Graceland Cemetary

Before I understood my mortality,
I spent a summer haunting Graceland.
I would roller skate past marble mourners
and picnic on the grass and fed swans.
I raced my 10 speed along the empty paths
having visions of bustled ladies and large families
enjoying their Sunday's rest together, as one.
I am one, as none of my peers will attend with me.
Love of headstones and solitude are mine alone.
I visit monuments and gravesides globally
chatting up the unseen and forgotten.
What am I looking for?

April Morn

Discarded armor litters the fairway
Cacophony of the victors is deafening
The Winter's rule has ended

Sonido

The pozole swirled in the big pot, like rotten teeth in the mortuary sink.
While the pig head lumbered along the bottom emitting greasy fat into the cold water. I stood there, looking watching but not really. Standing in my old house coat, cooking for a bastard. I was making pozole, since it was the best hangover cure on Sundays. I would spend my Saturday evening cooking your pozole, mixing masa and water for fresh tortillas that I would start cooking in the dawn. The dawn when you would stroll in, smelling of you, beer and perfume. Humming and singing wrapping your loose arms around my ample frame telling me to dance with you. Nuzzling my neck and grinning at the tortillas. I motion to the table where the growing pile is napping in its tea towel, steaming and dreaming. You straddle a chair, pop open a cold beer and methodically start consuming my nights work. You are still talking of who danced to what, who was with who and who hit who. I turn back to the pozole and inhale the rich fragrant stem laced with chili and pork. I am reminded of when I would go with you to the taqueria at dawn for pozole and beer. My feet swollen in my heels and my hair mussed from sweat and salsa. Resigned to my lot I dish out two bowls and sit with you; my Sonido

Cursed Pete

I don't own a ship
or have a home
I'm a shiftless rouge
pirate destined to roam
The only woman I
need is me rum
I'll wont stop looting
till the noose rope hum

This here be a story
bout me mate
A good soul and sailor
yet death be his fate
Peter Williams was
his given name
Ere be Cursed Pete
he was in he fame

He lost a thumb
in the battle of Wyght
He caught the scabs
a nasty plight
A witch doctor cure
caused his toes to fall off
and there be more
so don't you scoff

It wasn't the maladies that
was his demise
Be the spitfire whore
and her silken thighs
Her master caught Pete
nibbling on her peach
and split him across
his torsos reach

So raise ye flagon
to poor ole Pete
And hope ye never
drink in defeat

Cursed Pete

I don't own a ship
or have a home
I'm a shiftless rouge
pirate destined to roam
The only woman I
need is me rum
I'll wont stop looting
till the noose rope hum

This here be a story
bout me mate
A good soul and sailor
yet death be his fate
Peter Williams was
his given name
Ere be Cursed Pete
he was in he fame

He lost a thumb
in the battle of Wyght
He caught the scabs
a nasty plight
A witch doctor cure
caused his toes to fall off
and there be more
so don't you scoff

It wasn't the maladies that
was his demise
Be the spitfire whore
and her silken thighs
Her master caught Pete
nibbling on her peach
and split him across
his torsos reach

So raise ye flagon
to poor ole Pete
And hope ye never
drink in defeat

There is a flume in my heart

There is a flume in my heart.
A deep channel lives there
where flotsam floats idly
along my emotions fair.

There is a flume in my heart.
A manmade rut in which
I continue to sail along
the gap no needle may stitch.

There is a flume in my heart.
A gorge where you may slip
if your footing or reason unsure
upon my bitter tears that drip.

There is a flume in my heart.
A stream of love which founts
down towards your gravity
from where my flume it spouts

Guitar Hero

The guitar hero awaits the battle,
his stance wide, shoulders back
chin up, as he gazes levelly
at the mounted flat screen.

He grasps the red flame
emblazoned axe awaiting
his opening cue to start
grinding notes and riffs.

His cold blue eyes are fixed
upon the prism like screen
as his fingers twiddle with
the chrome whammy bar.

Tossing a white blonde forelock ,
with an aristocratic air, he glances
back once at us, a smirk plays
across his pre-pubescent pout

He shifts into warrior stance
a serious face ready to take
on Motorhead, Ace of Spades
a beat to be conquered.

A cracked voice belts out
"Ace of Spades", a tongue
trapped into between pursed
lips as he sways to his internal
warrior, dancing with victory.

His future man hands fly
across the axe neck pushing
colored buttons with frenetic
energy and chaotic purpose.

The infidels of the holy x-box
watch in awe not comprehending
the synapse sequences required
of such an accomplished Hero.

He sails through the final solo
with a flourish and a genteel bow.

more oranges

more oranges

Old cheese rinds in the shop window
Root vegetables full of carotene
Arterial spray splots on a crime scene
Not a single pirate flag
Gnawed on candy corn middles
Everlasting gobstoppers layer 62
St. Josephs baby aspirin

Being Sick Sucks

Being Sick Sucks

---

The Titans are at it again.

Cronus is electrifying my bowels.

trying to shock Gaea who has set

up shop in my stomach. She has

sent her troops pillaging my ball

joints, in search of the elusive

Prometheus (who is sheltered by

my sacroiliac). Atlas rains curses

upon them, from high atop my

temple. Their epic battle lays

my mortal frame a wasteland.

I pray for the deities of Mount

Olympus to intervene.

Big Cat, Big City

Big Cat, Big city

What happened big cat?
Lose you way
or perhaps we've lost ours.

Didn't we once worship your sort?
Admired your ferocity and instinct
But we forgot today

Today it was our mortality
our vulnerability that won
the battle in the back alley



This is inspired by this event

Uranus

Uranus


Dust motes over your angry brow.
I try to focus on your parables of Mars Vs Venus.

It's your Uranus I dwell upon
or rather the succulent moon that surrounds it.

Two globes, under your boxers seducing my gaze,
when you are pacing, lecturing

I must act my part, to travel to your moon
But I have lost the thread
of your anger, my desire and us.

Friday nights at the Manhole

Friday nights at the Manhole

A kiss
A shared moment
Of masculine rough trade.
Hard bodies against harder groins
Afternoon stubble sparks evening fireworks.
The bear and cub leave together
Stale cologne, sweat and musk
Goodbye at dawn
A kiss

White Lines

White Lines

---

I see white lines streak across the blue sky.
I am reminded of lines of nose candy,
we snorted off the Galaga video game screen.
The jets sweep around behind the etchings,
My eyes trying to track them while,
inhaling star powder into my Temple.
Light shoots out of my orifices,
I am a god, a superhero faster then light.
I soar past the atmosphere,
up high, so high.
I tumble to Earth,
broken, battered and used.
I hold up my 90 days token,
to block out the sky
and my desires for loft aspirations.

Soda Jerk

Soda Jerk

---

The death rattle of a bendy straw

echoes off chrome and red tile.

I am alone with carbon copy memories

in a mirage of “simpler” times.

Bullshit.

Miscommunication between couples is timeless,

a classic that will never go out of style.

I twirl my tongue around the cherry stem.

Wondering

Do you even care that I left?

Are you out walking, looking for me?

Or have I finally taken it too far, today.

Wallowing

Saline blessed napkins are my monolith to reason,

for storming out.

A deep sigh, glance at my time piece

It is time for fate to play her part,

Be it ice cream sodas or

Reconciliation.

We are Siamese

This is done as a luc bat. It was inspired by this recent event.


We are Siamese


The mantra in the dark

“A new life for us, no mark of shame.”

Tightly packed they came

And who shall bear the blame, I ask?

The man who took the task,

Or the government mask they wear?

Does the Thai man care

of the Burmese who dare, want life?

Free of pain, death and strife.

A country that is rife with pain

All for the corrupt gain

And yet their lives they drain, just marc

Open Bar

Been ill for 3 days with flu so unable to write let alone post but will make up for lost time

Open Bar

You stride with purpose,

Through the crowded hall.



Your easy gait, arms a swinging

Attracts sideways glances



Deaf to the murmurs, desires

Blind to the tracking eyes



You grasp the bar edge

Taut muscles under white cotton



Your legs and torso pivot

Up and over, the mahogany edge



Perfect landing, you look up

With an Olympic grace



Donning your black vest,

You gaze over the gilded crowd.



Eyes lock, a heartbeat passes.

You proclaim.



“Bars Open Folks”

Dream State

DREAM STATE

What do trees dream of, while they sleep?
Is it of lazy days, cloudless sky,
warm breezes rustling new leaves?
Do they feel the far solar flares?

If you have no eyes, is there REM?
What do trees dream of, while they sleep?
Coiled tightly in a dark space
Pushing, pressing against smooth shell

Light, noise and confusion surround
you a small seedling, go up up
What do trees dream of, while they sleep?
Do tiny people cut you down?

Are you alone on a dry plain?
brittle branches twisted, burning
roots dig deep, looking for water
What do trees dream of, while they sleep?

Face Off

FACEOFF

That BITCH!! With out me she is nothing! MIME!!

Who uses mime in poetry? I don’t care what pressure I put on her catered ass.

What she’s too good to follow measure or rhyme. Just because I ALLOWED her a free form style doesn’t mean she doesn’t have to bow down to the man once and a while. Fuck her, I read books, I know words. Any intelligent person can string them together, you’re not special. So go ahead and run off to your Muse shelter, see how much sympathy you get.
Muse Abuse? Puh-lease. Oh and that rhymes with slease!



Wait baby, I didn’t mean it…….come back……





I have reached my limit of that no class, guttersnipe of a poet.

I am not some hired laborer, here to dance when directed.

Go, back to your mud thatched hut, squatting in the grime

popping out mewing illiterate degenerates. I am the Muse

of nobles, aristocrats and gentry. I kowtow to no unpublished

writer, hack!. How dare you, dictate such constraints as rhyme upon

my creative forces. Mime is a perfectly acceptable word and

I take offense at the mere suggestion I was not in my best form.

You are only as good as who you muse for. Expect to be contacted

by my Muse Abuse representative, for the vituperation I have suffered!



As a parting farewell I composed this for thee…



There was a poet from the Midwest.

Who couldn’t write limerick at best.

She pissed of her Muse,

Who then blew a fuse.

Off to Cancun, the Muse went to rest.

Huitain

I am experimenting with different styles. This one is a Huitain
It is really bad, even though it follows the rules of the style.

I have been writing since a girl.

Without form, training or even rhyme,

But NaPo says give it a whirl.

It is not easy and takes some time.

Do I write of trees, blood, a mime?

Wading in, I give it my best.

My attempt is far from sublime.

Tell me crits, do I pass the test?

Tuesday

Tuesday

I greet the sparrows before the sun.
My first of hi, smile and repeat.
A reluctant march forward
Riding the empty EL.
A bustling hive.
No Queen nor King,
only drones
are here.
Work

This is done in the style of a nonet.

youngest critic

youngest critic

My son said my verse had no rhyme.
By which I replied "There isn't time!"
With a sigh and a nod,
he rolled his eyes up to God
and left me to compose my next line.
Of course I couldn't cut it,
when he returned to inspect,
with a smirk on his face
and a snort of disgrace,
he muttered "When is dinner?"

The Garden

The Garden


The delicate membrane beneath her eyes, reminded me of the kale we grew that summer.
We sautéed it with wild onions and smoked bacon, while sipping Viognier.
We spent the days sweating and toiling in the garden.
Our manicured fingers chipped and stained.
Stained of the yellow clay that fought our efforts.
Stained of the beets, we had pickled and canned.
Stained of the French cigarettes we smoked, sipping espresso at dusk.



Her rosary grasped in her pale fingers, is shiny and dark;
like the Aubergine we stuffed with pine nuts, mint and heirloom tomatoes.
We sipped Pinot Noir and supped on a blanket that day.
Our lavender scented limbs where spotted
with mosquito bites and thistle scratches.
We danced barefoot in the strawberry patch and sunned nude with the basil.
She said it was to be her last year of firsts.



Her face is garish in war paint,
covering her sun grown freckles and downy cheeks.
She is hidden in black silk and stiff with rigor.
She is the houses decked in bright twinkle lights and aerial reindeer,
disguising their weathered eaves and rickety railings.
She is the garden; dead and buried.
I am the garden; awaiting the sun.

Chance Meeting

Chance Meeting

Feet pinched into to high stilettos.
My made up dress, made up face, made up smile.
Armed with my little scraps of rectangular identity.
My coin to barter for lunches, meetings, networking.

Clusters of professionals; fakirs of business.
Give introductions, titles and how do you do's.
We fade in and out of clusters,
cycling through prospective new ventures.

Our cocktail smiles are melting offering glimpses
of self that are beginning to peek through.
A spark of our potential compatibility;
glints off the depths of our vodka soaked ice.

Navigating the room, unconsciously together;
the din is growing in volume and speed
The hour has passed into a new workday,
we depart separately, to our individual spaces.

In our realities we steep. Reliving the movements;
the connection with a new body.
Email follow up commences. In ours,
the subject reads: Timing is everything

daffodil

daffodil yellow
chasing away winter sky
ringing in spring

Orange

Orange

You beckon me.
A beacon to my corneas,
a come hither glow

I grasp you firmly.
Your pebbled rind resting comfortably,
in my eager mitt.

Twist and yank.
You are severed from your ancestor,
forever.

Civil graces,
linens and flatware,
for which there is no time.

Your culinary pheromones,
strip me down,
to primitive instincts.

Gouging cracked nails,
into your sun warmed skin.
You attempt to delay

Your pithy resistance,
acidic tears,
only spur on my hunger.

Hastily, I rip you open
Studying your
membranes and segments.

The carnage continues.
You burst upon my palate
curling tongue, pursed lips.

Sunshine fills my sinuses,
my gums burn with
your tart eulogy.

Your remains are litter.
Sticky fingers
reach for your brethren.

gone

gone


I dreamt of oranges last night.
I rolled over,
to tell you of the silly dream,
a smile teasing my lips.



But you are gone.

vicodin

Vicodin

waves of euphoria
crash upon my rocky existence

I am
summer sun,
warm chocolate,
lullabies

you dissipate, leaving
my senses unguarded
my emotions raw

me alone with myself
I swallow
capsule of joy

awaiting my ascent
to the white tower

last weeks pics

Last week was busy but, I manage to snap a few pics of interest.


Here is myself diving downtown east bound as the sun rises.


An interesting photo of the building reflected with the building next to it.



I saw this and had to buy it for a co-workers birthday. It sens HBO has bottled a Soprano's soda which is chianti flavored. I didn't taste it but, was told it was akin to an old lolly pop given out at the DR office.

Bad writer, bad

I took a few days to enjoy my family and ignore the masses that surround my metro existence. I am gearing up for NaPoWriMo. Tomorrow i get some big dental surgery so I am hoping the added benefit of prescription meds will add a new dimension to my writings. weeeeeeeeee I have new pics but of course have not downloaded them as of yet. I have learned to snap pictures of buidlings while driving downtown is prolly not the best practice. It 5:30 and only a few others around, but in hindsight next time better be a bit more clandestine when breaking traffic laws.

Never to late to learn

I recently discovered that you can enter some MBA programs with out and under grad degree!! Since i don't have an undergrad degree and had given up on ever going back to school, I was floored by this. So with a bit of research I realized there are many options for me if I chose. At the urging of my partner I am going to Northwestern tomorrow for an info session about their Executive MBA program. It seems a few schools have the option of life/work experience in lieu of and under grad. Could be pretty good for me:)

practice prose

Warming up for NaPoWriMo. For a friends birthday on Monday I penned this little sentiment on the spot.

ready smile

twinkle eyes

bearer of warm tidings

and warmer actions

molten heat

flows from her core

am easy laugh

sprinkles star bursts

of life

in her wake

Monday blah

Back to my little slice of hell in cubicle city...ooohhhh very Guns N Roses....take me down to a cubicle city where walls are gray and coffee gritty...oh wont you please send me hooooommmmeeeeee. Sorry about that had to have a rock moment. Mondays usually leave me loopy. I have been out of office for most of the past 2 weeks, we canned half my staff and it's very lonely in there. Which is nice. None of that mundane chit chat I endured when we were over staffed and under worked. The downfall is my personal internet time has taken a serious hit now that I am expected to be productive. It had taken me months to finally delegate all my work and now the flow has reversed. So it goes. I have a networking thingy on Wed night and am hoping to shoot photos on the sly of drunk execs and middle management for our sneering enjoyment. On the masochist side I did 100 crunches this afternoon and my abs hurt like, like ummmm well they hurt.

Bad poetry rules!!!

I just realized that April is upon us. Which means NaPoWriMo is warming up. What is NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) you ask? It is a poetry writing challenge where you commit to writing a poem a day for every day in the month of April. The type or style of prose is up to you. To join in the community for the challenge sign up at http://www.everypoet.org
I did complete it is April 2006 as well as NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) in November 2006. Last year I had personal challenges and did very little writing. This year it is all about the words and stringing them together. I will be happy to post my bad prose here as well.

Back to Civilization

I have returned safely to Chicago. We ventured out to the "downtown" of the Dells on Friday. Had some really good BBQ and when we returned to the car, it seems a lot of snow came down. We were stuck. Who woulda thunk my 89 Mitsubishi 4 cylinder couldn't handle 6 inches of wet snow......Of course being in small town America in the land of cheese does have its advantages. Within 5 minutes of us trying to cajole the car into budging 3-4 strapping dairy fed MEN, came to my rescue. After rocking the car etc...one went and fetched his handy dandy 4x4 and pushed my little rice burner. my hero.....After that narrow escape from fudge shop row, we decided to head back to the resort and soothe or traumatized selves in the hot tub. We headed out Saturday and went to a cook shanty style eating establishment called Paul Bunyan's. How can you go wrong, it is the American way; family style all you can eat platters, piled high with carbs and animal fats. Nary a fruit, vegetable or whole grain within 500 yards. A relaxing slice of Midwest Americana was just what was needed to cement our family values and grow closer. In reality it was good to turn off the crackberry and step away from the laptop. Nothing like a trip to a family destination to hit home how much I dislike other peoples children; well and other people as well. I must say I am not anywhere near my ideal weight, very far from it. We have become one unhealthy nation. Finding a balanced meal or a healthy looking complexion was a challenge fit for a FOX game show. Some pics of the snow and my younger one in the water.

Cheeseheads or Fudgeheads

Here is Wisconsin Dells and there are more fudge shops then cheese. Weather was splendid sunny and mid 40's. I was tickled by the blend of 60's style tourism with a splash of Vegas thrown in. It is a strange cross between Coney Islandesque and neon lights. Luckily it is the of season and most attractions are closed therefore the crowds are limited. Today we were scheduled to leave but woke up to a full blown blizzard (not the kind with butter finger chunks either). Originally we were going to hit Cave in the Mounds and then New Glarus brewery, http://www.newglarusbrewing.com/ which has some of the yummiest brews only available in WI.
Alas I have decided to extend our stay a day. The combination of snow, whining children and morons who have never figured out how to drive in snow, will result in homicide in one state or another. I am considering venturing out to shoot some photos, there is a massive Trojan Horse that houses a roller coaster that I am captivated by. Look for photos soon.

My contribution to society

is my 2 overly sarcastic children. Yes at one point in my life I thought being a breeder was a good idea. They are 12 and 9. I have taken the boys all over the US and to the Bahamas and SE Asia. We are heading to NZ this summer. For some reason unknown to my hidden psyche, I have opted to take them to Wisconsin Dells for spring break. I myself have never been but it has been relayed to me as Vegas for kids. I know Vegas for kids brings to my mind; small pint hookers and really low roulette tables. After some research it is the land of waterparks, over priced attractions and lots of really bad restaurants. My kids are pretty cosmopolitan so their take on it should be interesting. They already asked if there is sushi (I haven't found a sushi place yet online near where we will be). So to celebrate a new unknown adventure I have some pics from last years adventures.

Pre spring fever?

As I am in the ever temperamental Midwest; sailing season is always a last moment determination. Today is cold and gray, but as I look out over the gray sky melding with the gray water and small white caps dotting the drab view; I long for days like these. Last year I suffered an injury whihc pulled me off the boats for most of the season, but this year I plan on conquering the Great lakes again. I want to smell the rain and see the buds plumping up on the trees. All I get is brown and gray sludge with the light aroma of exhaust and dog crap.

Drumroll Please

I couldn't take it any longer. I needed to vent my personal litany; the incessant monologue sliding through the cracks in my sticky brain. Today I took part in amass firing. Oh the inhumanity!!! To axe the same people you where sneering at the previous week or eating lunch with. My mantra though it all was "Better you then me".

I work in a number of industries and am over burdened by hobbies and interest. I will share my joys and sorrows with you of what I observe, things I love and of course my irate ramblings about the idiocy I experience in our world.