walks over dry asphalt
in the blistering summer sun
blister on top of blister
skin red and flakey
Heat rashes
are worth it
when momma gives me a dollar
after the white truck says
"Hello"

Icon of Fashion
Lady of Passion
She invented the
Fashion Show...

Replete with...
Art Deco Staging
Jazz Music Blazing
Young models sashay
On the Walkway

The Famed of the Arts
Were plied Champagne
From the Start as lithe
Long legged Models
Flirted and Flashed
Throwing Kisses to
The Amazed Crowd

Coco Channel and Ert'e
Dared to Dress as Men
Wearing Suits and silk ties
And swapping kisses and Sighs
In Paris nights of Long Ago

I pried the Words off the Wall
Rearranged and used them All
Stacked upon each other in
A sentence Said with Style

Coco Chanel And Ert'e Flaunt
Lesbian Fashion In chic Paris Haunts,
In the 1920s, While Albert Camus
Late Night Parties Extistentialist Claims
Amid ****** and Champage

Django Rienhardt Played Jazz Guitar
To the West Bank Artists in Bars,
Toulouse Lautrec had Drank
With Prostitutes, in Art Deco

Frank Loyd Wright Praised
In Architect Circles
How He has Designed
The Unfolding of the Future

The Camera Has Brought
Sharp Images to see
While emergence of Psychology
Has driven Art into the Abstract

Paris in the 20's scent of*
Hedonist Creativity
Cultural Gravity
To the Inclined

De rien, entre amis
Prende un jour a la fois



All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack

I'm a man of the sea and I have to,
I have to be free.
I'm a sun of a gun with a bottle,
a bottle of ***.
I'm a man on a mission and the mission,
the mission is me.
I man on an edge and on this edge,
I'll end up dead.

Do you know there are blue skies baby?
Do you know that storm clouds save me?

There's a burning horizon and it's calling,
it's calling my name.
There's this burning ambition for gold,
to save me from shame.

Parody of "l(a" by e. e. cummings

e(               j(               a(
me             de             pr
di               ad             op
af               bla            ert
air              ck             yd
ne              bo            am
ss)             ys)           age)
qua            ust           tten
lity              ice           tion

=</>~&#$!(^)%-'@+

Think                                             ­  h
                    Th   ink                        e
   Ov ert  hink                                  l
                    ­                                      p
   . . ...                                                

Psygopath m i  n    d                      m
                                ­                          e
   . ... .
                                                           i
You Didn't Just                                '
Let Me                                              m

be            ­                                          d
                     ­                                     y
Torn Like                                         i
                                                          n
   T                                                     g
h
                a
          t
...

I'm S low ly
  S
     u
f
f
   o
c
  a
t
  i
n
   g

=</>~*&#$!(^*)%-'@+

Do you know what I wish, she asks
He waits, she turns to him with the
speed of her irregular heart
I wish I was innocent, she says
After a minute he breathes and tells her,
You still are, in your desire to be

-c.j.

now's the mistake; another 36thr. another of these
poor decisions, these stiff hands, and a once seventeen year-
old out in soul for remembrance of *******. and self-destruct-
ion. epochs ago to now, and in writ moment,
a loss of speech. isolation of a decade, but not always.
kinda like alonenness, but not always. kinda like the crossing of a des-
ert during multitudinal suns' rising; endless cessation
from night's innate lonesomeness. kinda, but not always, and
kinda breaking out with the freak outs. maybe there's become
a problem. (light's bleeding to the left) perhaps incite
a disconnection. perhaps that is forward by removal --
that all-evasive isolation. (unresponsive, compulsive) just touch
base again, but by this moment, may have slid right on by. grunged
pants, dirt streaks, to that tepid walk home as rains began. mud-
stains, and at least there's a good ******* cup of coffee waiting . .
        (broken thought)
                            when voice rings out,
                   "Cut your ******* hair!" as of feminism,
               always thought to be self-righteous ****;
                (again, breaking)
                   "Words are cheap, and breath is free." narrative
of own thought in anothers' voice. distracted; fatigued;
waking to coffee and toast. butter and jam, of course. realizing -- ever realizing -- that I will break every wine glass I ever own, and I will
leave it broken. avoiding the shards of shattered glass, at least,
until my foot drags the carpet. until my foot leaves inevitable blooded-trail.
and lips to wound, some kiss of peace felt from soul; after lips are no
longer of cheek, or of wound, they sing out for my life.
Always singing for life, when this voice always wails for the
absence of warming weather. And this voice is of perpetual
*******, often and forever repeating priorly stated words -- if only a line
back. If only there weren't this block. Past weeks, the past hours, have
been found .  . a ******* block. this voice is always falling deaf.