faces of children in magazines
see them with flies on their eyeballs.
I see the shapes of divinity in the flower pedals
see the Mandelbrot’s in crashing waves.
I see my reflection in the pool
see concern and worry upon my brow.
I see my mother barely breathing in the Hospice home
see the last moments of her physical life.
I see the future
see it in blurry visions of death and despair.

what sounds good
is that we all write for ourselves
that we write because of passion
we have to
we can’t not write

such drivel
this is a public site
if you post your work here
it is not

just for you /

sure, you like to pretend
it’s all about craft
honing skill
trying to be better

this is a public site

expect feedback ~

lies are acceptable
we are writers after all
poets, really
but you shy away
like that word
hurts you
like embracing your gift
makes you an egomaniac
instead of driven
makes you pretentious
as opposed to free /


each time you type your life
then submit it to this site
you are no longer writing solely for yourself

sorry

that bubble needs burst

you are writing for acceptance
for love
for community


or

you would simply file each writing
into your desk
never to be seen again /

~



even handicapped priests have no respect for glitter
unless there is extra mayonnaise
everyone sat holding heavy their moon pie faces
thinking about the fish **** pond
and our lack of sunshine and warm weather

things had to get Phishy stat or stuff could seriously get weird
like Zoidberg Claw weird
so we washed the whiskey down with turkey
and walked to the sea while the wind whipped the Cyprus

an open door policy’s gave the cleaning lady a fright
and flecks of green lay strewn across tan carpet
we saw a wizard and left without breakfast

pictures of ham and familial hugs
gave way to snowy roads and living room camping
but all thought back to the fun of a trip to the beach
and planned on returning in Spring  /

~
Midge had a smidgen of misgivings regarding pigeons
grey and blue and cooing while she, on the stoop,
only wished for winged flight.
She had tried flapping wildly, mildly spraining her thigh,
and jumped off a dumpster with eyes to the sky, but
its wasn’t until upon the davenport that the idea stuck her
with the force of a horse kick she’d pick up some luggage
and soar like a bird on an airline called United (even with the bad press
she liked how they sounded.) So she found a round trip to a high desert plain
with lines of the Nazca… famous for aliens or pre-history pilots or maybe
hot air balloon wanders. It was there she felt peace and a semblance of home
as these people too had longed for the sky paying homage to insects
and drawing roads to the heavens. She sat down, looked around,
and ate some break, unleavened.  /

Mountain stream,
barely flowing, a trickle really
cascades down the rock face
largely evaporating before tumbling
to the slight puddle below
the wannabe torrent meanders slowly downhill  
grabbing the occasional leaf
and transporting it to the valley –
foam bubble travelling the length
finds itself stuck on a small waterlogged
bramble branch
being pulled and distorted,
its rainbows playfully dance
casting light onto shadowy bank caves
looking at how much journey has passed
excited about what it to come –
dislodged pebble bounds along the creek bed
sending  old crawdad claws
and remnants of fish **** particulates
swirling and careening though the rippling brook
as the tiny boulder strikes the bramble,
the pebble finds a new home
while the bubble continues its long overdue journey –
a wind in the tree tops sends
helicopters and pine needles soaring
spinning and falling without care or forethought
the tiniest sharpened end of a pine needle
drops tip first
into the bubble
as it travels peacefully down…
a sudden ‘pop’ and the forest falls quiet
seems the wise ole owl will collect again….
he is the only one always betting on bubble failure –

~



mouths move
               gestures grant meaning

                            some smiles pass
                                   and
                          animated flailing follows ~

     one set of eyes
        does not register    
          my observation
   the droning facilitator
              ******* life and air
        from forced bodies ~

the second hand slips gears
                 time reverses

mounting stress and
         flipping pony tails
              an adjusted power tie
                                  tucked into a grey blazer ~

How long has that coffee cup
                    been floating?    /

try as they might
I see through smokescreens
into darkness
and through walls –
gifted with secret sight
I am unable to watch newscasts
without seeing biased framing
I cannot listen to political ramblings
without being inundated
by lies, deceit, and underhanded ball-washing
this is my lot
…and I accept it –
still, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention
the never ending pain experienced by those of us
gifted this way,
we never really live satisfied
as our contemporaries all flounder
lost in illusion…
we find ourselves unable to relate
to the society that created us
as our evolutionary path
surpasses the ordinary --

cumulonimbus
bringing of rain
bowling gods
beware Auntie Em
jutting high like a mushroom cloud
look mommy a castle in the sky
poufy pillows piled into the stratosphere
cirrus
wispy feathers touching space
lightly floating on jet stream currents
resembling the wings of angles
always so far out of reach
morning mist
dragons breath
ground temperature mingles
with slight variations in the air
sending tendrils stretching and elongating
shadow monsters spin the shroud
and faceless nameless shapes
distort in the low laying fog bank
altocumulus
rows of bubbles fading to infinity
contrails
and chemspray
naturally
snaking across the heavens
maintaining form against
surface wind gusts
lines front the cold front
look mommy
racing stripes –

the heartless darkness harkens to her
shapeless under the flowing frock
a slight breeze sends wafting gauze
to shimmer in the blurred moonlight
foggy images of monstrous mystery
play just out of sight, frolicking in the early morn shadows
pre-dawn on a night lit slightly by the waning moon
distorted stars shift effortlessly as the mist swirls
around delicate and chilly ankles
from the window above
a vantage just overlooking the unkempt garden
I take in the scene and fall in love
all over again –

Looking across the crashing Sound
Spirit broken by the waves
I sat upon the cold, wet ground

Only able to muster a frown
As I considered my awaiting grave
Looking across the crashing Sound

Captivated by each wave's pound
Their song made me a slave
I sat upon the cold, wet ground

T’would be but an instant for me to drown
No coast guard to perform a daring save
Looking across the crashing Sound

I took a deep breath and a long look around
Tried making my way to the damp sea cave
I sat upon the cold, wet ground

I tried in vain to get my mind unwound
No longer desiring to rant and rave
Looking across the crashing Sound
I sat upon the cold, wet ground

sitting in shame
re-reading Gregory
thinking about the movement
that was civil rights
the death of Medgar
and Dr. King
unity and harmony
for all American citizens
peace and togetherness
equality….
Donald sits atop a throne
shinning white in the sunlight
my guts tighten and twist
at the specter of this racist
becoming the face of my nation –
remember the dream…
think back to stock footage
black and white
black and white
marching demonstrators
in the hot Mississippi sun
looking only for fairness
and a constitution for all
instead,
fire hoses and German Shepard dogs
mingles with the voices
of hate and intolerance
circa 1967…
2016 and a man stumps
divisive messages
falling on ears filled with ****
propagandized lies systemized
no one hears truth anymore
especially written on faded
and water damaged pages –

I stepped out of the Honda
and onto the sidewalk
for the first time in my life
I was keenly aware of both my skin color
and the lack of any similarity
as I scanned my surroundings
brotha’s shoulder to shoulder
lined the fence
every ten or twelve feet
there were groups
five or six deep in circles
many eyes cast glances my way –
at the corner the stranger and
would be savior
offered me a wooden handle
serrated blade
kitchen steak knife
presenting it as a way to feel safe….
I laughed…
“No one is going to see me take a knife from you”
“I am just a sick ******, man… I don’t want no trouble.”
he laughed back at me and with me
“Don’t sweat, Cuz…”
“I was a homeless ****** in Seattle for a while,
we’ll take care of ya.”
I stood for what seemed an eternity
at this makeshift park/ work-out station
looking down the alley at tarps
against tarps
strapped to tarps
and thought this was not the L.A.
you see on T.V. –
about the time I was sure I got robbed
and was now going to have to find my car
and leave downtown
broke
and sick….
dude rounded the bend…
he spit into his hand
at a glance I saw ten little balloons
containing something dark and mysterious
a smile spread across my face
he matched my excitement
and offered me safe travel back to my ride
when we got back to the car
I dropped two balloons and 10 bones
into his ashy and worn hand
he smiled,
“get the **** on outta here, boy”
I took his advice and drove out of Los Angles
right back up Hollywood Boulevard,
past the freaky freakies
and the mass of homeless
to the first rest area on the freeway…. –

slowly building
towards a stress crescendo
soft winds picking up volume
undiagnosed weight pressing
smashed face pressed against
unpaid bill pile
drool
staining the pain bringers –
death and illness become the standard
conversation
each attempting to outdo the other
with a more tragic tale
woe is a me-bop
set to ancient Traffic outtakes –
unable to wipe away the angst
no matter how many times
rough hands
clasp
worried eye ridges
molding cheek skin like a child with new clay
praying the answers will fall from a pore
worry lines hide youth
adult life ***** vitality
Daniel Lewis, “drainage” –

slow, deliberate…
painstakingly
the second hand struggles
against Swiss made gears
diabolically, the mechanism shifts slightly backwards
before making the push into a new moment
causing extra sweat and a flash of panic
so goes the process
until the surrender unto darkness and fantasy
grip eyes straining to see the next tick

irritated energy
as unwelcomed questions
surface, and show themselves in public…
not one to have my character questioned
regarding key personality components
I freak out and threaten
to quit
to leave
to scream indignantly,
but to **** it up and accept
quietly do better,
that would be something special –
red faced hate machine
bent on self-destruction
and starting over
doesn’t care about the opinions of others
disregards constructive criticism
knows better than you,
and is the best in is field –
it is not the easiest thing to admit
when one has been in the wrong
to openly take attitude
and stand tall in the face of
hostile undermining…
this,
is something I will have to work on –