he had
the *******
tatooed on his cheek
above the scar,
whispers when he talks,
and people listen...

the edges worn
on the black and white photo
he fondles in his hands...

he walks passed the tombstones
collecting the bouquets of flowers,
gardenias, some violets, and finally red roses
kneels
places them gently on her grave

she was the prettiest cop
that ever arrested him...

passed the ******* tattoo
above the scar
one longing tear
forever falling...

i just met a ******* the floor
of a stall when i opened the door.
she cried, "he's a punk!"
then threw up, clearly drunk.
... i don't have to go anymore.

ever since mankind had brains
we've been trying to turn them off.
yes, that was written on beer
but i think it's about critical thought.

my hips, my ***, the insides of my thighs
Don't need to give her tips
because they're true, already tried,
And she asks without a word
(i never knew consent to be so smooth)
I've never had a lover
just a love
Now *** is never 'wrong'.

Then there I was, excited-
The question hit me straight-
"are you queer now?"
No, I'm with a girl, she's lesbian bait;
Don't criticize her anatomy.

Who stole my life

Which starched white
Matronly apron
Dropped a basket into
***** Thames-sordid Times

Who rode my Charger
Bedded my Princess

Who drank dry the
Dank cellar of my
Being?

And why

Call all the lost, lost.

Nonattachment,
know the worth of holding thoughts true.

For the present, for the moment,
for one breath, be true
from the past, to the future,

regret nothing done today.

practical self rule, become a sphere
of all you know the use of,
in
the future perfect tense,
I shall be ready for death, fearlessly
careful where I step… following Wisdom,
abhoring the good for nothing.

Push off, the clinging past, become
the being now knowing others exist, out be
yonder where no messengers return the same.

Every great poem begins with a great line
but not this poem, this poem of mine
it has its flaws and it ends with rhyme
like every poem I write, every time
But every poet can be great, I heard it said
if you write a poem, not to be scared
to be judged, or write to be read
keep it real, raw and great in your head

It's funny to see you in business
Arming them to ****
Frowning, but sending them bills
Putting money bags in your account
Collecting wealth on shared misery
The very heart of this new age tragedy
It's always the same,
Building skyscrapers and bridges
With their ghostly blood on every brick
We know your bluff, your stanze
Looking down and away,
One more terrain in disarray
Your eyes on the next target
Starting fire on next oil.