Oh woman, you have lain down and taken the weight of the palest sickest men, through blood your offspring weaken, down your vine, climb the children you dont have time for, the ones you must leave behind to earn for, the ones you must neglect to love the ones mothered by armless devices, into a silence reaching deep to the back of the childs brain stunting imagination altering the dna of destiny making marvel couch potatoes of true heroes. Oh woman not every water tank you entertain that straddles and floods you, loves you. The length of love has diminished, no longer inborn, not handed to children from parents who know love... Instead the gift is pain, purposefully packaged, designed to fit the status quo... trauma dressed in bloodstained underwear left for dead in an attic of the mind, where a lattice of worms work flesh from bone a brain mole boring the marrow you need to teach your child. The mainstream used to begin at the spring, trickle spirals of eureka through the veins God made to pool earth blood together... cutting rocks with centuries saws plunging from the front, purging the wildly forested land wild with food and feeling. Now, the inheritor of city zinc, oftentimes never goes beyond half way tree, never has time to sit and watch a movie unless its in the gangs hideout, where he truly spend more time watching the darkness to see if it will grow arms and legs and guns his lungs never known pure air the exhaled pine forests of the blue mountain range, the elfin woodlands, but his ghetto life has taken him to the peak of his shortest breath. shortcut maps blueprint his brain thru Ms Mattie yaad roun di lane, under di zinc hole into di gully, down di gully to di bridge, cross the gully and out pon di mainstream the dry asphalted once upon a time riverbed they now call Hope Road. thats where he ran a marathon as fast as a sprinter, lungs burning thin like an ember glowing red in his dry throat like hot coal stuck under his collarbone barefoot, feet slapping a collage of gravel and concrete, hemmed in neatly by feng shui corners, lipped by unsleeping policemen, booby trapped by the flat sardine tin the rusty metal bottle cap, at his speed, the teeth of tetanus biting the heel of the hungry, fleeing with a breadfruit bag from the J.P's tallest tree... the whole police force careening up to stop the bussfoot boy from reaching the river. Lady Musgrave caught him, intersecting with the House of the King, the pitch and yaw of ratty would fling him, toe pinched by the rolling vans body halted abruptly, slapped headfirst into a hot spring of his own blood. everyone in his family have a special relationship with the river that runs in their flesh, its the only one theyve ever dipped in. Oh woman I know you are alone performing culinary miracles with a few grains of rice and a few leftover vegetables, I know you are tired of being manipulated by a child who knows you better than you know yourself. I know the man who walked out took his importance with him, and with it, the importance of all male creatures. i know the man who stayed enslaved you, called you queen till he fucked you into submission, choked your aorta for fun... To the next Stacey Ann I know you are lesbian until proven innocent. I do not hold this fact against you because i know penises were held against you rubbed between your baby legs while he told you to suck his grown man nipple i know the woman you are is but a ripple from a stone flung with adult strength at a child, a stone that exploded on her stomach him whistling like he had been a kettle boiling.... 3rd degree burn scars on keloid skin creeping from the bikini line of the heart, she became a hermit crab, hiding in empty fortresses, making her way through this world, gated complex by gated complex, cloaking garment to sleeping bag, she lived a shroud, she was a fog, to some a beautiful mist. At times you know your longing to be kissed can not be your highest hope for existence you strive for more, you look for mentors, you realize they think you are a whore on the mend, who has retired but will service them as a friend, every law seems breakable across your buxom your body caused the earthquake that opened underground plates lifted lava from the bellows of a groaning monster hurled a volcanic black hole of ash through the bedroom you both defiled, a hole that ate him and you alive... When you get home, you always sigh, because the place you can hide from the world is the place where your fears reside, your deep down inside is a rathole where u cower in darkness behind black curtains convincing yourself that at midday, this is better than the sun. Oh woman, let me tell you of my fellow man, how his mind corruptly seeks your flesh to fuck he has blinkers that ignore your innocence your struggle to discover that you were born someone, and there is nothing you can do to be any more than you already are. Oh woman blame not your self blame not the man who is a boy blame not the mother of the man who is a girl and blame not her lover she met while serving drinks as a promo girl in yesteryear he was a drunkard, she ignored that tilll his fingers became whips his eyes became echoes of hell and his whisper more abohorrent than a stinkbugs smell Oh woman, your shame is not yours alone to bear it hangs high as the flag of the world the colorless air that flaps every cloth is itself a flag that flaps anxiety in you and out... Oh woman. let me apologize, that should have come first, these days, apologies are wind and blow past the unloved... trust is a curse word for the betrayed love is an annoyance for those living in grave dilemmas of mind 6 feet deep mud crawlers dragging their slag onto relationships messing up everything with grieving fingers every ritual is funeral every sound is the choir that sings the last word every lyric hung on like gospel. Oh Woman Centuries have excluded you from title and position for too long man has ignored you and hated you Greeks sent you to the isles of Lesbos while the alpha males loved the beta boys... It was a war of the sexes to this day waged on from anciency till modern Babylon Oh woman, Your place was designed by creation. you are the mother of nations the rebirth of plants the charge in electricity seeds spark when you plant lightning in the ground without a sound. you are the revolutionary seasoned in blood. ready to fight for the ones that you love. with you as our victor we shall overcome with eyes to the blind hearts to the empty and speech to the dumb.

SHIKAMO - The Children are the Future, but Childlike Adults are a Cause for Concern

It is a regularly used phrase, The Children are the Future. However this phrase neglects to mention the type of future we are headed toward. The children could create a beautiful future, or they might not. Will we leave this process up to children? Will we continue to send our children to schools founded on lies or will we bring our children back home and teach them how to increase their value and give them opportunities to share their natural God given gifts with the world? As a result of our emphasis on children as being the future, the formal education system, and not the traditional value system, has been implemented. This causes a course of study that creates the perfect employee, while on the other hand many big business persons inherit their understanding of fiscal and business affairs directly from their parents and close relatives. Just as it occurred in that famous motivational book called Rich Dad, Poor Dad. That being said, many more children are being led astray than those being taught by their parents. Jamaica has an entire culture that has been shaped by a consistently disparate difference between the son of the African and the son of the European. Their histories have placed on a modern island separate groups of peoples that have been deceptively wrapped together in the tapestry of the motto, Out of Many One People. The literate and the illiterate live side by side, none with the awareness, none caring for the capability of the neighbor. Likewise the poor and the rich live side by side. But not every battle can be fought on the same day. It is my intention to create a national reading program targeting adults and elders, built on the backs of volunteer teachers and former teachers, like myself. The clarity of thought and decision one must receive when learning to read as an adult, must be mind- blowing. I can only imagine it. The liberty and independence it gives you in a world governed by silent signs and text messages must be unbelievable. I will be blogging about this experience as it unfolds. I feel it will be rich and I will be able to learn endlessly from my elders as i teach them. In closing, I call this project "Shikamo" which is a Swahili word: Shikamo — Literally translates to “I hold your feet. or i bow at your feet” This is a greeting for elders. I pray I may execute this powerful mission bestowed upon me. It is needed #publish #steps #checklist

lorax

I am the Lorax I speak for the trees its a pity i do so after the breeze blew all knowledge of why a tree is important down into your lungs and you took it for granted I am the Lorax I speak for trees Monsanto is a greater dictator than Hitler All domestic trees are tampered, murdered and seedless. There is no regeneration through the natural flow we can only buy life at the farm goods store. I am the Lorax I speak for the trees who no longer feed the indigenous breed I am the Lorax I speak for the trees that do not reside in the aisles or the trays I am the root that no longer grows, and no longer spreads along concrete pavements I am the Lorax I speak for the trees who long for the water that no wider comes who now run from the sun that once made them electric who now become compost rotting in their own inner dampness I am the Lorax speaking in the desert warning the greatest Eastern cities of depletion and disaster. They retort they are the richest of the world and can afford to keep the illusion of life alive but in this desert, called Dubai, who could tell, that at its heart sits the devil and his tail hems the city in an oasis on a sand dune vast waters they consume and smile thinking money acquires even that which earth does not design… there is a finite timeline and the trees are already falling off it. How proud the developers should be of our planet and themselves as the architects of a dead future with a sense of accomplishment, they roll carbon effluent coffins around on asphalt plant prisons and build castles of rehydrated rock to party in and while the girls blood cells atrophy for want of oxygen they’ll just sell bottled air probably call it CL-AIR and they can sip it in between liquor and the party. How advanced our technology is when it stands in the face of nature as the cannon self as the angry nosed gun nozzle demanding the passengers get out of poles Our tech is designed to suit our economy, and not to suit our needs. The economy is an unfair animal they continue to feed. Only the cutthroat will float to the top and only the Phoenix may defend against them.

Secrets Resort

the grating skeleton drags white-donned legs... the ebony juggernaut, keeping white toweled beaches cordoned for the caucus in the plastic aeroplane of sound is their sweat and gunk rattling behind rattan drowned by the cares of waves that eat the beach with each bite

The Carpenter Swims

a face in the bistre dregs of the aftercup. Mooning through the astral diamond is the evening fare. Fear is over- or under-pacing steps toward, away together. Guango gushing plump pink stems to semidouble scented blossoms scattered from frontal to occipital before evening every evening cerebellum courts the experienced pool. fate-fired pathfinder destinates... the unlying, truthful woman recommends 80 percent of meals and 80 percent of truth... In 20 percent of Saturn we are demi-gods. on Baskerville Estate, hematite pillars guard souls gate with resonance for barks... and enchantment for paint, the Carpenter swims. there is no red in the jot no screaming madness a quiet universe in a yard of hearts who merely breathe to speake seasons of love unbroken beauty salving skin under the buttery suns hands, sprout tongues while shaking. in the muses courtyard; from whence mused spirit never leaves.

Emo

classic crackle in yesteryear vooshh the lighters finger pedal in a toyota to know you takes moments where we sift while listening to your kind of music. on other nights renaming your cervix curving thick suck my soul through your mouths my battalions gallop across our bridge and into you. This is the art of surrender accepting troops with a curled smile and a moon moan, hoofs shake the resonance of massage awakening the shoulder from the toe skin the city gates wild and thwack behold a pink threshold in the black companion. there are wings to reclaim along the cotton candy way past the petting zoo running sticky fingers slowly. along corrugation.

SEX ANYONE?

madame chaos

slips words between lips

stick

fortune cookies

in the burgers



we will find love

we will have to cry

the sponge

till your red dress slips off your reptile skin



we want her

to hold our arm

to look in our heart

and give us a slight kiss on the lips

stick deep

the cervix will be pleased



when lights are off

a new pair of eyes join us four



and watch us

our favorites

anytime

for free.

DREAM

in a black canvas

illuminate dancer

moving only hair

with scalp muscle

whip

the red skirt like fire

no rules

but desire.



under a bridge

where the soul of a dead man

remembers stonehenge

giant horses

that hauled the blocks in place



at the top of a temple

where the rays of light split

the sun into pieces

no salon

treating the weather

only keratin

only buddha

and jesus

and movies

and bellies

and conscience

and secrets

and nothing rhymes

and nothing connects

in the hole where everything was born



the same picture disconnects

reproduces

itself into triplets

who hate each other



a purple pool

swims around the island

man no longer needs swim

water does the swimming

man merely is the root

of a tree

that has already drowned



the moon punctured by the branch

shifted by the blinking

cleavage

gulping red

lungs

of saliva



the dirty Ganges

are next to godliness

cleanliness is borrowed from Jesus

white cloths



the bubbling cauldron

of art

invents its own color

the oracle

sees new things

each day



the oracle cannot interpret

the message to the traveller

it is too new

it is too alien



the alien alone can understand

the oracle is trapped in the cauldron



drenched in the color of newness

human eyes can not see

what stonehenge cut

from crotch and drum

MUSIC

yahoo!!

victims

gather behind my band

groupies

expose undersides while you fight for me

sympathy

stun the grieving lines of marchers

fireworks

shake my hand for a job well done

children

be as impossible as i am possible

overcome

black leather and nail polish

crowd

twice a thack a words you cant hear anyway

overpower

instruments

no words

for unworthy ears



anyway

bob your head

the rhythm matters

while you sell your soul unknowing

nod nod nod



whether or not

it means yes

one last breath

allowed

tired of you now...

WEAKNESS

the organ

in the eyeball

despair in the blue

so deep it silvers



maybe the spine

found you there

in the blink

a weak loneliness



maybe we turn to the dream

for strength

maybe we cry to the colors

for a shoulder

maybe the light

has betrayed the darkness



the music between the words

carries the soul

in between the feathers

of wings

that long stopped singing



the smell of burning flesh

derived

from the place i lost you

the trust in the moment of truth

the given one and only heart

the first gift

the last gift

the following deliveries of pain

time and time and time and time

and she wants to know

why he constantly cheats on his wife



and he replies:

because she allows him to.



this time she wants a divorce

he doesn't believe her

but now she realizes

he doesn't have to



the angry dog

barks behind the stampede of cows



she doesn't have to

get him to agree

as he lays

crushed by the terrified bovine sentence.



now she can sleep with the milk man

in peace.

RIPPER

lights go out

souls come in



the killer

thinks himself asleep

while he tears

his wife and children open



years later

the puppet of his body

on the night of memorial

resurrected by the playful

lovers of theatre

primeval burglars of memory



break and enter

the bedrooms

of the nightmares



condors mistaken

for airplanes on radar

keeper of the souls

on the brink of extinction



the condor eats death

stores the souls it consumes

it swells full



i am the condor

i am the keeper of souls

i had death for breakfast

i slept in a placenta of blood last night

and my victims wouldn't have had it any other way…

MAYBE

maybe
this saturday
the dreamers will
drag their feet
in the current of the blue hole

maybe the crazy women
from the hungry motel
will be the only ones
to witness the accident
in the middle of the desert

maybe we will walk alone
never holding hands
always remembering what we could have been
to someone
if not each other

maybe its time to change
maybe the premium gasoline
and the panning wide shot of the camera
cannot capture the entire picture

maybe the coffee will spill
on the distinguished ladies white blouse
maybe in her anger
we will glimpse her bosom
as she whips the heat wild from her chest

maybe guitars will accompany us down the highway
maybe the wind in our hair is a force as heavy
as the trailer we just passed
maybe we will hitchhike on fingers
as they climb the frets of music

maybe the microphone is scared to carry our sound
maybe the rock band has money in their guitar cases
maybe the hardware store
sells the murder weapon

maybe the sea
is sick of vomiting
onto these shores

maybe the sun is tired of our happiness.

Public School

The bag was packed to capacity.

He and and his mother had earlier that morning marveled at the length of the schools book list, and wondered how on earth they would pack all those books into one bag, much less for him, a boy of thirteen, to carry it. Every weakness of the bag was put to the test. The stitching spread full out.


The room was the color of hospital, while chairs and desks, only just big enough to contain a young child, are railed together on adjoining metal poles that run the length of the ground. Students were just beginning to settle down in the room, having come in from another class.

He figured that if he entered the room at that time, he probably would blend in. He heaved his bag off his back and placed it on the ground beside the nearest available seat and sat heavily.


The other children in the room stared strangely at him. Ms. Beadle, a generous looking woman with warm smiles motioned silently to him. He placed his bag on the chair and walked the aisle between the joined rows of uncomfortable metal chairs and tables to the front of the room. Ms. Beadle stood and asked everyone to be silent.
“This is our new student Archibald Thomas who will be joining us today. I will allow him to introduce himself.”
He began, “My name, you already know. This is my first day at a school like this. I was privately tutored at home; It’s called homeschooling. Thomas’ Homeschool” He stood nervously thinking what else to say.
The teacher motioned him to return to his seat. As he walked back to his seat with his head down, though the room was silent, he could almost feel the other children’s’ thoughts as they hurled around the room.
He wasn’t as cool as them. He was sure of it. His pants were pulled up to cover his navel. He didn’t want them there, but his father believed that a man’s pants should cover his navel. Archibald’s navel was considerably higher than his fathers, and his new khakis were stretched taut between his crotch and his waist with obvious lines.
Ms. Beadle continued, “Archibald, will be with us for the remainder of the school year, and i would like each of us to treat him kindly. Today we won’t be doing any heavy schoolwork. Instead, I want to make sure that all of us are on the same page heading into the next section of the syllabus. I have prepared a quiz. Now for those of you who read on the holidays, it should be very easy; but for those of us such as ehem... THOSE WHO SHALL REMAIN UNNAMED, it will be interesting to see how well you do” she said, throwing her glance toward the back of the room to a tight group of boys who seemed occupied with something through the classroom window.
The boys didn’t hear the teacher or see her looking malevolently at them. She grabbed the duster and hurled it across the room. It hit one of the boys squarely in the chest, ricocheted and jolted yet another in the back of the head before falling to the ground. They all turned quickly, looking vaguely at the chalky dust mark on the chest of their ringleader; a young man named Eugene.
Though this was an eighth grade class, Eugene was growing hair from what seemed to be every pore in his body. He had a thick moustache and a beard which was “lined up” and worn neatly. He already looked like a man, and by his bulky appearance it seemed he had the muscles to prove it.
Archibald Thomas sat next to him. The duster had barely missed his nose on its way to his chest.
The teacher began to hand out the quiz.
“All papers and books off your desks please!” She spoke from the back of her throat.
This time everyone heard her. “You have a half hour in which to complete this test. Everyone except Archibald is expected to get a passing grade on this test. For those of you who don’t, you will be receiving a week worth of detention beginning next week Monday”.
Archibald was accustomed to pressure. He turned to the young man next to him; Eugene and said softly “Yo how much is the pass mark”.
Eugene looked at him oddly and said nothing. One of the boys sitting near to him, said in a serious tone; “60%”
Archie blinked blankly. He wasn’t sure if he had heard what had just been said. He asked again; “How much?”
“60%?” Archie repeated slowly with a quizzical look on his face.
Archibald could not help himself. He realized his shoulders were shaking, by the time he had begun to notice himself, his entire body was rocking uncontrollable and a shrieking laugh escaped his mouth and pierced the room.
Ms. Beadle looked up from handing out her papers and turned to the back of the room. “Mr. Thomas? Have you begun to give us trouble already?” she glowered.
“No Miss”, he smiled glowingly. She turned and continued to hand out papers.
At home, Archie had been accustomed to a 90% pass mark. 60% would have been punishable by the belt, by confiscation of anything he was interested in other than school work and with extenuated school hours, until he would have been back up to scratch with his siblings. He smiled.
It seemed school was going to be fun after all he thought.
By this time the teacher was three students in front of him handing out papers. In a few moments she would have been at his desk. She stopped knowingly and began to sniff the air. She glanced toward the back of the room and began to walk slowly toward the group of boys.
She told each of them to stand and walk to the front of the classroom with all their belongings. Archie was completely puzzled. He stood in line as the teacher continued to hand out test papers. When she was finished she walked to the extreme right of the six boys she had chosen and told them all to turn out their pockets. He did so; the other boys had only brought a few folder leaves to school with them as it was their first day back from the holiday and they didn’t expect more need for a bag than to have had tools to write down their timetables for the upcoming semester.
Ms. Beadle continued down the line asking each of the boys to turn out their pockets. When she got to Archibald, the teacher didn’t move, even when there proved to be nothing in his pockets.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. When her eyes opened, she told Archibald to open his bag for her to look through it. As he heaved the cumbersome bag onto the teachers’ desk, a wave of laughter broke frothy through the room as the other children jeered him. He seemed the complete nerd.
Archibald opened the large compartment of the bag which was obviously overloaded with books. The only thing he thought about was how hard it would be to lock the bag after this inquisition. Now the only place thing left to open was the little pocket on the front of the bag where his mother had tucked his pencils pens, erasers, ruler, calculator and other stationary.
He quickly pulled the zipper open and the teacher almost instantly pushed her nose toward the opening. “There!” she said. “Empty it!”
He reached in and began to place the groups of objects on the table, one handful at a time. As he went in the first time, he felt some unfamiliar crumbs at the bottom of the bag. As he placed a bundle of pencils, a sharpener and geometry set on the table, something rolled out amongst them onto the teachers’ desk that he had never seen before.
It was white, somewhat cylindrical, but smaller on one end than on the other. At the larger end, it looked as it if had been burnt, and Archie presumed that the crumbs from the burnt end were what was in his bag. He fumbled in the pocket nervously and felt more of the strange substance. He smelled a strong odour pouring from the bag and put his fingers to his nose.
The class broke into uproar. With one glance from the teacher, they became immediately silent.
“So this is how you choose to start off on the first day of school!” She stared into his eyes.
Archie was now even more nervous than he had been earlier; he mumbled, “No Miss, it’s not mine miss”
She said; I think i should call the police! Archie’s heart was in his throat. His mouth was dry. He did not understand what was going on.
Archibald began to hear an unfamiliar voice in his mind: “The last time i was in court the judge said the next time he sees me, he won’t allow me to pay a fine! There is no way i am going to court again!”
Archie felt cold. She gripped him by the collar and said, “As a matter of fact, I am going to get another opinion on this matter. She began to drag him through the door of the classroom, and as she did so, the class erupted into a fearful noise. She stopped and peered back into the room. Everyone was instantly quiet.
She dragged Archie across the corridor toward another classroom. It was also filled with children who were sitting neatly paying attention to a class member who stood speaking to them. There was no teacher in this room. There didn’t seem to be any children like Eugene or his crew in this room. Archie said weakly; “Miss cant you ask someone in our class”
The teacher paid no attention to him and standing at the back of their classroom said; “Excuse me class!
The entire class instantly rose in unison to their feet and replied; “Good Morning Ms. Beadle”
She continued: “I found this young man smoking ganja. Should i call the police?”
Archiebalds feet froze to the floor. He had never seen ganja in his life. Now he presumed that the white thing which had rolled out of his bag was a “spliff” as he had heard his father’s construction workers talking about while they renovated their house. They had not been allowed to smoke on the compound.
In unanimity, the entire room of students without even thinking twice replied; Yes Miss!
Archie struggled to breath properly, the knuckles of her pale hands pressed now firmly into his throat. He found very rude thoughts galloping through his head toward his mouth. “Why are you asking these fools! They don’t know anything about ganja except the fact that teachers and parents have told them that its bad and that idlers use it. Like what the ...”
Archie began to twist free from Ms. Beadles iron grip, taking deep gasps of air. As he shook, he opened his eyes.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself in bed. Rain fell lightly outside. He glanced rapidly around the room for Ms. Beadle, Eugene or any sign of police. He saw no one. He jumped up quickly and went to the kitchen. After having a glass of water, his fears subsided, and he began to shake yet again. As he heard himself laugh, he felt reassured it was only a dream. He opened his laptop and searched for an episode of “True Blood” and watched himself to sleep.

...cine

its not that i miss you.

its that i am missing

in the hole you left

weeks ago



you had to go
i know

but...

please

call for help
siren fire engines

there is a blaze in my soul
that threatens foundation

no moon
where you left me

stuck between
memory and wishes

between
dirty dishes and the next dinner.

"and life aint got no disneylands,



no life aint got no zoos;



jus show me to the prison camp,



and how your power rules..."



"over broken bones

wealing hearts

smoking dreams


where ever the credit stop

the phone hang up

and overall


the system is most of all designed

to pressure ghetto youth


and Babylon is smiling

while we lick dem boot...

life has animals running wile.


children walking round with child ....


boots marching with holes in soles

too many stories untold



in the news they say

terrorist, and Christmas dis

and dat fi watch

utes no ave di love
of dem fadderrs

destined fi lose dem blood....



whenever the justice stop

the road block up

and overall

The system is most of all designed
to pressure ghetto youths

and Babylon

stop smiling

you tell you seh u trick dem cute...












sniff sniff

when poems slow

who knows

the corridor of marching thought

penned

behind the corral of teeth...



when

he listens

like an inanimate...

to her sweetness unfold

and doesnt obviously leap away or forward...



beware of the brewing adoration

bubbling in a pot

covered by his tongue...



prepare

the exits to run



while you open the entrance

to accept the come.



its here

under the nose

you use to judge civility...



an unkempt yet beautiful thing



disguised as what you hate the most,

its slowly revealed as love.



discovered only by your welcome,

tasted only if you eat its hand,



everything humanity wants

is responsibility and a plan.

run

a burning tire

or few

an abandoned fridge

beside the remnants of a fence

across the road

in her heart



hides goodness

behind the belief

that she's a monster



i say all the things she wants to hear

the only difference is,

i believe what i say

more than she believes what she hears



maybe she is a monster

maybe, readying to run,

maybe i'll take this one as a risk



prepared to lose

everything i have to kiss,

whats the worst that could happen

but honesty.



the truth is

my only best friend.



and she cant pretend

forever.



she wont.



unless honestly

she honors me.



poems do my thoughts no justice

words are unworthy slaves

cant rebuild the memory

of kisses as near misses

at her heart...



this is no place to start

a confession

but when no smoke sits between my lips

she slips between my mind



and i will not run

until the ceiling is crumbling



i will not bolt

until the earth

quake is opening



a labyrinth

the home of a beast

or a monster



even then

i wont forget

the way she curses like honey



her sneering laugh

and chipping of bomboclaa



simple moments cheer



even in losing

i would have gained everything.

(exit)

for you,

the world is still a new place



still a face wearing adventure



in a coffee shop

to meet new aromas & friends.



for me...

it is over.



coffee shops

and slaughter houses

share purpose.



never ask me to read poetry

at an event for children.



even adults can not stomach

the needed words.



for me,

it is fire.

for me,

it is the clockwork of revolution

returning to roost,



if i choose,

poetry is but a tool.



the taper of discretion;

left to dressmakers

concealing

the insecurities of women.



as for me and my house.

we will dwell in my head

and soon

publish a book.



not excited to shake your hand

i dont swell from oooh's and ahhhh's

except with vomit

and a need for fresh air.



sure you might be beautiful

and might have worn your best make-up

but that is not enough.



my desires are too simple

for your social mind

your complex lack of self

your overbearing circle.



your hug too impersonal,

to impress me any,

and i will not squeeze any tighter

nor wait for compliments.



(walking off stage, out the door, and gone.)

inception

the time had us slowly

its jaws widening to swallow our

tongue tied mouths



its body slithered around us

crushing us tenderly into each other...



we had

kisses for breakfast

in the belly of the monster



half a day lost or gained

in the body of discarded shame



disclosed nipples

revelation of curves

ushers no more nerves...



only the melted caress

of knowing

the barricaded ways of showing

that yes.



destined.

impaling.

on the stake of the mind.



...in the privacy

of my cabin

where bob is gossip...

and steve is a ghost,



the decathlon of sighs

not yet met the athletes of moaning



but the race is warming



tonight

my arms flop

the final dance of a fish

too long left outside the water.



fright now lives

inside her mind



the question drinks tea

and opens the eternal book of why



who could answer

or presume

the looming dream

that walks while we are waking

or sedating.



the songbird she once was

begins to sing again...



now she will not remember

the silence.





burp

i will not assume

that you will wash my dishes after you have fed me.



through cleaning

i return the blessing of the meal...



over lunch

i spread the compliment of smiles

and in a while

the slow coming elephant uttered of the word.



i will not give any impressions

that do not exist

will not transform curiosity

into adventures worth pursuing



it is enough

to enjoy a meal

to observe a flower

and to leave the garden.