October 28, 2014

why spanking mattered...

‘The Moon’s Rapture’ Frank Frazetta ©

bending goddess nodes

lustfully drunk
with oscillations
chaos algorithm
pulsed furious
she laughs
loosens moorings

this late October sky 
points water’s cling 
to the tiny exhales
broad leaf trees
still hunt sunlight
with her reflection

phenol grace ordinal
seasons leave
trace elements
in the tannin

rust is
her base note decay
she captures souls
flourishes by stealing
the slowest of fires

there was
in her beauty
in her subtlety
in her wielded velvet
this relaxed me
an assassin melody
it arrested assured
bloom counting
let go(s) and
turns back

she wore bare skin streetlight
yellow serenade lace
architectural grain 
the scent of open windows
a reign of woods between houses

we turned our phones off
letting frenzy have no safe word
the marks, with the desert cold
of Winter veining in
could be covered with clothing
until they smoothed over

the memories, however
were all our limbs we sacrificed
standing for algebra and symphony
staining the raw parts we ate
humming guttural sounds
knowing exactly what
caught soul smelled like


October 26, 2014

rip van winkling...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

 what clouds said to humans in trees

(October 26th. 2 am
a thunderstorm
courier future
comes to pass)

we watched you
eat spent shells
young oak and maple
big leaves
full of rust, reprieves

we saw
your congregants
pan for life here
at our clay bottomed
rain ancient tongue
and groove palaces

we counted
your bend
silhouette rituals
into seasons

the erratics
presided over
the grass, loam
and limestone

we knew
you felt
the Sun
to Earth
a compass light
your luck
need be

we say
you find 
all the ways
we bring
the Moon


October 22, 2014

I've fallen and I can't get up...

The Agony in the Garden, by William Blake c. 1799-1800

I was caught pawning agony for ecstasy

part 1 (setting the tone)

beach-combing debris fields for any sign 
of fuck you being my name

churches in America are 
still wish-death-ing liberties and keys 
despite the separate identities 
the same body assumes 
when mood and Moon are 
fancied algorithmic tools
engaging the blinders

the conservatives on tv are constrict-a-tives
the liberals are banker strung Pollyanna(s)

we are all temporary
seasonally curled scattered leaves
lawn carcasses for sale in a park
we are available to fill with an empty sort of nostalgia…

yes this was once a pioneering land
where demanding greed be the creed 
we bleed from whatever it is we feed 
with the lies we’re indoctrinated as children
to believe in

a leaf is a seeded reach that once in awhile shimmers 
a fall from grace perched then lurched back to earth…
a swan tide of maple oak ash chestnut and elm...

I color my world to cut roots with fire and sex...

when ignorance is bliss I can steal whatever I want from you

part 2 (cutting into bone)

bloody tires and thrown open sashes 
I watch who dashes away from the wrecks 
I’ve created by rigging the stoplight
I tell you everything but what you need to know
because knowledge is towed away
the theft is always going to be borrowed 
and never gained

informing any of you
is but a glam circus come on a thon
listening to me is a mistake
you will wake the next morning 
in someone else's clothes

your voice will have 
an entirely different taste 
of expressing the exhales

you will be play acting and stretching 
the audible parts of your soul
you will parse and piece the hard creases 
meant for easy packaging
you will distribute, attribute wisdom 
to painful experiences…
you will ask why…
you will come to find it is because 
you think beauty lurks beneath 
the surfactant scars…

we are teeming cellular metropolises 
breeding devoured excesses
we are a dress code honor guard 
a flora bacteria culture

we are the petri dishes
on every block by block
our souls in hock
do you lock everyone out
as I do to find what crumbles
outside the light of love
what do you look for in the dark

I look for
what I might have been
what I am now
what once was
part eager
part mechanical
part organ dependent
part of something
greater than anything
imagination might have
remembered was important
enough to never need words


October 19, 2014

go heavy on the eye-liner, catch them beneath a wrought iron flickering gas lamp corner...

‘The Triumph of Death’  Pieter Bruegel The Elder c. 1562

 throwing in the towel to catch the bleeding
( this is how we earn a living )

the main event today
was kidney theft
and straw poll
pie making

we used ladders
as scary walkways
racing over old brick
and brownstone buildings
looking to hook bankbook
answers and prey

you carry the surgical kit
I train the muscles with ice
we’ll plan for subterfuge
something to go wrong
we’ll improvise positions
on our moral grey areas

places where
smoke and haze
linger a bit
more insistently

tonight is cool
an October damp
our fates are
stamped and matted
slickened with fallen

we're being silent
when the night
is full of hungry vespers
and cupped mouths
it gives us
a fortunate rise

we lie somewhere
between a purr
and a growl
stealthy patience
rewards us howled

use your lips
touch purse
timpani vibratos
ply them against
reach skin surprise
lure lull writhe ecstasy
victim lost when we begin

the sudden gas
leapt from behind
then my scalpel
pain freeing past
painted dreams
knock out soft jobs
kneeling out of way
of windows
this back alley tryst
your final kiss now
you’ve gone toe curling
to toe tagged
a corner being
counted out

so no matter
what the daily
afflictive whisper 
we carry 
to view heaven is
there will always be
another rich person
with late onset diabetes
and high blood pressure
willing to pay a fix
to their undercard

the mission
most life
knows death
is not proud
when hungry


October 15, 2014

let the culling begin...

Painting by Melchior d'Hondecoeter circa 1680

the weekend was seeking balance and disorder

(“the white zone is for loading and unloading only…” Frank Zappa)

birds of prey, birth vector influenzas, autoimmune protocol breakdowns, hemorrhagic fevers and barnyard pop stardom

the rail car cages were for remnant ideologues who might not be afraid enough of the myriad agent population controls loosened upon the teeming bourgeon of the serviced post-industrial society

the luckless pedestrians, we were arresting and amassing here, waiting for processing and pornographic manipulation, on the way to middle of nowhere America…the rest you were already eyes wide awake and sleeping with the enterprising shut ins, loners and hermits, watching too much television…

books were banned not too long after the ebola riots of 2019…who needed the truth to ever get in the way of orderly conduction of a warrant-less world bent on keeping you safe from you…

we knew conversation needed to come back in fashion

over coffee or some other intoxicating drink

modernity loves getting high on the past

there was a waffle house a few miles down the road

we knew some of us were never going to be sated until permanently out of breath

we decided to stage the cockfights in the back behind the tack house/ stuffing motion-sensor vibrator affixed squirrel tails into the asses of the pretty panty less girls we often used to sell the trinkets, drinks and other imbibes/ every weekend we would make a killing from killing/it was a news cycle variant and only part of the viscous underground’s need to bleed out what is and isn’t accepted for public consumption/ and whether it be our souls or the holes in the pockets of Friday night denizen carnival masks, we are always burning with a desire to spend everything on escaping, from and to, here…

Monday was a lifetime away and right now was swept up in a feeling of pure thrill and dirty causes/ naughty eyes and the reach of fingers for more of what the ever bleeding world of vices, sacrifices and the devices spawned between them, have to offer us in the forms of salvation, salience or solvency…


October 12, 2014

art and archery...

photo by David Benedict ©

her poem knew this song too…

an object fell from heaven
a fiery light, entropy
dark matter and energy
woven unseen womb seas
long count calendars
wave after wave it came

you go, she said
I go for unclean

I went as long
as she afforded me
safety, dangers
comforts and thrills

her undertow and humanity
wore levees and fantasies
flooded and fortified
she said I play 
burning free

one of her garter clips
snaps loose silk thin scented
with flowers and iron

she moves slow, at first
forged to magnetic poles
tide-currents and clouds
begin to swim
the aromatic decays
and back for air again

specialty shops
drive eyeless desires

what my nose says
is pull her closer
reach with vigor
my right hand
‘tween her legs
single handed origami
spelling shapes
and mythologies  
of please

I cast curling
further in
she says
yes, more

my left arm swings
over her shoulder
cupping a breast
I play maestro
as both hands circle
a counterclockwise
to clockwise done
conducting spun
wet clay waiting
the wheel says
turn time into chance
after chance

I bite down on a spot
where her neck demands
my attention with
a bent leg discipline of cranes
wading the mist for more frogs
in the wee unfurling whispers
of morning, nearing

she murmurs and moans
lifting low mumbles
in the dark room
she says this is my poem

“ play my concertina,
you will find
this kind of love
always knows to recite me”

“tonight”, she says

“excite me
the orbit whorled
whirled world
inside me
make me beg
make me dance
cover me in falling ash
and dead skin”

her painted nails
became candle flicker people
staging every cycle
of water’s surrender
and clenched cotton midnight
onto the walls
to begin the stanza…

“inside every part of me”,
she says, “is quiet ritual time,
molecular diaphragm-soul
bellowing snakes and eggs,
archaeology and starlight,
every single one sings a verse
each of them say carry nothing
you can’t come in heaven with”

she quiets
no words

she repeats
a breathless
as her chorus

she assigns
my back
a bleeding map
where tomorrow says, 
"I’ll call you
to return to
treasure hunting
front and rear
side to side
head to toe
little binds and
the rinds you’ve left
spent on the nightstand"

this is my land of let go
where I bow to grace
with what undresses me
still stained with
her yesterday poem