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630 · Feb 2013
Spanish Night
Savio Feb 2013
It was a Spanish night,
outside of his tiny cobbed webbed wooden window,
a war announced itself,
a war without Rifles,
or Tanks and trucks and grenades and black leather boots,
but a war of something
something more deadly,
something terribly cold,cruel,and
in the spanish night,
men loved women,
men loved men,
women loved men,
women loved women,
Lamps exploding with glorious saintly lights,
illuminating the streets like a ball room for the aristocrats,
everything glistened outside,
and he sat beside his old window,
wearing a ***** old white t-shirt,
lighting a cigarette,
he felt as if he was God,
high above,
looking over everyone,
couples holding hands,
girls in sun dresses,
red shoes,
blue shoes,
green shoes,
yellow eyes,
blue eyes,
red fingernails,
purple fingernails,
brown hair,
black hair,
yellow hair,
white teeth,
bright yellow shirts and beautiful brown skin,
the night was good tonight,
his tiny lamp shimmered on his hairy face,
his cigarette smiling with him,
He looked over this,
wild landscape of lovers,
music playing,
women laughing,
Being God would be terribly cruel,
he would say to himself,
lighting another cigarette,
this is his lover,
his music,
girl in a bright yellow dress,
with her hair down,
and her eyes are large and brown,
her smile the wingspan of a crow,
Looking out over his Heaven
his window,
a tiny spider crawls across the glass,
perhaps looking over the dancers,
the lovers,
the kissers,
the youth,
the night people,
He stared at the spider,
“i know that feeling spider”
he said
“looking over all these dresses,and these dancing feet”
he would say
“it's a curse”
“being godn' all”
and the spider would crawl away,
dissappearing into nothing,
maybe underneath the carpet,
where Dogs or mice have chewed tiny holes,
the clock on the dresser hit 1AM,
and the dancers,
the long haired women,
the men,
the dresses and red shoes and lipstick lips and eyes,
were beginning to leave,
Standing up he walks to his closet,
pulling out a jacket,
pulling out a pair of brown pants,
slipping on socks,
then his leather shoes,
his glasses,
walking down the stairs from his apartment,
he had forgotten his cigarettes,
down the hallway of his apartment,
walking back to his room,
a man and women laughed,
her teeth were white,
and she glowed like the flick of a lighter at night,
when the electric bill hasn't been paid,
he unlocks his door,
and grabbing his pack of cigarettes,
by his Heaven window,
he notices the spider on the window,
no body is out side dancing,
and the Street lights,
seem more peaceful,
and welcoming,
And he walks out into the street,
smelling to-do-soon rain,
his footsteps,
clacking on the pavement,
like a horses hooves,
and he lights a cigarette,
finally alone with the night,
no longer God.
618 · Feb 2013
girl in purple dress
Savio Feb 2013
girl in purple dress,
you are thin,
white yet fogging blue,
like the shadow,
of the Moons glow,
on the back porch,
where a spanish uno rosa,
is pink petal-less,
Girl thin moon shine purple dress,
you are the,
winter abandoned rose,
which I still reminisce,
just like side walks,
and windows,
after it rains.
607 · Mar 2013
Savio Mar 2013
God teases my ingrown heart,
with an angel,
with michigan great lake eyes,
the color,
of an allusion,
to the bible's,
holiest thought,
an old version of Leaves of Grass,
lays coughing at my side,
"I will read you when the time comes"
i whisper into the empty room,
of mirrors,
and cheap bottles of city wine,
a beetle,
and I,
contemplate eachother,
scurries into an old pair of shoes,
that a ****** Indian ******,
traded me,
for words,
of beauty,
of dried mud.
566 · Apr 2013
3:30am When it rains
Savio Apr 2013
when it rains
everything seems still
her body has the curves
of the grooves on wood
following the path of a moth
a woman
and three children
in a van
drop off phone books
and newspapers
onto front steps
at 4am
and it rains
nothing plays on their radio
she kisses them to sleep
“don't worry”
and they're asleep
but the bills aren't paid
and the hot water
is turned off
the electricity
a boy without a home
grew up on the highway
the passing vehicles
the passing buildings
street lamps
rivers and lakes
streets and turn signals
were his
his television
When it rains
Everything stops moving
and breathes
I am still a boy
at twenty
When I can't sleep
I walk to the highway
and sit
the humming road
the humming 18-wheelers and automobiles
remind me of resting on my mothers heart
I drive to the city
To look at the buildings that are never asleep
To sit in wooden cafés and drink cheap black coffee
I am not a poet
Just a boy
Still on a highway
gazing at the world
these are my finger drawn pictures
on a foggy van window.
539 · Feb 2013
Savio Feb 2013
slum town lullaby,
Dream Dream Dream,
your visions and paintbrush,
weighs more than iron,
and is deeper than oil rigs,
Dream until the roads and back highways,
are no more,
it will last forever,
if you want it too,
like a river,
made to be drinken by only the purest,
of Dreamers,
the symphony will end,
with one piano key,
striking painfully,
at your spine.
509 · Mar 2013
Savio Mar 2013
I would write a
but there is to much on my mind.

poems to read
nights to think
silence to obtain.

drunk on the winter temperature
heavy sweater
lighting a cigarette.

Late night television
Late night television
Late night television.

we walked to the frozen lake
drew our names
in the snow.

My eyes are heavy
the heart is
some where beneath all this skin.

my tiny wood table
its belly
full of poetry and my eye lashes.

I don't think i'll sleep
just lay here.

It's easy to be a fool
It's easy
falling in love.

i kissed her
461 · Apr 2013
Savio Apr 2013
Savio woke to the hot sun opening up to his window,
creeping through the lined cracks of his little wooden shack,
Savio was 23 and had never gone to school,
He read old newspapers that were thrown on the dirt road,
sometimes a day old,
other times a week,
On a good day the sun will be gentle,
and the mud isn't too wanting,
and your boots fit right,
and a Newspaper is from that morning,
On a good day.

Other days,
Savio and twenty other,
picked the Oranges,
placed them into long mesh yarn'd bags and carried them away off to the pick up-trucks.

There was a woman he loved,
She had hands that a Tarantula would fall in love with,
she painted them red,
either to match the color of her lips,
or the fact that she,
was lust,
plucking at gluttony,

She could never pick as many Oranges as Savio could,
So Savio would walk to her and smile at her cheek bones,
and smile at the way her eye lashes curved like the way her lips did,

Her name was Bitellie,
She cooked for Savio,
Bitellie picked up what she could,
from his little wooden cracked shack,

The smell of Oranges still on their hands,
Listening too Mario Bauza,
Listening too Mexico crickets and flickering orange talented lamp posts.

It was a rainy day,
and the mud that surrounded the Orange Trees was thick,
yet thin enough to sink you down to just your knees,

Savio had found no newspaper on the side of the road,
It was usually left by someone wealthy,
with the business section folded on top,
Sometimes he would find half a cigarette,
and he would smoke it,
watching the gray blue smoke, tango with the Oranges.
Savio Feb 2013
Ocean of sounds,
lights are forever,
are forgotten,
while man,
is forever,
like a lost letter,
like an abondoned car,
like a kiss,
like her eyes,
that Sailors and jail keepers,
carve her image,
onto wood,
Ocean of thoughts,
storm of eyes,
palm of hope,
palm of destiny,
as we all,
Savio Feb 2013
Butterfly ash,
forgoteen on the petal,
of an orange chirping afternoon,
stain spot,
of coffee,
or lipstick,
trailing too a violin shop,
with tiny finger prints,
left on the shop window,
a moths wisdom,
fluttering by my wool ear,
it listens too unsolved symphonies,
or graveless Mozart,
and leaves at 2 a.m.,
out my window,
and when i wake,
the moth is back,
standing on 6a.m.,
there is nothing to say,
so it stays.
436 · Mar 2013
the dog the rain the night
Savio Mar 2013
the dog's bark can't reach thru the rain,
it is night,
youth dwells on sunlight,
health and the illusion of time,
escapes me,
escapes the palmless hands,
that search vigorously,
into the mud,
for gold,
I cannot see over these,
holocaust trees,
there is music,
playing in the mental hospital,
the insane,
are beautiful,
the insane,
are Buddhas,
Zen conquerors,
Nirvana explorers,
I sit with a metallic stare,
tossing change,
at God's door.
424 · Apr 2013
Opus 23
Savio Apr 2013
Stand in the April rain with me
darling lady with blue September night eyes
my arms are weak
from carrying Oranges and fruits
3 miles to the room
Come out side with me
I have cheap wine
that will make your smile mine
Let's go on a walk
to the forest
to the Sahara desert
no need for that dress
or your
eye make up
I have a pick up truck
I have wings
tattooed with religious hymns
Lets climb the roof
of our apartment building
listen to the birds play piano
the kids running
full of youth
our lives are empty with everything around us
I am the simple creek river
a boy plays a small piano
we'll catch flight on the wing of a Moth
a mother butterfly
I see the moon
the stars a million miles away
winking at us
we'll go to Vegas
buy a car
i'll name you lillian
you can name me Hank
I'll smoke long cigars
live in a house
that is small
and i'll stand at the window
and glare out over the City's River
we'll listen to jazz all night
and catch fire flies with our palms
we'll grow old
and forget the time
on the wall
and roll around in the mud
pick up rocks at the lake
and skip them as far as we can
I'll write songs for the piano
Nights will be long
we'll buy cheap wine
and grow white
we'll stare at the fire place
throw our hats in
throw our clothes in
our wine glasses
our thoughts
our dreams
our finger nail clippers

Then we'll get in the pick up truck
head to mexico
let the house burn
with all our things
and your make up

we'll turn into lizards
into fruit flies
into southern eagles
we'll move in with the clouds
the stars
the moon and its daughter
I'll catch a Red robin
and give it o you
we'll stand in the river
and measure the weather
by the hairs on our skin

We'll have 10 dollars
go to a french film
and at the end
will be the end.
401 · Apr 2013
life of a caterpiller
Savio Apr 2013
The life of a caterpillar
it waits
it does not know what it is waiting for
so it waits
the caterpillar wonders
it is sad
it waits
then the caterpillar
is a butterfly
and the ex-caterpiller
if this
is what he was waiting for

So he waits longer
and white things fall slowly from the sky

and the butterfly questions
if this
is what he has been waiting for

So he waits
his butterfly wings grow weak

the ex-caterpiller dies
and he wonders
if this
is what he was waiting for all along

not the wings
not winter
391 · Feb 2013
it is 20 degrees
Savio Feb 2013
waiting for a sprang ankle,
or a whiff of cheap cigarette smoke,

some nights,
a spanish guitar keeps me up,
thinking of Georgia,
and the women,
it has stolen from me,

like winter,
has stolen the birds.
364 · Apr 2013
Savio Apr 2013
He was going to shoot himself
in the department store parking lot

but people don't read sad stories
not even the beautiful ones

So I'll stop here.
362 · Feb 2013
Savio Feb 2013
i am a worm,
who discovered,
you could be a butterfly.
and that river,
we never,
will remember,
stays in my mind,
and i visit it,
at nights, when Ella Fitzgerald ruthlessly comes on the little plastic radio,
and A.M.
will not leave me alone.
347 · Mar 2013
its been quiet all night.
Savio Mar 2013
It's been quiet all night
my voice has been altered
by red cigarettes
and the piano
late at night
like an infant
across the sea
in france
in italy
lovers kiss
and the night is long and bright
with neon signs
fire flies in the fog by the lake
it's been
quiet all night
my lamp
doesnt say much
there's a taste of leather
in my mouth.
332 · Apr 2013
Savio Apr 2013
All alone
Savio sat
reading christian hymns
speaking at the doorknobless door
tracing the fracture memory
of her legs
her lips and *******
the shoulders
on the fog
that collects on the one window
fog just for him
or maybe she sent the rain
perhaps its her laugh
that drips from the kitchen roof
into a metallic bucket
perhaps thats her smile
in the gutter
perhaps the lake overflowing is her eyes
maybe thats her beauty
blocking the sun
canceling highways
turning New Mexico into Italy
maybe thats her kiss
her lips
that are making his boots wet
his hair and beard damp
all alone
savio sat
with her.
300 · Mar 2013
to a fellow poet
Savio Mar 2013
It's been awhile
since you've
taken your life
Today I found your
in the trunk of my car
fellow poet
I know it was
amongst the
the good sun
on your face
with the smell of
pine trees.

— The End —