"fresno" poems
My book shook and look!
A crook which is sure to hook
onto some **** which doth
hang out randomly
like a dress out your car door.
I am shy with my
high and dry status
the why? I am not sure
But I vie and cry and
Lie and try to
Do more.
This will kiss the
Enterance pages of its
inspiration: Bliss.
Titled, this **** and griss miss
Priss diss this list and hiss
Like snakely Chris
Who is in Fresno
Hiss.
Hiss.
Kiss.
This is my bliss....
BLISS POEM I.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
the ville was just women,
old men, young children--mostly gaunt ghosts
before my platoon arrived with our own dead
men walking
I gave the order to burn the village,
rout its dazed denizens and grease any
who offered resistance
only one woman did, clawing
at my boys like a crazed cat, going after Freddie
from Fresno with a bamboo stalk
I don't know who shot her
but I remember standing over her
with Freddie and Mickey from Milwaukee
who stepped on a mine within the hour
Freddie bought it too, but not until
that night, when small arms fire from the jungle
woke us from our dread dreams
the apparitions that haunted our heads
whenever we spilled the blood of innocents
or even the red devils' kin--perhaps
an equivalent sin
the next day we ****** back
to base camp, a twelve click hike;
as hours passed, and the earth dried,
our shadows became sharper, darkening
reminders we could run
but never hide
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
My book shook and look!
A crook which is sure to hook
onto some **** which doth
hang out randomly
like a dress out your car door.
I am shy with my
high and dry status
the why? I am not sure
But I vie and cry and
Lie and try to
Do more.
This will kiss the
Enterance pages of its
inspiration: Bliss.
Titled, this **** and griss miss
Priss diss this list and hiss
Like snakely Chris
Who is in Fresno
Hiss.
Hiss.
Kiss.
This is my bliss....
BLISS POEM I.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
Check the perstat
Rhyming attack
Mystery solver Kojack
Jump up
Watch you get slapped back
Welcome to my terror dome
So don't get caught roaming
Alone
Stats like Jordan Clout like Jackson
Ask any ?
They know I'm.packing
More heat than the Sahara Desert
The rap grand wizard
Rhymes chillin' as a blizzard
Ya ain't worth a single
**** ya pops should have pulled out early
Ya must been born prematurely
I can tell by the scent of ya perfume
Its the ***** in you common sense
I see you getting intense
Ya furious got ya delirious
Ya wanna be us but ya can't trust
I bust more raps than shots
In a western
classic asiatic dramatic
Cause static like Dinero
Put that on my nino
Got gangsters who hang in Fresno
Califas
Got the baddest chickas
Rukas killers to drug dealers
Who roll blackwoods and drive benzo
High dollar rolls
1000s of cnotes the black Shappiro
Keep ya marked like Zorro
One luv to my barrio
Break bricks like Mario Luigi
Who can see me?
If I'm always ghost ya Mary I'm.scary
Say my name three times
I bust more rounds than ***** Harry
Cemetery
Is where many flaks rest on try a be the Don
I'm the true reigning champion
Don't rock timbs know the ledge like rakim
I turn crowds helter skelter
Fear smelt ya
Drop the beat I can rock it
Acapella
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
There was another brother whom history forgets
And though born a fisherman, he preferred other nets.
The coterie of rink rats who lived on the Left Coast
Thought he was sine qua non, and they would often boast
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
His slapper had heat to make a goalie wet himself;
His wrister was money either five-hole or top-shelf.
After the goaltender felt another puck **** by,
He’d curse and bang the crossbar as fans took up the cry
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
He dominated rinks out West like no other man
From Calgary to Saskatoon, Fresno to Spokane.
He’d hat tricks in Winnipeg, six-point games in Moose Jaw
Moving scribes to hackneyed verse written in fits of awe.
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
Though the man was a fine skater, strong, agile and fleet
The slightest flaw in the ice caused anguish to his feet
And he would scold arena crews—*What’d you call this mush?
‘Tis nothing but chips and ruts; I’d rather skate on slush!*
(More prickly than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gio.)
After one match in Oakland on ice unduly rough
He stormed into the locker room, shouting ‘Nuff’s enough!
He didn’t change his sweater as he stormed out the door,
Hopping on a trolley car, to be seen never more
(He’s a bit loony, don’t you know.
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)
He was sighted in the Yukon, once or perhaps twice
Engaged in some mad mission to find the perfect ice.
Neither man nor beast can say what became of this fool,
Though bits of skate lace appear in petrified bear stool
(Tastes better than his brother Joe?
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
the entire platoon, lost
even Leroy--all said he had the “shield”
in this field, he must have let it down
all six foot four of him, on the ground
beside him, Tony from Brooklyn
Fresno Frankie, all
the lieutenant, in motionless repose
his head resting on Leroy's ribs, his short blond hair crimson
from the base of his skull to his ears, color courtesy
of Leroy’s grated gut
not one sound
why had they not bayoneted him
with the others....he saw one standing over him, leaning
down with his AK-47, moving as slowly as the minute hand
on a giant black clock
where was the sun
after all these hours among the dead
hadn't the earth turned, or did it spin into a sky
where Helios had vanished, superfluous now
on this lifeless plain
still, in this darkness he saw
one by one, his sleeping brothers awake
yet drenched in blood, arms outstretched,
mute while they drifted upwards
in ribbons of soft, silent light
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
Llueven calladas aguas en vellones
blancos las nubes mudas; pasa el día,
mas no sin majestad, en sombra fría,
y mira el sol, que esconde, en los balcones.
No admiten el invierno corazones
asistidos de ardiente valentía:
que influye la española monarquía
fuerza igualmente en toros y rejones.
El blasón de Jarama, humedecida,
y ardiendo, la ancha frente en torva saña,
en sangre vierte la purpúrea vida.
Y lisonjera al grande rey de España,
la tempestad, en nieve obscurecida,
aplaudió al brazo, al fresno y a la caña.
738
(
(
(
\/
/\
/ \
####
Solitude
In the starlight of this night of Dream
Lovers find
Eachother ------ ( together ! )
In the alley shadows talking with the homeless
••
We rode the freight train from L A. to Fresno
I loved the way she passed the bottle with the Winos
with eyes sparkling with endless love
/////
I KNOW HER !!!
•
I love her sense of integrity
In her decision to remain a ******
Just to avoid foolish jelousies
••
We are
GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY !
Sitting in Central Park eating sandwiches
Watching children on the swings
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
Walking silently down the alley, no thoughts only spite for everything that lives. Gain is a stranger but loss is his close friend, or fiend.
Walking silently down the alley, his weapon, ancient and rusty, grinds against the cold brick wall that creates the alley; The tool is hungry, and does not like to be kept waiting.
Walking silently down the alley, a conscience, twisted black long ago, feels not for whatever moves.
Walking silently down the alley, his hideous bulk is hidden by the night’s surreal shadows, like a blanket wrapped around the fiend by Beelzebub himself.
Walking patiently down the alley, the fiend identifies a late night’s unlucky traveler.
Walking hungrily down the alley, the fiend wraps the blanket closer, preparing to strike.
Walking hastily down the alley, His eyes widen in a sickening blithe, his tool’s feast has come to him.
Running down the alley, the fiend’s prey realizes too late that he is to be fed to the starving tool.
Leaping down the alley, The tool’s curved blade is like a ***** smile, as it buries itself into innocent flesh.
Standing in the alley, The fiend watches as his tool guides his arm back into the flesh again and again like a ravenous beast until it is sated once again
Walking down the alley, The fiend waits until his tool is hungry again.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
I carry freight
interstate
eight
hauling gear.
I fear
noting
nothingness hoarded
the nights on my road.
Carrying a load out in
Fresno,
ok
all of this works if you know
Fresno
and I've seen things here
things that made me fear.
I've seen nothingness in the eyes of a lady, the queen of the maybe and maybe that should have been it, but **** happens and we have to deal with it.
There is
more to the ramblings of gamblers or ex drinkers who foam at the mouth for a beer,
and I've been here
sold my soul for a handful of quaaludes
in a back room with some dudes
I can't even remember.
But I remember the fear when the nothingness lit on my shoulder and you carry yourself even though you get older and the road out to Fresno is the same as the last road which was 4,000 years long,
So it seemed
And Lucy who never knew diamonds at all
only the rough hands of bad men in the crack dens of Harlem
until nothingness steamed in and screamed like a Stuka and you think to yourself
Jeez I am one crazy ******
but you're still on the right side of
Interstate eight,
carrying fear like you carry the freight
hoping that no one will see you .
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
Nubes a la deriva, continentes
sonámbulos, países sin substancia
ni peso, geografías dibujadas
por el sol y borradas por el viento.
Cuatro muros de adobe. Buganvillas:
en sus llamas pacíficas mis ojos
se bañan. Pasa el viento entre alabanzas
de follajes y yerbas de rodillas.
El heliotropo con morados pasos
cruza envuelto en su aroma. Hay un profeta:
el fresno -y un meditabundo: el pino.
El jardín es pequeño, el cielo inmenso.
Verdor sobreviviente en mis escombros:
en mis ojos te miras y te tocas,
te conoces en mí y en mí te piensas,
en mí duras y en mí te desvaneces.
492
Listening to Classical and not feeling tearful, but I've not had an earful yet.
It's usually later than I think when I don't think that it's late,
but when it's midnight in Fresno or Cairo and bed time in Bodmin
you can't count on counting me in.
Still listening to classical and She's casting quizzical looks,
it's like love is a game of chess, castles and Queens, bishops and rooks
more quizzical looks and it's checkmate.
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 3:34 PM UTC