'War is coming' (trg, 2/18/03)
War is coming, so we're told.Maybe that was, whore's coming?Either way, both are illusionsfor lies, more lies and more lies.
There are no good people elsewhere.
We are the good protectors of all.
Look at our wealth, God has blessed us.
At least the whore knows what they're about.
War's coming and all will be saved.
We won't hurt anyone, though
there might be a tad of collateral damage.
But who manages the damage control?
Killing brings out the religious in everyone.
God of one kind or another is invoked,
else the sacrifice will not be accepted.
The evil demons, said, is even applied to wee ones.
War is coming, inevitably so.
Presidents and Dictators are tired of playing,
their lead soldiers called back by the EPA.
At least the whore knows why they're in their position.
War is coming, heroes on their way, soon,
wrapped snug in red, white and blue body bags.
The trumpeters of victory will give us badges,
telling us this is the reason for their prone position.
I pause, thinking that it should be the ones
propagating violence who should be
wrapped so tight.
But then I'd be like them, instead of the virtuous whore.
Have you every noticed,
Saints and Heroes are among the dead?
This is how the good win.
...God bless us, everyone.
‘Things that count’ (trg,3/17/96)
a glass of good wine,
fresh bread,
aged cheese
and some fruit;
all but the wine,
though fine for the others,
makes for good company.
A fresh cup of coffee,
strong, maybe French-pressed,
are almost all one needs.
Oh yes. An honest friend creates a banquet.
"what if..." (praying...)what if...birds sang alwaysdogs never bitcats obeyedthere were no racespigeons didn't poopneighbor's dogs never barkedlions and lambs dancedcancer only a signa bull prancedsea lions hummedsnails ranrest came like sleepan eagle liked hugs and kissesa sparrow was timidcrows were quiet...children were only loved?
"gothic amish?" (trg, 3-14-2001)buggy pulls up, uniquely attired folksstep outfor a night of poetry readingsshared with a local mystic of sortsand myst's Lady;all seems normal, whateverthat is, until someonenotices a lone tattoonot meant to be foundunder the dame's black stockings --this is what happens when you forget to check for holes --the rather well donepiece of work, not that i wouldever pear, wasthe normal colourless hooded damsel in her normal colourless cloak; with oneunique exception...this vamp had similar colourless netted stockingsand a whip to match, with a neat little word of advice:"Don't fuck with me English!"
'A happy shit' (trg, 10/19/03)
Some days shit falls from the sky,
it seems to.
Other days it seems to not go away.
Then there are those who are full of it,
always having something to spew.
Not all days are full of it,
thought the stink might linger.
One thing that's important when shit is hitting the fan,
is to get out of the way.
Then there are days when you need to walk away,
as you say, 'Fuck off.'
Did I say that?
‘Mixing of Follicles’ (trg, 12/01/03)
Longing for a brush against,
my beard catching an aroma
to be enjoyed later in the day,
I navigate from our lips stilled for a necessary resting.
There’s a certain joy
in the mixing of follicles
intended to meet for more than a moment,
where the body’s voice in known without words,
yet when spoken it doesn’t matter what language
they come…from.
Here my preference of gender matters;
so does hers.
Gender doesn’t matter here for the communication;
we all whisper our pleasure in a common tongue.
Latter I look down,
loving the way our limbs entwine,
our variance of flesh hues contrasting
while touch blends,
here our unique perfume fills the room.
I do hear my heart, her breath, we breathe,
here I pray that this is not a lone dream,
a fantasy without any fruition.
I pray here for daily refreshment
even as I pray for our daily bread.
I pray to live; I think she does too.
Even this hope of beauty baptized into
allows what might be a fantasy’s prayer
to anticipate someone’s breathing besides my own.
Now I lay myself down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
if I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take…
In the meanwhile, you are welcome to it.
‘Why a Beard?’ (trg, 10/13/03)
I like it, that’s why.
I’ve never been concerned about whether it’s in or not.
I like the way that my beard looks
and…
Yes I run my fingers through its hairs,
some days merely for fun.
Self-indulgent? What isn’t?
I have smelled the aromas of colognes and perfumes,
some better and others worse than some.
To this day the highest benefit of my facial hair:
The lingering odor of a lover,
ever so slight;
sometimes all I need to do is pull it a bit.
There’s nothing of magic here,
yet nothing is more magical
than my lover’s presence,
present or lingering.
Funny, time and bathing
doesn’t seem to eliminate these delights.
Funny, the anticipation
of one not known as of yet is known,
we both know we’ll not soon get up quickly from our bed.
At least this is what I’m told.
'Once - I wasn't innocent...' (trg, 9-16-2002)
Once I believed in Santa Claus, tooth Fairies, God
and Mommy and Daddy, those
who loved little souls, protecting them
until they could choose to raise, or not, their own fists.
Once I prayed, this I still do, believing
that such perpetual breathing made a difference, that
a good God loved all, rewarding the just
and the unjust accordingly.
Once I looked into the mirror, wishing
that St. Nicholas, the Holy Mother, God, Jesus
and Mommy and Daddy, those idyllic dreams,
would not raise their fists or move their hands in other places,
thinking that a good God would certainly help.
Once I thought, 'It would have, I think,
been more than nice to know the innocence
of my children,' of which I'm more than glad for them.
...I awake, knowing, I
have not known this, save for
Once upon a time...
‘Streams of heat are felt’ (trg, 1/16/04)
Streams of heat are felt
cutting through the most frigid of nights,
she makes no specific movements other than walking,
a pleasure that the air around her has always known.
The frost melts as she extends her legs one by one
causing steam to rise even as from city grates in the depth of winter.
Her innocence of self-awareness is telling,
all she thinks that she’s doing is walking,
making her way through the season’s cold as quickly as possible.
Without guile she goes from place to place,
doing what she needs to do,
most often for others in their places to places,
not doing more than breathing out a sigh, momentarily,
not wanting to call attention to her loss of wonder in life.
The Earth’s wonder and the Moon’s wonder of her beauty
needs to be instructive here,
the universe, our galaxy all around us certainly takes note,
when she extends her hand into the space in front of her
the forces of all things moves, like ripples in a lake from a tossed pebble.
I felt that bump and am glad to know that it’s her.
‘Pressure of a Kiss’ (trg, 5/03/04)
The pressure of a soft kiss,
aromas begin to rise.
There have been those who have thought,
‘Let me impress him with my toughness,
swallowing or manipulating a wrestling pin.’
No, not fond of my teeth being pushed through my mouth.
No, not fond of razor burns either.
‘The Kiss’, ‘The Embrace’,
paintings that open up intimacy’s splendor,
call us into their reality,
not merely a game, though this is fun too,
a mutual intrusion, nirvana’s moisture.
A kiss, tasting our juices,
an Icon opening swirling intoxication,
sweet yet sometimes humorous noises come,
embarrass those not fond of delirium,
these lips make us both smile.
I enjoy watching a friend dance,
their thrill found in each move,
soon there is no particular move,
they forget the move and merely move.
A jungle beat, some have decried.
Bull shit, it’s the heart beat.
To slow dance with such a friend,
my fingers placing discriminate pressure
to the small of their back, my other hand
holding theirs, both sweating, not concerned
-- they capture me and I their willing captive am,
on a dance floor we are lovers,
we give into each other’s intuition.
Lovers entwined no longer are found pensive,
lingering is a delight,
crevice seeming to open
into a hallucinate crevasse,
a silhouette over me inspires me to my canvas.
And, hell, this is just a kiss.
‘Narcissus I am’ (trg, 3/17/03)
Narcissus I am not
and I am.
We write, paint, play music
and those who are unable
they still hum, doodle and scribble,
not believing that they too
are narcissistic.
We all believe our words
to be the most important,
not being given to self-indulgence;
however, if you have the time, I’d
like to share with you my work.
There is one sole item
that separates the narcissus
and the narcissus’ illusions,
save for the few transparent souls,
one is paid for their work
the other wished that they were.
‘What was that noise?’ (trg, 1/24/03)
What was that noise?
I wonder, was it them or one of them?
Friends for a middle of the night snack?
They could’ve waited till a respectable time.
Perhaps it’s only my imagination.
If it’s a delusion, I’d like to be in on the pickings.
Is this paranoia?
Isn’t that when you’re aware of you surroundings?
If Jesus knew his end, or beginning,
did he also know paranoia?
Did the Buddha know - many centuries
later - he’d be fat and laughing?
If he did, did it trouble him?
I’ve got to go now.
Sounds like someone’s at the door.
I wonder, is it them or one of them?
‘Heads up...I’d like some help’ (trg, 1/10/03)
Shall any species
come to learn war no more?
Even the pacifists, who
claim such, will yet
snub one once their own
to death.
The lion and the lamb, two species,
might well truly embrace
before we, one species and one race,
do more than contemplate the ideal.
Is it a reasonable thing to hope for,
that we of the human race, so
many have called it, would attain and
live with the ethics and morals
of what are called mere beasts?
I grew up hearing, that
all other species besides our own
live and breathe by instinct; we,
so I have heard, live by moral
imperatives as well as ethics of love.
Heads up! Everyone please listen!
Help me here. ...Has there ever been
any group of our species
who have continued living and breathing
in moral cooperation and love’s imperative?
‘Where have all the flowers gone...
long time ago...?’
‘Placed upon your tongue’ (trg, 3/15/03)
Placed upon your tongue,
being oh so careful not to move by impulse,
what would be to bite down, swallow
and devour in one luscious movement.
My preference is to
allow the morsel to melt slowly,
upon my tongue and between my teeth,
eliciting at least an intoxication of sweetness.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ words drip
from my lips quicker than I’m able to stop.
No chocolate Jesus here, used, consumed
and wrapper tossed aside. No chocolate divinity.
As the last bite of angel’s food
moves down exiting my mouth, I feel a thickness
at the middle of my throat,
I say to myself, ‘I’m so glad that I waited,
giving into the compulsion rather than the moment’s impulse.
...Wait a minute, there’s yet another piece
desiring my much appreciated lingering.
'If there is to be any peace it will come through being not having.' + Henry Miller 'Wars are poor chisels for carving out peaceful tomorrows.' + Martin Luther King Jr. 'The search for Truth is the search for God.' + Gandhi
