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.