The Lighter Sides of Leaves

In this time, I came to describe
a reflective morning dew.
There are stars in the damp
that make my outsides icky.
Oil I smell, seeps through
pores of an urban thoroughfare
and sits a slick spectrum glaze.
I stare to the petroleum swirl
that sets my goggles brawling.
My head is rioting inciting writing
and the poetry fills the gaps
between skittish minutes.
The dense guidance of street lamps
betrays me along filthy curbs
of half hung window shutters
and a courtyard
of fractured toxic bottles.
The quake with each stride
is misguided violence
of the inebriated kind.
Two staggering shadows
divide the silence
of pre-dawn awakening
before stretching
beyond the yellowed electric.
The power lines snap
at my dumbfounding.
Who is here amongst me?
Day glow soaks in
as a shifted soreness,
and even the morning orange fails
to glam my ghetto in the slightest.
Bloodshot eyes match the skies
in which the clouds are cracked.
A breeze arrives with the light,
sharp and intrusive.
As if the drench of cigarettes
and dried vomit are not noxious enough,
a chilled gust serves up a sickness.
I feel my contents approach my throat
as another round of dowsing grounds
follows with wiping away
the corners of the orifice.
Well worn with heaving,
I find balance is my best friend
and recognize
the second shadow conspicuously missing.
Who is here amongst me?
Empty fisted, I brace with knees,
and had I a rusted sandwich bag holding
a wrinkled bottle of rotgut,
I might disperse it
to this graveyard of fallen soldiers,
but I misplaced my disgrace
some unknown hours ago.
It is, in fact,
this minute I feel most relaxed.
Removed from the ruse
of smoggy patrons
and away from the fondling
of wandering hands,
I am wrapped with the warmth
of solitude.
When walls intrude
to my extents
and heavens hover
within my reach,
no more tranquil can I be.
The best minds I find,
the most intriguing words are spoken
and no paranoia festers
when I am alone.
It is now, I am content,
and all I am left
is an overcast hassle fluttering low.
And when the lighter sides of leaves
show their teeth,
the storms arrive with a crisp
of early autumn warning.
A nor’easter blows mine mind.

Hoopers: Brilliant Exchange

I thought,
the daring of this highway
to harbor such wretch
and dangerous hacks
trying to unsettle my head
with every trip.
Who the hell
granted these Hoopers
the right
to launch their transpos
ChiPs style
in way of my proceeding?
Do they not know
I must make way
to a destination
I lastly want to be
with a quickness?
I must hurry
to hell
and cubicle slavery
pursuing American drivel,
do they not comprehend?
And how do I calculate
my travel through
frozen vanilla landscape
that another may consider
complacent as
warm and inviting
chocolate strudel?
Is my abode
of sweet post dinner pastry
someone else’s unfamiliar
and bland canned beans?
Can they not
see the world for the trees?
The only fuzzy
and familiar from the freeway
is the rude reception
of shooting roosters
and breeze blown,
60 mph, angry – fast glanced
and umpteen decibel cursing.
From the comforts
of their cockpits,
these wretch
and dangerous hacks
share me dialogue
I can only hope to retain
and share to my superiors
upon arrival
@ cubicle hell.
And it is with
every entrance – each day
that I misplace
my traffic acquired genious
to a lack of bravado.
This missing Eastwood approach
was obviously my allotment
spent shooting roosters
and soaking the discourse
of other disgruntled motorists.
And so I know,
must I ever encounter
my superiors @ rush hour,
I shall
shoot a rooster,
impede the passage
and inform them
how I really feel.

Enough of that... (Martinis Be the Best of Me)

OK, so my cyberstalker is being dealt with and deserves no more of my energy or attention. Now, back down to the crudeness that is MY blog. Just say no...=)

Martinis Be the Best of Me

She french kissed the starfish
with soft tongue to O-rung,
and had there be the thought of three,
she then to would make it so.

With bossom pressed on winter glass,
3 ledges more from bottom floor
shown the nips of her equips,
a baren bush in morning glow.

The bed was made with wanton rage.
Sheets long tossed – lust and lost.
Hands that tore a closing door
sort the seconds that stay and go.

Had he smudged across the rugs
with wayward drool that milked the fuel,
on empty glass while bossoms pass
leaving nothing left to snort.

A slug of blood joins the suds
at the base of his disgrace.
In this time he captures mind,
With the demons he now consorts.

The powder slung through his lungs
of hours poured the night before
to a comprimise he realized
Martinis be the best of me.

39 Hours

A chair, cold and bare,
awaits tiny toes shuffled
across a hard wood morning
marching towards war.
Crayon and a conflict
on hand plastered walls
funnels silence
from the toy riddled bunker
opposite an empty enemy
stockpiling cereal in the corners
rationing ill rationale
where small voices fall
to screams and welts.
Hurtful hands labor
39 hours confinement
birthing prisoners of war.

www.childabuse.org

Little Is Said Again

Bones so prone to her neglect
show the blows where fists have met.
Swollen eyes still need to weep
and moans will burn throughout their sleep.
Through the days the backs were broke
again in sin with fists she spoke.
In Sunday School she told not tell
before the Lord his eyes still swell.

Help prevent child abuse!
www.childabuse.org

OK, Now Go Away!

Much more the need
to prove indeed,
You have moved forward.

The rush to tie
the binds and sigh,
Whatever have you done?

The thoughts you dare
That I could care,
You were so very wrong.

And now at last
your head has crashed,
realization setting in.

Your time was ill
worth keeping still,
I laugh at your pathetic.

Your flesh meant less
than others’ caress
and far less pleasing.

So, in your choice
I can rejoice,
go away and leave me be!

2 new poems - a break from the story

Here are 2 new poems I finished this past week. The story is still writing itself, do not worry! It will be back shortly.

Lurking Ledge

On the under side of an overpass,
steel I’s riveted with curiosity,
questioning the tenderness of flesh,
cradling a tattered cloth.

In the shade of coldest days,
nip of January stands sentinel
beat by the indifference of inhabitants
and watching over an old shoe.

Against the gust of rushing cars,
rafters, covers from heaven’s harshest and
disturbed with citizen disregard,
houses soiled hand-me-downs.

Above the whine of passing diesel #523,
a winter solid earth twist rotisserie,
not so warm, wonders for the hardheartedness
and carries a concrete coffin.

On the pigeons’ lurking ledge,
hungry bones frozen
shake under rags and newspapers unconscious
of architecture, autos and trains.

The Pending

Threat approached
from over arms folded
and perplexed
and stress fractured
in slings
of ghost runners
holding fast
the approximation
of should-be friends.

Security flutters
and runs uncontrollably.
Flaps of flesh flailing
on fiery torso
hurtling towards
super nova.

Watching our future scrutinized
by the highly defined
through dinners,
arms forced applauses
and dance after dance.

Watching with eyes spliced
taking in the skies
finding
no snowfall fell
with a blizzard
of intentions
and torrential expectations.

100 days hated
with nay-sayers soothing
previous contusions
and laborious lacerations
hemorrhaging dinero
all the while slandering
the ways of change.

Frigid precipitous
stayed away,
narrow-minded munitions
remained chambered
and the bombers
in bay waited
another day.