Breaking News
A Robinson’s affair
It has been called party goers in beware
The Pelican Club know fore shoot outs
There are also fights to talk about
The Chef’s have been making guest sick
The Pelican Club is not a good pick
The ratings of the club had been very low
Business is certainly somewhat slow
As a poet journalist, I will tell you, “Let the Pelican Club go”
The Flamingo Club is the place to be
When you walk inside this is what you will see
Flamingo bird statues decked out in black and white with an offset of red bowties
Music that will make you serene in an automatic dance
The whole atmosphere will put you in a trance
Yet each dancing step you will seem to advance
All kinds of drinks for you to sup
However don’t forget to leave a tip
The Flamingo Club will make you feel special like the bird itself
The Flamingo Club is not like everybody else
This journalist being the poet in reporting in what you needed to know
It goes too show
Take in the Flamingo Club and just let senses go.

The dove left awhile ago.
The flamingo stared as it flew away.
The sparrow sat silently,
watching and observing,
Knowing that eventually one would break.
What the flamingo doesn't know, hurts it.
The dove, in fact,has had its wings broken before.
It was said that the wings were broken to no repair.
The dove was paralyzed, could feel no pain.
It was numb, it was in vain.
The sparrow sat patiently on the side.
It helped the dove get back in line,
Time was the true healer.
The sparrow watched as the dove failed,
The sparrow watched as the dove grew,
The most important part,
is that the dove overcame.
Even the sparrow thought there was no return,
though it never said it, it believed it.
Until one day, the sparrow looked out,
and saw the dove flying away.
The dove had healed, the dove was free.
The numbness went down and it began to see.
Now, this is a message for the flamingo to hear,
The sparrow has everything to fear.
The dove never wanted to fly away and not come back,
Yet the flamingo desires exactly that.
The dove was able to overcome their pain,
so I believe the flamingo can do the same.
It takes time, it takes patience,
but in the end, it is worth it.
The world will be clearer, and the flowers brighter.
The sparrow can not wait,
until the day the flamingo can fly away.
But to fly away with its own wings,
with its own strength,
to have overcome this obstacle,
and finally be free.
The sparrow will wait patiently for that day,
Helping all the way.
The flamingo will soar high,
not has high as the heavens,
because it will be low enough to where it can fly back,
Back to where the sparrow sits patiently,
for the help it can give once more.

Breaking News
A Robinson’s affair
It has been called party goers in beware
The Pelican Club know about shoot outs
There are also fights to talk about
The Chef’s have been making guest sick
The Pelican Club is not a good pick
The ratings of the club had been very low
Business is certainly somewhat slow
As a poet journalist, I will tell you, “Let the Pelican Club go”
The Flamingo Club is the place to be
When you walk inside this is what you will see
Flamingo bird statues decked out in black and white with an offset of red bowties
Music that will make you serene in an automatic dance
The whole atmosphere will put you in a trance
Yet each dancing step you will seem to advance
All kinds of drinks for you to sup
However don’t forget to leave a tip
The Flamingo Club will make you feel special like the bird itself
The Flamingo Club is not like everybody else
This journalist being the poet in reporting in what you needed to know
It goes too show
Take in the Flamingo Club and just let your senses go.

From my window,
in corner of an eye,
see a pink flamingo.

Broad curves,
into familiar shape,
grounded legs,
Iron weighted.

Been there
for years,
quietly sitting,
amongst roses.

Pushed by storms,
changing winds,
yet surprising,
inner strength.

Retains balance,
keeps small piece,
staked out,
of much larger plot.

Slowly losing,
it's distinctive hues.
Dissolving,
fuchsia to palest pink.

Every family
has their own,
pale pink flamingo

Flamingo high,
flamingo low,
when flamingo stretchy-leggy, then flamingo grow.
Cheeky beaking, shifty sifting, lifting up a flipper;
notty neck and naughty pecks,
while dancing with a kipper.

Flaming heck and flaming Oh!
Flaming flamingularonimo!
I tango and flamenco
and I imitate a swan,
but this winking pink flamingo's
blinking going going gone.

My Second Letter to Allen Ginsberg
Dear Allen,
Almost five years ago, I wrote you a letter, and in
That letter, I purged my drunkenly woeful cries
That seem so first-world now and naïve –
The things I grimed over with luxuries I didn’t
Realize that rubbed against my plump limbs
Like millions of felines poised at the
Tombs of pharaohs.

Oh, Allen, I’m so tired –
These politics, and poly ticks, so many ticks that
Annoy my tics. Allen! I smear your name so liberally
Against this paper like primer because the easiest way
To coerce someone into listening to you like
A mother
or predator
tugging or nibbling on your ear –
Swatches of velvet scalped from a ****’s coat
Are you and I talking to ourselves again?
Candid insanity : Smoky hesitance.

Dear Allen, I’m so tired –
Yes, I love wearing my ovaries on the outside like
Some Amazonian soapbox gem glistening from beneath
The iron boots of what the newspapers tell me while
I cough at them with the hurdled delicacies of alphabet soup.
Give vegetables a gender and call them onions, Allen.
Sullied scratch-hicks pinioned feet from slapping
Society’s last rung on the ladder.
Ignore the swerve of small-town eyes.
Scapulas, stirrups, pap smears, and cervical mucus – now do you know who we are?

That fingernail clipped too short, Allen. We’ve all got AIDs
And AIDs babies, haven’t you heard? Hemorrhaging from the political
****** and out – they haven’t reached the heart.  
Since when have old white men given a **** about some
13 year old’s birth control? I’m riding on the waves of the
Parachute game and I swear this abortion-issue is just a veil outside Tuskegee University
Being further shove over plaintive eyes, swollen and black.
Pay up and
shut up.

I still remember my first broken *****, Allen.
Can you tell me all about your first time?
The vasodilatation that made veins rub against skin,
Delirious brilliance : unfathomable electricity.
I made love during an LSD experience, Allen,
And I am not sorry. I see cosmic visions and
Manifest universal vibrations as if this entire world is
A dish reverberating with textiles and marbles, and
All are plundering the depths of the finished wine
Bottle roasting in the sink like Thanksgiving Turkey.
The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.
The opening, between you and you, occupied,
zoned for an encounter,
given the histories of you and you—
And always, who is this you?
The start of you, each day,
a presence already—
Hey, you!

Ah, Allen, if you are not safe, then I am not safe.
And where is the safest place when that place
Must be someplace other than in the body?
Am I talking to myself again?
You are not sick, you are injured—
you ache for the rest of life.

Why is it that I have to explain to my students that
sometimes what I'm spouting is prescribed by a pedagogical pharmacy --
but all they want to know is "what do the symbols on the television mean?"
I am completely aghast against the ghosts of future goners --
I am legitimately licensed to speak, write, listen like some mothers --
I am constantly cajoling the complex creations blamed on burned-out educators --
I am following the flagrant, fired-up "*******"s tagging lockers --
Pay up and
shut up.

Yes, and it’s Hopeless. Allen.
Where did we get off leaping and bounding into
The dogpile for chump change jurisdiction, policing
The right and the left for inherent hypocrisies when
Poets are so frightful to turn that introspective judgment
Upon ourselves?
We didn’t see it coming and I heard the flies, Allen.
Mean crocodile tears. Flamingo mascara tracks
Up and down : up and down: bow – bow – bow – bow
Buoyant amongst the misguided ******* floating around
In the swirlpool of lackadaisical introspection.
What good is vague vocab within poetry?
Absolutely none.
Would you leave the porchlight on tonight?
Absolutely, baby.

Dear Allen, would you grow amongst the roots and dirt
At the knuckles of a slackjawed brush of Ever-Pondering Questions
Only to ask them time-and-time-and-time-and-time-again.
Or pinch your forehead with burrowed, furrowed concentration upon those
Feeble branches of progression towards something that recedes further
And further with as much promise as the loving hand
Attempts to guide a lover to the bed?

Allen, I wish to see this world feelingly through the vibrations of billions of bodies, rocking and sobbing, plotting and gnashing like the movement of a million snakes, like the curves collecting and riding the parachute-veil.

Ah, Allen! Say it ain’t so! Sanctified swerve town eyes.
And everything is melting while poets take the weather
Too personally
And all the Holden Caulfields of the world read all the
*******’s written on the walls and all the Invisible Men
Eat Yams and all the Zampanos are blind and blind
And blind and blind and blind and blind
Yet see as much as Gloucester, as much as Homer,
As much as Oedipus.

Oh, Allen, do you see this world feelingly
and wander around the desert?
Colored marbles vibrating on the curtailed parachute paradox.
Lamentation of a small town’s onion. Little do we know, Allen,
That what you cannot see, we cannot see, and we are bubbling
Over in the animal soup of the proud yet weary. I can see,
However, how the peeled back skulls of a million
Workboots and paystubs may never sully the burden
Of an existential angst in miniscule amounts.
Pay up and
shut up.  

My dearest Allen, there is always a question of how
The cigarettes became besmirched with wax to complement
What was once grass, and
What was once a garish night drenching doorknobs.
The night's yawn absorbs you as you lie down at the wrong angle
To the sun ready already to let go of your hand
As you stepped, quivering, on to
The shores of Lethe.

748

Autumn—overlooked my Knitting—
Dyes—said He—have I—
Could disparage a Flamingo—
Show Me them—said I—

Cochineal—I chose—for deeming
It resemble Thee—
And the little Border—Dusker—
For resembling Me—