Foxglove

swaying at the border post

where the delightful taunts

are cool and breezy

as they whip the back 

now bleeding again

bring it again

bring it again

weary and reticent

in mute states of pleasure

that sink through the skin

undecided where to go

so puddled their confusion

up and down again

up and down again

murder the cell of memory

that one little regret

now a million thriving foxgloves

come wild come flirtatious

come poisonous prescient friend

consuming again

consuming again

(Photo by Ray’s Photo Art, at society6.com)

Blonde on blue

blonde on blue
my luminescence
my immaculate
uncommon cause of hell

how is that
not beautiful,
the untouched
the honey pulp

in your empty hand
I fall released,
how is that
not beautiful

blonde on blue
the feathered wisps
the stream in the cove
my awaiting

around the corner in America

and rounding the corner

we came upon

an old fist clenching

a new gun

his mouth ripe with

ignorant vulgarities

fresh from the

morning news feed

in somewhat of a

neutral stance he

shook, intending to be

a threat, a protector

and she behind him

still stirring the oatmeal

negating his hollers

with a “Shut up ya Ol’ fool!”

Momma told us not to run

but we did walk a bit faster

and we whispered jokes

about his dirty pants

the light was red

at avenue I and 17th,

two cars with thumping music

rev’d their engines

the Ol’ man retreated

his fist hidden to his waist

mumbling about a time when

most of the street’s gravel

was still white

Holy shit I’m 50... fuck 50! (not a poetry post)

My photo, age 50

My photo, age 50

This is just a post to celebrate myself, 50 years on this spinning hell-stone, self-rescued from a lot of life’s bullshit, some of it self-inflicted, some of it on purpose, some of it out of my control... but I’m proud of myself for keeping in shape, trying to eat healthy most of the time, raising 2 of the best children a father could ever ask for and overcoming alcoholism, fits of depression, divorce, foreclosure and bankruptcy... for the most part I am at peace and comfortable with life... I need to write more... I need to become a recluse and fight to find better poetry... I need a love that understands and allows my personality... I need to make it to 60 - and then we’ll see...

this cut of land

gray lines have yet to form
surface smooth as river rock
sun upon this cut of land
sky immune to the killing-clock

early feast, the sweetest dew
silence moves in secrecy
partaken flower, wanton tongue
and entrances to lunacy

remember when the ambered boasts
huddled in a dream forlorn
taste again the need to begin
springtime seed with hunger born

save these best, these innocent
thrills of eyes, this priming vice
where guilty hands have yet to touch
true beauty thrives with tempered fright

As I take into you

Unnerving

Impulsive

To stimulate the preoccupied

into moving in new directions

Imperfect lust

I never know your

infantile ambition

Your silly stumbling

There she is

as she was and will be

and I wear the armor

that protects and hinders

Unlock the music

The songs that must play

as I take into you

Subtle

Unobtrusive

( thoughts on being an introvert )

the hardest part
is trying to find a balance

wanting to be alone
just maddens those around me

its a simple thing
to have solitude be contentment

and give them not the song
nor the slightest tune in humming

love and loneliness

coffee by the window 

contemplating love and

loneliness,

how do I fit 

in a hand that wants to

hold 

what won’t be held

love is the snow

cold dead and beautiful

loneliness, the fire

pure warm and destroying

what stirs the seed

in the fallow soils of heart,

what breaks these eyes

of their far-off blissful staring

Finish room

Sipping melancholy thru a clouded straw

I cant right the ship,

I hope you know how to swim

You

Standing there,

Enough to make the world shake

... I never felt the change

What evils now

undo themselves,

the creaking door

the sliding chain

She lets me in at night,

She has no sin

so I give her mine

this is the Finish Room

I know my bullet waits for me

the animals

domesticate the animals 
these people will eat you
(everything is an illusion)

sounds from a room
sex or death
coming or going,
I nail the door shut
the stench is overwhelming
(the kids shouldn’t see this)

you and your soft porn eyes,
my celestial high
my overground

what will I do without you
when the fears reawaken,
without your touch,
without the promise of everafter

(Of Sex and Death Art Print by mjtillustration)

A beautiful man
falls limp
in the sun
radiation of
a beautiful woman

(Image from www.mcadjessica.com)

And the touch of her hand

even though it was a mistake

was a thrill-full grace 

from heaven

Unfinished around her

body as a writhing mime 

I am unfinished around her

eyes blind and hands are seers

elevated “kiss” translates to “fuck”

stream of blood the flow of soul 

live from the cut as she licks it up

morph from ordinary lovely flower

to strange hideous fire

and writhing mime

I write for you

because I will never have you

So this is everything

and nothing at all

beginnings are here

endings are here

where I bloom

radiate

decay

I can not touch

but I write the word... touch

and feel every part of you

rough to smooth

welcomed torture

wishing for an hour

of holding you

happiness, no

instead

another poem

and a lifetime

of suffering