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Poetry
She played the way my New York apartment sounded,
if I had one and she were mine.
It has been so long I'm forgetting about
what it was like and how it felt
the memory of touch becoming a fantasy of unreality
a dream that once could have been
but never was or will be again
But then there are times when my palm
becomes a velvet vision of a long past situation
imagined in the once upon a time
and my brain explodes in colors and sensations
feelings emote noises,
moanings of pleasure
and blessings of Namaste
my head falls and my eyes roll
into a warm bath of liquid ecstasy
until the electric tsunami explodes
as lighting brought down
from my brain stem to my pelvis
I loose and release everything and all that I am
in a thick tide of expletives
culminating in grace and death
then lay back, exhausted and spent
a fresh open wound
exposed to the elements
REVOLUTION
It’s come full circle,
another shot fired around the sun.
Three hundred sixty five degrees,
the circumference of time
five more than a circle.
Is this a coincidence?
12 months
doubled to twenty four hours,
equal to one day,
one year,
one moment in the vast expanse
of time’s tribulation
and life’s romance.
I am flying a rock through the galaxy,
an aged Spaceman Spiff
dictating the days of my life in time.
Tick ticking in the background,
winking at me through heartbeats.
Steering my rudder through dark matter
leaving a rainbow wake
of Milky Way glitter
reflecting in cosmic star shine.
Just one day,
since my first day,
today…
my birthday.
FOR THE MISSED AND MISSREMBERED
What would you say if you knew,
this was the last time you would see someone
or be in their presence?
Would you tell them of the hate,
of the envy,
the jealousy
or any of the seven deadly,
how you feel about,
or how they made you feel about
everything you went through,
over-up-and-down
and left you feeling how you are right now?
Would you tell them of the love,
of the longing ache,
or any of the hopeful blessings
never confided or fulfilled?
Roads less traveled,
never taken,
swimming in waters of regret
and contemplation,
with possibilities always wanted,
but never attempted,
now left abandoned
when their leave is taken,
and you part…
this one last time.
Will you say wait and see,
stay and believe,
drop to your knees
and speak of hope,
understanding,
forgiveness?
Reminisce on first meetings
and dreams of a future,
leading to this,
an unknown farewell
steeped in a lost goodbye.
The hopeful words,
imagined or spoken,
in the aftermath of knowledge
at the passing of one,
coupled with coulda shoulda regrets,
unfulfilled,
in the black empty void of the ether.
Questions asked now
will remain…
unanswered,
as true loss is something
never to be found,
ever again.
As much as I have learned
I continue to understand
I and we really know so little
as to be nothing.
Nothing about the important things,
nothing answering the real questions
and conundrums
that plague us daily.
We are slaves to our emotions
and intentions
and justifications,
current needs and wants
and damn everything else,
come what may.
Who are we really,
and don’t answer,
because you’re wrong.
I’m wrong.
And they are wrong,
especially if they say they are right,
then they are really wrong.
The fact is,
we can’t figure it out,
and maybe
we are not supposed to.
The beautiful empty
meaninglessness of it all
is becoming clearer.
Age isn’t wisdom,
age is just age
and age sucks
and it is not exactly wasted on the young.
I have learned one thing
that some of you might understand,
you will never know how invincible you were,
until the day you realize you are not.
Tenderizing the Madness
Bukowski iterated in a way
the common man could appreciate,
while Schafer helped me understand
all the crying and fighting and living and dying.
Bowman mirrored my heart,
stole my love, then took up my curse,
in the Twilight Zone.
Smallwood made majestic patrols of prose
with world words of liberal liberty.
Arnold was a silver haired diamond
setting in a brilliant prose and poem,
beside Dixon, my nemesis
who could win a Pulitzer
if his dick ever got out of his way.
Williams showed me the power
possibilities of words loaded like munitions
shot from the mouth delivered as fat man
and little boy’s nuclear destruction
while Wood thundered from the heavens
as the voice of God,
a black light king of inspiration
causing frustration jealousy and worship
with a stick of gum.
Grammar was my guru
sitting on a mountaintop in space
Takamasa in rags with a piece pipe
pontificating in smoke.
But Matchek was the catalyst
who changed this path of life
a Chicagoan’s snarl in a pulp fiction suit
demanding I write it all down,
and call it poetry.
They are none of them Shakespeare
and here they remain beside Buckley
lords all, greater and lesser gods by right
bolstering me to heights beyond my sight
the fire beneath my leather
a mulatto archangel, sky born and raw
an angry slave to the literary madness
in a fire started by the Kingfisher.
And to the two stooge influencers
who arrived before my awakening.
Rollins and Lewis
I bow my dome and tip my cover.
Rollins pontificated for three hours
a lecture on life with a quiz at the end
while Lewis spoke on the back porch
backed up by the Celestial Navigations.
My arrival here is thanks to you all
for I am just a conduit
an amalgam of your influence
stealing the way Jarmusch told me to
with my eyes on the sky
hoping to rise.
Top of the world dad.
Telling True
I want to tell my story.
The original nothing special beginnings of abuse
and the brutal betrayals of adolescence.
The friends that came, the ones who went.
The titillating discovery of sexual electricity
and butterflying effects of first connections with another.
I want to speak my truth.
The longing want of wishful hopes,
the dreams that became reality
and the others that became nothing
but a shimmering trail of priceless breadcrumbs
winking like crushed diamonds beneath my feet.
I want to know and be
standing at the summit of a goal reached
the knowledge of absolutes,
that I can achieve anything I choose
and the intimate crushing fear of
creating nothing of meaning, ever again.
I want to preach,
my eyes filled with the waters of emotion
overflowing,
dancing in electric moments
that won’t allow me to stand still.
I want to live in the space
between Hosanna and Yahweh
run, feel the wind whistling
by my own propulsion of adrenaline juice
pumping acid through my body suit.
I want to scream until it’s all out,
the determination, happiness and frustration
until my throat is a jar of broken pipes and chords
and my voice can only be displayed in actions.
I want to be locked in every moment
held frozen in a swirl of time’s neverending foreverness
with my fellow comrades on this voyage
tipping hats and clinking bottles
as we tell tales, tall drunken and long.
Today we speak the truth of fables
creating legends
born of tomorrow’s realities
to future generations who will one day
stand at the summit,
with tears ready to spill
and preach their own contributions
to the verse.
Bestiality
It was all flat
satin black
tinted windows
and gunmetal trim.
born in the fifty’s with a new lease
when the century turned,
it sounded angry...
it was very angry all the time.
It's grille shone
all teeth in black chrome
smiling and chewing
everything in its path.
and yes... it did own
the whole fucking road!
its favorite movie was Christine
though i know it hated the ending.
its favorite speed was 90
but when the cops started chasing
it became frightening.
I never knew its real name,
it never told me,
but I called it Victor
when it was mine.
