We're very much alike.

Poetry is our inspiration,
we were born writers.
People call us BBQ sauce snobs
wine connoisseurs
and brothers.

But he likes to dance
at night--
in the headlights
when the air pierces the skin.
His deep dark pockets
are an oblivion of cigarettes
and full minis of Jack.
Remind's me of Harpo.

He walks like a snake slithers--
body swaying
and a gleaming mischievous twinkle
in his eye.

We both enjoy crisp, autumn days,
but he prefers them cloudy--
dark.
He says it brings out the color
in the reds and orange leaves jumping off the trees to twist in the breeze.
Listening to stand-up is our solace,
though he says Hicks is god.
I say Carlin

His shadow reminds me of a demon--
the long lost son of Medusa.  

He's not afraid to say what he thinks,
cause he knows he's right.
Sometimes I believe him--
he speaks with such nonchalant confidence.
There's always a needle on his words
swiftly flitting and flickering
like a flame he's flicking off his tongue.
And if his words hurt breaking the skin?
"Don't be such a *****" he'll snarl
before turning the charm back on
with a giggle and ironic wink.

He likes to collect
the faults in others
cause his thinks his **** don't stink.
He keeps reminding me of mine.
He enjoys needling
people.

We've known each other
for a long while.
Seems like longer....
but that's cause my roommate is me.

The grass is covered,

with
many mini mushrooms,

tiny umbrellas.

After twenty years, as cursed as I may be
for having learned computerese,
I continue to examine bits, bytes and words
and insure that I'm one of those computer nerds.

Program design, source code and compile
followed by walk-throughs that place me on trial.
There's lots of testing - a means to an end
in hopes of avoiding future production abends.

There are micros, minis and mainframe hardware
which are made to work with in-house and vendor software.
Provided are many platforms for everyone to use
and assure misinformation in data's abuse.



Author Note:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

Flabs upon *****
of excessive skin
flock towards the sands
to soak up the rays of
the day light hours
and delude themselves
in the roped off
safety zone waters
of the seashore.
Benched from lack of participation,
sober and observant,
you can't help but overhear
a conversation about the salty tastes
and textures of boys *******
between four teenage girls
who look like they just entered
the early stages of middle school
and should not know anything,
at that age,
about that topic of discussion.
Seagulls slowly glide overhead
waiting for the perfect moment
to bomb white droppings in the
******* mouths of the hodads
and steal their bacon while they
quickly scurry off and guffaw
on the inside.
Young ladies *****
hang proudly out of their
skimpy bathing suits and stare
into the sunken eyes of perverse old men. Socks and sandals roam the shores
like tyrants to detect metals
in the sand with their hiked up baggies, buttoned up blue Hawaiians
and fisherman hats.
They'll find god before
they find these treasures.
Unsupervised children puke peaches
and use plastic shovels
to pour buckets of sand
down the backs and cracks of rubbernecks with discourtesy and no remorse.
Adults shaded, relaxed and
nose deep in books
leave the responsibilities
of their parental duties
with inexperienced lifeguards
to babysit their youngsters
while they doggie paddle
and submerge in the undertow
along the waves of the oceanside.
Concession stands serve
delicious yet unhealthy,
deep fried grotesque of
appetizers and entrees
to the potbellied roly-poleys
as they wash it all down
with a fountain of syrup
and carbonation.
Bare footed beefy **** diesels
and their skinny minis
walk hand and hand
over the broken beer bottles
and sharp rocks buried in the sand,
unscathed and luxuriate
in teenage love
and summer fun.
Dorks and dweebs
play sand sphere
with bunnies and honeys
while Gremlins and grommets
hunch like Quasimodo
on their surfboards
and ride the ankle busters
and pounders til the end
as they hit the bone yard
at point break.
The sun shines down on all of us
leaving that warmth and radiant glow
as you watch the mythical creatures
and sea serpent shaped clouds
slowly overpass.
What a lovely day at the beach.

Oh, sacred cloth, soft gateway
to heavenly ends, moist
by the pink lips, guarding
holy realms between
thighs and hips, always
tempting behind trousers
and minis of smart lasses,
repository of smells, naughty
behind the ***-crack:
to behold you, to touch you
to smell you, to taste you,
is indeed my salvation!

Ahem, as if anyone wanted to know my preference in clothing...



(sonnet #MMMLXXXVII)


My minis lend that sweetly girlish stance,
When in a coat and calf-high boots rays set
Me down as casting my grey silhouette
Upon the Maple's trunk in sunset's glance
Adieu.  I did not search it out, but chance
Sketched me and caught mine eye, to vainly whet
That barely veiled thought's appetite and net
The happy pleasure thence, as I'd nigh prance.
Perhaps the stylists meant another look
In that cute popular design; I do
It no disservice thereby though, but took
A far more flirty angle thus as through
The fair suggestion adding zest.  Hence brook
My crime if such there be?  'Sides, I love you.

01Dec13a

You disgust me,
                     With your floral patterned minis.
I despise you,
                     With your double pierced nose.
What’re you wearing?
                     That’s a shirt, not a dress.
You’re just inviting,
                     With your neon colored tights.
It’s easy access.

Give those minis a twirl
Lashes a curl,
Tambourine girl
In the back
Shimmer curtain, spotlight slack
All eyes are on you
One of the cities better views,
They say
What are you drowning?
You sat up silent
So he stood up and went
Quicksand with a layer of gold on top
Like the cymbals you clap
Against your hip, hop
He will be your drummer
Belle stunner

Fire and Ice

Leather and Lace

Be one or the other

But do it with grace

Long skirts or minis

Sinner or saint

Just be who you are

Don't be who you ain't

There is no real reason

To put on a mask

Just think who you're hiding

There's no need to ask

They say there's a heaven

And there's also a hell

It's your choice where you're going

But, you never can tell

Are you buyer or seller

Are you leading the way

Are you one who's a worker

Or one who just plays?

Wearing high heels or sneakers

Stocking or socks

Are you dressed up all mousey

Or dressed like a fox

Leather and Lace

Sinner or Saint

Be just who you are

Don't be who you ain't

There's pressure around you

To change who you are

Is it worth all the trouble

For, you've made it this far

Your road's not determined

You choose the fork you should take

No devil or angel

It's your decision to make

But, whichever direction

You should choose to make yours

Don't burn all your bridges

Or close all your doors

The road is a circle

You can change it in time

But it's your choice to change it

Not hers, his or mine

The world is just waiting

It's there waiting for you

It's not just for men

It's a woman's world too

So, devil or angel

Sinner or saint

Just be who you are

Don't be who you ain't !!!!
..

Finality.
Finnish girls in micro minis
dance
prance kind of
jiggle across the
stage
sweet sixteen Swedes
rub their ***** in their
hypothetical fathers
faces
chicks freshly hatched
still slimy and warm
from the womb
wrap their
maternal gifts
and parts
on poles hiding behind
what small articles
are left on
their pale pink
bodies.

Downing my
scotch,
waving over a fresh
one.
Finally
alone
in a room filled familiarly
with sadness and sweat
men’s pupils enlarge
in the smoke screened
darkness.
I hide
behind the dignity
I don’t have left
over
a feeling spreads
through each cell
membrane to sedate
and mirror
the faces of girls
on stage
who have resigned.
Similarly,
I fired
myself from this
position. “Sorry,”
I mutter into the spaces
in between the
scotch and the rocks,

“It’s just not working out.”
Mentally, I empty
what remains inside into a
small cardboard box
wrap
my arms around
my drunken insides
and stand
shameful like
a guilty dog.

My back is turning
to mirror girls’
stony eyed solitude,
Tiny Finnish dancers
finish up their act
as I, reaching the door,
walk out.

i kept watching a few poetry reading videos
on the internet, and it scared me...
analogue after analogue...
          scared and angry poets shouting
and not one singing...
                                             oh man... they're
shouting, i'm blaming Ginsberg for this...
me? i'm the sort of man that sits up at night
waiting for his doctor to call him from
8 a.m. onward (time-frame? not designated)
                   while watching 1988's rain man
as the incompetent exaggeration of autism
thinking back to a poem about three
tiers of phonetic encoding
                                     and how that sorta relates
to how this autistic guy sees toothpicks
in clear number or how these geniuses
              of so called mathematical Olympics
are good at what they're good at, i.e.
    98723 + 2361 = ?
                                       like i am saying:
that's the key, a + b + s + i + n + t + h + e =
                  a good time... esp. if you have (cubed) sugar
and water to dilute the **** fairy into
                green milk... oh yeah,
this local guy sells the Hapsburg absinthe:
       £40 for less than 70cl... but at 95%... well you know...
    a soloist couldn't do better... but you need
    sugar cubes... got the spoon... only once
   in a blue moon...
                              but i'm serious
though... they can do numbers in the tip of their
little finger... but putting a and b together
        akin to something corresponding to their
genius with numbers? ask them about the concept
of money... well... that's me talking
about rain man...
                                     in the meantime i'm finishing
off my bottle of whiskey, at 6:33 a.m. it's
a dreary day, and i feel dreary tired,
            but on boy scout's honour... till the doctor calls
i'm sober...
                                         oh sure,
haven't seen a doctor in over a year...
                                       you can't these days,
you get cures over the phone...
                             and all they end up prescribing you
over here is paracetamol...
                        maybe that's better than with big pharma
in America...
                                lucky me, sleeping pills ******...
            but after rain man i got into watching
these poetry videos...
                              so much shouting:
rain man could be heard alongside having a seizure...
                   i just heard the same person
but in a different body... i thought i was hallucinating
for a while... and it came with the crescendo of
the mishap of weight v. mass and the Neil Armstrong
curse                     of yummy ivory plums
                            with a banjo accent... twang!
   babes are jaw-dropping-show-stoppers...
            they talk ******* like a plumber talks toilet...
               twang!                   and so hot with that
femininity                  bedroom politics
                                  straightened up -
           could be called evolutionary too...
                                    huh?
        you want my voice?                 i can give
you the encoding... but beyond this writing? pay up.
                        but yeah...
re-watching rain man was cool...
                             those poetry recitation videos though,
slams? yeah, slams they call them...
                              i dunno... maybe i'm too tired
and my senses are a bit dimmed...
                                 maybe sitting through
the sunset (English earl grey)
                       and now sitting through the sunrise
(English early grey)                   i'm feeling ******
and cactus like...
                                 or maybe i had that
moment of revelation: i'm a woman! and i'll
***** for all i care! burn the bras! burn the minis!
burn the thongs!
                                 dunno...
              drank the whiskey, smoked the cigarette,
ate a slice of pizza... waited and blinked from time to time
looking for uptight urban dwellers like
                a typical village idiot full of local mystery.

My love affair with language is ending.
===
How odd that the lonely are the hardest to spend time with.
===
Summer! Summer is here!
The one I love is leaving
It is a good thing
My thoughts can at last be free.