the spider and me

I don’t want to kill it

the spider in the corner

it looks lonely

just waiting, and

I know that feeling too

hungry for

a sudden vibration

anything outside this

numb-norm

something to trigger

a response

something I hope

will satisfy

I look with all my

delicate eyes

I monitor all

encroaching behaviors

stimuli surrounding

arousing me

but my body is

softly poised in pause

and so I let it be

the spider and me

still waiting

and still waiting

(l’Araignée qui Pleure: The Crying Spider on exemplore.com)

point of entry (my photos)

intense at the point of entry

mouth under lust and prayer

fingers to lips    both

lush wet and swollen

gliding over   pushing through

i don’t speak, i grunt

you don’t moan, you scream

pray if you want to   but

i would rather you

curse bite and spit

before you say

amen

or thank you

tick tick tick

the bomb tied to

the expectation of love

will detonate in exactly

33,096 hours

anyone and anything

in close proximity to the core

will become collateral damage

all illusions expire

with the loss of time

or self-destruction

the madness ends in peace

... it finds a way

... it always does

higher

limited ego - I as my smaller self

obstructing something higher,

lake that was cut from the Great Ocean’s wealth

rivers that connected, now dry earth

  seeking the voice of intuition to become wiser

  I travel the paths of deep inner nature

  one eye on the goal, body given to the labor

(Image from lonerwolf.com)

concrete

(Image from elements.envato.com)

i feel as though

i am concrete

that meets concrete

that meets concrete

ad infinitum

all grey

different shades

but all grey

nonetheless

i am lullaby born

to nightmare quickly,

innocent joy grown

to set in fright

cold to the touch

solid to the crack

i am concrete

that meets concrete

that meets concrete

ad infinitum

(Image from godinterest.com)

the taken

perhaps

gone is better

retreating

before it becomes

too much

the body is not built

for torture

  soft susceptibility

  porous, passable

and its not easy

changing love from

a noun to a verb

but

there’s a pretty little lake

off the side of the road

somewhere in Georgia

and i would like to be gone

there

and i would like to take 

someone with me

we would read poetry

together

and maybe i would learn

how to put love into

action again

and maybe she would

teach me how to

open back up for

the taking

(My photo)

costumes

walking into the costume closet

deciding which poet to become 

anything is possible

a little girl having tea with dolls

an eagle or a hawk in the sky

donning the clown suit as a fool

as a jester

or the garb of a priest

or the habit of a nun

maybe a killer with a knife

a gun or a bomb

depending on the plan and

the form of escape

perhaps a bartender

exhausted at last call

a mechanic, a hostess

an attorney, a judge

a politician (no thanks)

or the single mom of five

or the deadbeat dad on the run

or the mistress he’s running with

man becomes woman

woman becomes man

human becomes animal

becomes deity

becomes constellation

right now i light a fire

easing back on a log

in the middle of nowhere

i’ve chosen the torn boots

of a backwoodsman and

not to be a poet tonight

instead i’m spending time 

with my friends the stars

and the surrounding wildlife

tomorrow

i’ll add to these boots

a backpack and

a trekking pole

i’ll want to travel

(Image by Peter Philbrick - hoospedro on trekearth.com)

untouched

falling for the unattainable voice

in the wind

the approach untouched

mirage - no consummation

no one sees the wind coming

  but the trees move

  and the grasses sway

so too, no one hears the voice

  but smiling i do

  oh, but i do

(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)

on our way

pacifists litter the

sides of these

dirty roads

pied piper leads us

to the trenches of

no return

the mourning will

come later to

wipe up the blood

no one knows they’re

dying yet

no one is smiling

either

Astraea

innocence

born of dusk and dawn

here once beside us

but now, gone

  the hand held out

  is lost without you

  the hand held out

  is filled with plague

  unbearable absence

  to shelter under stars

  as ornamental hope

  just burns away

complete the journey

and return once more

here again beside us

innocence restored

(Image by TawnyFritz on deviantart.com)

stone

buried like treasure

in a chest that won’t open

each accrued love

cast its spell

without reciprocation

the heart is stone,

nothing in

nothing out

and no one searches for

treasure

expecting to find stones

blow out

covenant within the mild

pressure of hands

pressed together in prayer

holy promises last only as

long as you’re told

to stay on your knees

when whispers wander

away from the sacred

words read from text

a lazy sign of the cross

will not heal the

broken god lying within

one look to the sky with

eyes shading towards black

and the stained glass blows out

so many restrictions among

these pews of hypocrites, so

many freedoms outside the door

(Image from elevenwinds.com)

many-eyed

nothing is foolproof

even on this crystal clear day

many-eyed, my troubles are

emphasized in the clarity

along with the bubbling joys

that sparkle without burst

inside looking out, there’s a

billion things to love or hate

rinse/repeat, the thoughts

are blurred and then defined

  i drown in the same mind

  that i enjoy swimming in

across the bridge

no one pays much attention

to the dead little fish still

with a hook in its mouth

lying stiff on the concrete

next to the tangled cut lines

of the long gone fishermen

the wind from the river

picks up a discarded blue mask

and tumbles it across the bridge

adding it to the pile of others

blown in the same direction

discarded the same careless way

the boat show just began and

the smell of money, beer, cigars

and fuel mixes unevenly with the

salt water, salted pretzels and

salty attitudes of affluent hagglers

making million dollar deals

its a clear-sky day in the low 70’s

made for strolling couples walking

hand in hand - i noticed the dead

fish, the pile of masks and the

wealth of wealth - my hands and my

heart felt so detached, so empty

the wand

its not really silence if you can

still hear the screaming inside

my skin is getting so old, my

tongue is tired of putting 

forth the effort

where’s the magician with the

wand of permanent illusion

talk to me God, woman,

salesman, shaman

i’ve got money for pills and

creams and any other quick

fix

the inside’s not broken

its just aging and weary

(Image from pixologic.com)

(My photos) Good Morning! Although that depends on where you are in the world... Be safe, be kind and be a little weird and crazy once in a while... You are the Art! Thank you for choosing to be here for the poetry and stuff, I appreciate You!

 

elsewhere in the darkness

listening closely

from here, so far away

sending technology’s greatest

eyes into the

carefully calculated distances

searching for the slightest

hint of microscopic life

or just the basic building blocks

  hope travels a long way

  for the alien heartbeat

  the fragile movement

  that might exist

  under ice,

  in a gaseous cloud

  or elsewhere in the

  darkness

the hope here is to

live long enough to find it

lest we lose our own

and the eyes return

like a dog from fetch

with a stick in its mouth

but no one to give it to

(Image from universetoday.com)

- owed to Jack Daniel’s

it always started out

wanting to be filled

with something more

than emptiness

the twist of the cap

the break of the seal

the overwhelming aroma

almost sexual, the thrill of it

orgasmic anticipation

sipped upon

ingested

muddled soul and muddy heart

in dire need of arousal

begging in a naked state

of desperation

no love, no religion, no sex

provided such warmth

from lips to tongue

to throat to belly

to body throughout

but the bottle only

contained so much,

there was an unconditional

beginning

but a definitive end

and every hour

spent in elation

was defeated by

twice that spent

in destruction

(Image from pinterest)

the word

i scream the word  DICK  out loud trying to impress her, i stress the  D  with a sharp vengeance and land on the  K  so hard that it reverberates around the room, a small picture on the wall rattles

she laughs and says she really doesn’t care about the emphasis of the word, much less the size of it, she just wants to know what i plan on using it for, and she looks me up and down

a logical and reasonable request, given the fact that she’s already seen it, been there done that a thousand times, i would need a lit sparkler sticking out of a full erection to really wow her now

ahh... sweet intimacy, where have you gone, dropped from the hand and rolled under the refrigerator like a once ripe grape, dried of its juices, the crisp crunch of freshness never savored, deflated to mush

but i love her, and she knows it, and she loves me... even when we tease or intentionally embarrass each other a little, when skin comes to skin, when lips that are tightly engaged in good-fucking’s kiss open in order to breathe through the moment, when i swell and throb and cum everything into her, when she digs into and envelops and accepts me whole... we are first-lovers again...

... her turn now, she whispers the word  P U S S Y , and that’s all it takes...

interpreter

(image from pinterest sakshiblogs11.wordpress.com)

interpreter of enigma

severs ties, with stitched lips

foreseeing dharma

flowing into, flowing out of

dare the stare of eyes

looking away

formless, without direction

to ever return here

among such scum

no - the flight is friendless

without angel

without fiend

without bliss or woe

abandoning

to become

continuous

anywhere else

she didn’t want a poet (my photos)

the world is moving

too fast for truth

words are no sooner alive

and put into action

than found

extinct

  she searched for

  a passionate poet

  but couldn’t handle

  his need for

  solitude

  ily didn’t mean: i love you

  it meant: i don’t have the

  time to type 5 more letters

  and 2 spaces

i gave her a poem

that took me

14 hours of heartache

to write

she said: when i get a chance

i’ll read it

the truth is

she won’t

(My photo)

wretch

rusted and yellowed

the mouth of morning

opens

exhaling onto

the imperfect body of

an unassuming wretch

god within me is

an everlasting monologue

and i arise

to walk along this path

in mumbling soliloquy

god upon me 

blisters acidic and

devours to the bone

as i struggle

to keep pace in this

state of atrophy

tonight

i will lie down

before the eyes of night

freed from this 

faux temple

tonight i will expose

the death of body

opened, exhaling

god released

i can’t see

standing as focus in this

circular crowd of hands

imaginative, echo chamber

and i can’t see the faces

not day, but not night

no top and no bottom

no spotlight - but i feel like

a star with all the attention

every reach for a hand

is action before consequence

and action seeks reaction;

i will hold the one that holds me

a fresh start, companions

but i can’t see the face of

the one i choose to trust,

everything’s out of focus

(Image from wallup.com)

after eggs and toast

i just...

i couldn’t help it,

i had to smack that little 

ass with the spatula

was she asking for it?

well...

i had the spatula

and she had that

ass peeking out from

below her nightshirt

and how does a man

ignore the teasing smile

of a playful woman

when she exposes only

the corner of a face that

just enticed...

i mean,

what was i supposed to do?

  after eggs and toast

and a few more laughs

and her naughty bare foot

in my crotch under the table

she licked the fork clean

and asked “wanna fuc-kuh”

  leaving her mouth open

after that

last

stressed

syllable

and i just...

i couldn’t help it...

that look...

i mean,

what was i supposed to do...

(image source tumblr.crescentmoon06666.com)

so many hours

the poem was not the reason

that the bottle was empty

  it was the result

so many labored hours

trying to push those words

out

  impregnated by

  liquor and sorrow

Morrison sang

  “Yes, The River Knows”

the bed sheets were

sweat soaked

and the poem

... sucked

feed the snake

did you feed the snake today

he’s sliding down that tree again

forkéd tongue that senses prey

the fattened mice, the worst of men

chase the jackals from the fields

let the snake attack the horde

shoo the vultures, let them bleed

the gluttonous rich, the power whores

entice the snake to the marbled homes

pollute the scented groins of wealth

with insect larvae and rodent bones

and watch as evil devours itself

marjoram

i didn’t see Monday coming

but like a weed overnight

overgrown in the garden

with a silence also sudden

to the visitors and keepers

it stinks up the scenery

with an unforgiving presence

so binding its residue that

no one wants to touch it

yet there, in its noxious tangle

of ugliness, a stem protrudes

with a few leaves of marjoram

granting me peace and a day

of happiness otherwise lost

had i only seen the weed

perihelion

maybe today i can touch it

the sun

finally a little bit closer than

any other day this year

i just want to burn my finger

once

on something they tell me

i’m not capable of touching

nothing really feels different

the world

is already burning at a pace

we’re unable to keep up with

i want to break the rule and

stare, i want

to sacrifice my own sight

for a day of peaceful warmth

(image from the Solar Dynamics Observatory)

the pith

murk of

the well

chambered pith

of hell's stem

where i reside

keeper of sins,

feast of fruit for

the infernal spawn

as above

the unworthy

leak and decay

  towards me,

  into me

one by one

push

how close is close enough

before the barrier is broken

and the wall comes down

instance of a push towards

gratification from deprivation,

my own hand at my back

follow the garrulous persuasions

of internal storms that

refuse to subside quietly

take one more step, then

another, and if the broken

pieces get in the way,

jump over them

(altered, original image by Myrica Jones saatchiart.com)

scattered

as many days missing

as i’ve been alive

mentally i’m scattered

  a divergent home to

  folly-harems,

  monks and misers,

  carnival clowns,

  poets and dreamers

but they want to define me

casting nets in the fog trying

to catch, tag and track me

flashlights, their empty beams

searching an endless distance

in bits and pieces

and all around,

often the somber figure

seen or imagined

there i am

collecting myself

there i am

not

(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)