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.