The Mulberry tress

The Mulberry tress
The overhangs the fence
Drop its fruits
To stain the
Concrete purple bird poop
On the driveway.

Fill with Mary Jane

Fill with Mary Jane
Press the skin
Between fore finger
And thumb
Roll smooth and slow
Lick the skin
Light and enjoy
My friend.

Sleeping

Sleeping
Is being unaware
Of the world.
The T V plays
I do not near it
I snore
I do not hear it.
Dream reality
Control.
The places I go;
Denver mixed with Boulder
St. Louis with Boston.
This is no little death
As some poets was
Have us believe.
There is light in the darkness
Of our dream head.
Sleep
The birds can not wake me
With the meldy of their songs.
It is rush hour in my head
I shall little remember
What is said

I am Americus

I am Americus

I am Americus
Know me by Polish
Know me by Irish
My skin dark
In its brownness
Call me Ginsburg,
Rys and Vorhies
My brothers call me Padma
My sisters call me Circe.
I am Corso, Tarquino
Brownstein and Mohammad.
The sum of my whole
Is the measure of my American soul.
The Rocky Mountain
Is my back bone.
I am a janitor in East St. Louis
I do not speak English in Arizona
I landscape Denver
Farm pigs in Mississippi,
I cut hair in Boston
Collect trash in Milwaukee
I am a painter and a poet
Call me Waldman and Pound
Call me Tennessee and T. S. and
Teasdale.
Call me running Bear and Rhianno
There is Italian in my favor
There is Spanish and
The German of my fore fathers
In my walk and my talk,
Korea and Chinese.
I sell news papers
On a corner in Cambridge
The sum of my whole
Is the measure of my American soul.
I wash pots in D. C.
Answer phones in Cleveland,
I raise chickens in Arkansas
And horses in Kentucky.
Call me Wardell.
I am fishing off
The coast of Maine
Digging holes in Austin
And working Crawdads in Louisiana.
I unload baggage in Kono
And load them Greyhound
In Sacramento,
I’m teaching my whole in
Denver and Cheyenne.
I cut trees in Olympia,
I brew coffee in Salem
Build churches in Salt Lake City.
I volunteer in North Dakota
And write radio ads there.
I clean the streets of Time Square,
I clean the shore of Myrtle Beach
I am Fredrick and Johnson,
Smith and David, Phillip and Glen,
I have walk on the moon
Thomas, Patricia, Emma and Gloria
And Phyllis, call me Wheatly.
I am mining copper in Montana,
I dance my Americanism
At Fort Ancient.
I died a little in Oklahoma City.
I am Americus
I am cooking Rockfish
On Chesapeake Bay
I am Americus
I am the follower of Ruch Limbauh
And Barack Hussein Obama
Call me Federico and Jose
Alexandra and Anstasy
I pump oil off of Prudhoe Bay
I am Akaka and Baldacci
My fathers are the Scottish of Pembina
I fought at Fort orange and was born in New Amsterdam
Before my name became
The sum of my whole
Is the measure of my American soul.
I built Fort Pierre and Fort Laramie
Call me Zebulon, Cuyuna and Mesabi.
I am the crossroad of the east
The garden state, the pine tress state
The state of granite stone
And tar heel and ocean
Call me Gettysburg and Parris Island
Call me the town of the long canoes
Call me O’odham and Choctaw and Creek
Eahota Cherokee and Hoosier.
The sum of my whole
Is the measure of my American soul.
I am Americus I died in the Black Hawk War
I make cheese in Wisconsin
I grow cotton in Arkansas
Call me Kim, Daan, Cho Hee and Takashi
I help to build the railroads
Call me Rafael, Ralph and Raoul
I am Americus, I am Yoko
I am father of waters
I am the people of the black hill spruce
The people of the mountain,
The tribe of superior man
The sum of my whole
Is the measure of my American soul.

The Mulberry tress

The Mulberry tress
The overhangs the fence
Drop its fruits
To stain the
Concrete purple bird poop
On the driveway.

Under the Spring Rain

A woman collecting cans from the dumpster
With her baby in a stroller
Do not care that the spring rain is falling.

Lick the skin

Lick the skin
Then a pocket
Crease at one end
Fill with mary jane
Press the skin
Between fore finger
And thumb
Lick the skin
Light and enjoy
My friend.

Sleeping

Sleeping
Is being unaware
Of the world.
The T V plays
I do not near it
I snore
I do not hear it.
Dream reality
Control.
The places I go;
Denver mixed with Boulder
St. Louis with Boston.
This is no little death
As some poets was
Have us believe.
There is light in the darkness
Of our dream head.
Sleep
The birds can not wake me
With the meldy of their songs.
It is rush hour in my head
I shall little remember
What is said

Spring rain

Spring rain
A cat heading home
If not for a worm
The Robin wasn’t
Land so close to me.

Nearly drowned out

Nearly drowned out by
The noise of traffic
The songs of birds
Hidden in the late spring
Of trees.

Listening to the Mississippi in spring

Listening to the Mississippi in spring
Washing against the bank
A Robin sings.
-


A Starling picks up
A discarded cigarette butt
That I throw into the street
Nature has use for everything
-

Someone has killed the clock

Someone has killed the clock
Of its tick tock.
The street lights has
Killed the night stars
As sure as the Robin kills worms
And chickens are kept in a cage to earn.
The i-pod has killed the transistor radio
As sure as the sunlight kills the snow.
Such things are as such things goes.
The sun itself will kill earth
When in time its heat shall grow.
Death be not a stranger to the living,
They are but two sides of the same coin.
To spend one you must spend the other
And not change in giver in return.
Sorry to you that you shall hear
That when it’s spent, that’s all my dear.
But what of heaven, you may ask
A human fanatic fantasy at best
A comfort coin that we hope to redeem
A payment for doing what we perceive
As doing the right thing
But take comfort in this to know
That this poet may surely be wrong
And there is a heaven above
And a hell below
If so only the faithful of each shall go
For in the matter of such things
You must believe
For it to effect you so
This much I know
Neither heaven nor hell
I have on my side
So what of me when I die?
I little care and little know
As sure as the March winds
In St. Louis blows
Do not feel pity on my soul
If I have one be it so
For it has been fed by force of will
To believe in the now and here.
If a God I must choose
I’ll call her Nature and no more
For she is all that I behold
She is greater in her whole
Then any God of old

Spring in St. Louis

The drums talk to me
It says to move my feet
To the rhythm of my heart beat
The rain sang the same
Beating on the tin of the gutter
And rusted roofs of
Shot-gun homes of Mississippi.
The birds; Robins, Sparrows and Starling
Sing their song in the early morning
Light of rain soaked St. Louis.
Bees buzz about the Iris
And spring roses growing in the back yard
None of this is noise
But the songs of life
Being itself by nature’s light.
Sometime I must remind myself
That the grass is alive, that the trees are too
In cities across Americus the need to remind
Oneself is nothing new
For among the noise of machines
That peoples our lives we loose the songs.
Baby Black birds are flapping their wings to be fed
As father birds overturn last season’s leaves
In their hunt for worms.
It is mid spring in St. Louis
Somewhere in the world teenager boys
Are scraping bomb to their chests
For a suicidal Jihad to earn their place in
A heaven that is paved with the death
Of the innocent, it is the rite of spring
To use such deadly machines but spring
Is innocent of such things
I listen hard to hear the beating of Blue jay’s wings
But my radio is on and the news of the
World sadden me to hear that man can not live
Without wars that tear open the land; killing
Trees and bees and birds that know nothing of the
Gods in which we fight for.
The boys are throwing rocks and shoes
The girls are drugged to prostitute
In spring this is nothing new
Nature weeps her rain
It beat a reframe
Do you hear the song that it sang?
The drums are silent today.
The early morning birds have gone away.
The roses have all gone blind
And the bees are all dying.
It is mid spring in St. Louis
Everywhere about us nature is alive
But man deny her Godhead
For a God that live in the distant sky.

Playing God

I was harassing an ant
When the phone ringed
It was time to put
Playing God on hold
It was Mark calling from Denver
A fly flew into the kitchen
And in it busy body way
It began harassing me
Swapping with my hand
Didn’t deter it from
Buzzing about my head
We get what we give
It is not that
I have anything against ants
Its just that it was a meditation
Of playing with a creature
That’s smaller then me.
All right fly
I said after hanging up the phone
Let me see what you got against human
I rolled up some news paper
But the fly proved
To be more agile then my tool.
Having earned its freedom
I open the screen door
And tried to sho the fly out
But it was having none of it
I am giving you a change to live
I said
It was time to play God again.

Sometimes it’s good

Sometimes it’s good to
Forgive, forget, forbear.
Sometimes it’s good to
Live with little regret.
Sometime it’s good to
Rush, to relax, to relive.
Sometime to take and to give
Each thing in its own time
Caught within the mill
The web, the time, the rime
That life makes of the skin
Sometime it’s good to
Will, to weal, to weep.
Sometime it’s good to
Want, to wish, to work.
Sometime it’s good to
Wrestle with the angels
To dig in the dirt
Beside your God.
Sometime odd we use the rod.
Sometime sometime itself
Will rob us of the moment
Sometime we pen a poem,
Blow justice’s horn, witnessing
It being born in a hunger
Reserved for coins
Sometime it’s good to
Meditate on the sun.
To take what is freely given
With a grace that the chance
Of a sometime might blossom forth
In focally form found in the furnace
Where a something of the self
Is pulling the nails from my hands.
Sometime it’s good to
Remember to forget, remember
To forgive and forbear the burden that you bear.

Standing solitary in yellow grief illness

Standing solitary in yellow grief illness
I mind kiss his lips
He knows not my dark wet sorrow, my red desires
He knows not my candle in the wind moment
Slow and uneven in this raining night.
His face brightness exiled me into heterosexual state
Where I remember my own childhood cries
-faggot! -queer!
Back when summer brought shorts on bikes
And bear back view of bent backs.
Now my thoughts penetrate his clothing,
My hands would mingle through his hair,
Beneath my slight blue breath, I whisper river bank poems
Filled with deep autumn aspen leaves, wind, rain, mud and hand rubbing him clean.
Standing in my yellowish sorrow on this withering Denver street
I am sunk in night rain
To know who isn’t in his arms.
I am here to take him if he comes into my wet.
I am not the strongest of my kind
Here collecting different views of him;
Movie camera zooming in masterfully
To catch every hair’s end
Every silent touch of his tongue movement
Every new, old growth that fall from him
In this crystals rain
Every east wind blink
Every dead finger nail petal, when pressed the color of strawberry spots.
My sight sucks on him double through magnify drops
On my lashes and all is clear
All drift through, coming from and into me
My river blood is stirred
Touching every hill and valley in this creation that is me.
Only his breath is held from me
Rain keep it low
East wind keeps it far
Making his breathe flow an unfrequented spot for no return.
Within a wet foot of my face
This cold oily night neon crack
Like butterscotch candy dropped into hot coffee,
Color swirl on the surface
Of muddy concrete
Rain steam up in small drops moved by the waves of wind
Rain steams off hot surface of street lights, it brighten city cars
A painted face slides away.
Barely visible is he, pieces scattered in a sign blink.
I stand erect in chill
Ready to travel home
To flood my way alone
And he is before me
Having skipped water to reach me
Asking me to ferry him home
Yet I have no boat but words
Do I dare to poetize his beauty?
Up close, his lips are as ripe as sweet pea pods
And as red as pomegranate seeds
I look away
He is amused and I feel that we are traces in wet world with living them.
I allow his amusement to be my resource;
Inquiring into his winds and storms
He laugh
I look down at myself
He stop and with both hands touches
I am rewarded when he kiss spectacle for any watching.
His sweet pea lips have warmth behind them
His camera eyes have a steel shrapnel spark,
His touch is gentle thunder.
He is real with past affairs, fears,
He has played the actor.
I want to get to know him
To enter into the room that he is
To sleep with him without Thornwood under our pillows
To enter and if his river be frost wine
I will be steam tweezers
Blood blister rushing into his story
Removing frost that all flow;
Like the name of his father, mother
And the look of strangers whom have boiled him.
I make comments, speak of his dew down
On imperial phoenix,
On his home and its color,
On dust scent darken behind summer sandals.
We reach my room, I offer rice, beans and poetry;
Delicious eye food removed from the icebox for small talk.
He dries himself and strip to pose in my wicker chair
Asking my gazing eyes
For more then a bath robe
My only, made of Korea red silk.
I see in him night long
And day long our song with sweet sweat falls.
I see sorrow one shade into blue and buried learned ways
I see chill beside warmth with a greenish hue.
Height-long in sweat
We lay erect, breathe locked
His face brightness is now mine
I am becoming stronger with my kind.

A euphoria of mind

With some of my
Stimulus check
I brought some weed
Straight from the island
Jamaican grown far from home
Here in St. Louis, MO. USA.
O Mary Jane you are
A singular beauty
A euphoria of mind
Hard to be defined
This may not be
What Obama had in mind
Seeing that he
Will not legalize
Still I’m feeling fine
With my breath
Smelling of cannabis rhymes
Mary, you are earthy
In your mood
I play tunes
Bob Dylan and Phil Ochs
Phil broke his strings
When he took his life.
On occasions I have thought
To do so
But Mary Jane held me
To smoke and solider on
mary
She shift the
Busyness of being human
Into a gear reserve for her
Where music comes alive
To the ears
And munchies rumble in the belly
Within her high is the flows
The broken code is
Love me I’m a liberal.
From here on it becomes difficult
To find a man for president
That hasn’t tried sweet weed
A sign of the times
Here in the USA
Mary Magdalene
Smooth my feet
My preferred drugs
THC nicotine and caffeine
And from time to time
A little Jamaica rum
All stimulates me
O Mary, part mother
Part let down of the Gods
I bow to the soldier’s peace
And for the war deed
I weep mother Mary pray for me
I am of the generation
Of Thai Sticks and Panama Red
Rasta hair wrap me up
And I must
Be moved by the joint,
By the skins and weed
Please myself with day-lit dreams
It seem a new mind is in me,
The edge is taken off of the sting
That living in the life brings.
So light that if you got them
Set yourself free.

Sixteen years ago

Sixteen years ago Wendy
Lost some acid wrapped in tin foil
The biggest trip of all
We turned the art room
Up side down,
Crayon standing on blunted point
Matte medium tipped dripped to the floor
Linseed oil’s stearic odor stirred air thick
Alizarin crimson, raw sienna hair
Teased hard gum under desks
Prussian blue eyes reflected hard glaze
Of class made potters;
Deform youthful interpretation
Of professional creation.
Old ms Allison’s fingers wrinkled
Half empty tubes of burnt sienna
Squeezed in-between draws
As she lectured us on the value
Of being caution
While Johnny was at the window
Dividing conti into sunlight’s timbre.

Among the small talk,

Among the small talk, the song on the jukebox
and a high cloud of cigarette smoke
Swirling in the neon's glow
She stands at the ping ball machine
And shots from the hips.
A tail of hair at her neck shifts
With each thrust of her body
Racking up points as if fallen conquests.
She holds the machine as if its
An animal in need of taming.
A set of keys on a chain jiggle at her hips.
She pivot on her toes
And slam the ball up.
When the ball slips through the flippers
She brings her hand down hard onto the glass
As the machine rolls up number after number
In an ecstasy of flashing lights and beeps
Then she let it go gently
And take a satisfying drink from her bottle of beer

Loneness is owned by us all

Loneness is owned by us all
At one time or another
Sometime so much that from
The bed you hate to craw
So I just roll over in
The morning and let
My body fall.

I’ll take off your hands

I’ll take off your hands
And show you little lines
Then you can come into my rooms
That I reserve for the blind.

I went to the pawn shop

I went to the pawn shop
To get some coins
But the man turned me down
Say he don’t take nothing broken
Especially black hearts
From out of town.

Among the small talk, the song on the jukebox

Among the small talk, the song on the jukebox
and a high cloud of cigarette smoke
Swirling in the neon's glow
She stands at the ping ball machine
And shots from the hips.
A tail of hair at her neck shifts
With each thrust of her body
Racking up points as if fallen conquests.
She holds the machine as if its
An animal in need of taming.
A set of keys on a chain jiggle at her hips.
She pivot on her toes
And slam the ball up.
When the ball slips through the flippers
She brings her hand down hard onto the glass
As the machine rolls up number after number
In an ecstasy of flashing lights and beeps
Then she let it go gently
And take a satisfying drink from her bottle of beer

What matter of man

What matter of man
Matter much more
The tight thin form
Of the man he morn.

Insurance Man

Insurance Man

Mama, phone!
Is it a white man?
I don’t know.
Boy, is it a white man?
I think so.
Tell ‘em I aint home.

City light pimple this night

City light pimple this night
In red, green, light salmon,
And neon gash flash blink
Bright alive.
In red, green, light salmon,
And neon gash flash blink
Bright alive.

The American Killer

The American Killer




Wonder not what makes me want to kill when I am nurtured along the way by the American will to feel the butt of a gun.
Call me the American murder who in the act of killing find the place in history that I was born to by deed of killing in April.
I am the trigger that is squeezed by a bold hand that weight your life in my palm my trigger finger itches when I hunt the places of your gatherings; I impose my will to instill my kind of forward funny fear.
I am the striker of blood that runs in the dark muzzle of your streets, from me there is no peace of comfort.
I am the belted bullet pushed into the American flesh.
The safety of poetry can not save me when it’s my recoil pad absorbing the shock that report like a thump.
In the shadows of Eric Harris and Dylan Kelbold, bold shadows fortified by the murder of the innocence running for their lives behind the bullets that I let fly in the American grain; in their shadows I am violent and sane in an insane world that shall come to know my name.
I am the criminal act that made the Atom bomb boast its might in the mushroom bellow crown cloud of destruction.
I am one caught in the sex of violent along with it wanting it from my TV and the computer’s light lit by a thousand minds that play at violent to pass the time with computerize guns in hand.
I spilled the blood at Virginia Tech, I am the American man.
I am as old as the blood on the torn building in Oklahoma.
I am the American child dreaming of the daily violent of cartoons that put me in tune to create my form of danger.
I am one and the same insane notion that the lives of others are not worth the broadcast of murder nightly told to my children by the local news, each killing anew the telling as if never once told.
I am not alone; many are my followers who shall come from the war fought in a foreign land full of sand where my killing and the notion of death is spilled on the streets with the speed of a bullet meant to blunt the bloody body bold.
I am the American boy-man dreaming of the report of guns, dreaming of Lizzy Borden and the innocent of OJ.
I am not afraid to take my life after my killing is done.
I am the maker of the American history by my acts.
You are cheated of killing the killer that kills himself,
And I am the killer in the making meaning to make my mark on the consciousness of the masses minding the store.
I hate nor love life with a grain of sand, my killing makes me guarded and grand I am the American man.
I lick your blood in the bloody streets from East L. A. to the White House and St. Louis of the east and the fields of wheat growing grains in the low land I till my will to kill.
I am the killer of men, the reaper with loaded guns in hand.
I have the God-like power to end as many lives as I can, as suit my fancy; no one is innocent in my cross hair no one.
So count yourself lucky if I hit the mark, you and I shall live forever less our union is soon forgotten as is the American’s way of healing the wounds that I make.
I am the heart in the theater of war, I can end your destiny with my killing and you shall become apart of the plot of the American rot of its soul by violent, home bred, home nurtured, home hammered into the killer that I am.
I fear no God, bowl to no master; I am the killer at hand.
You will know me by the blood that I spill when I kill.
You will know me by the broadcast and press that I generate, the world shall come to speak my name and there in is my fame I am the American killer kind to my murderous deed done in my time of need, my bullets shall set you free as was done in the April of Waco.
I am the American killer’s kin to violent by killing.
I feed on the fear that I engender I am the American killer man.
My fore fathers killed the Indians and lynched the blacks back when we were spreading the manifest destiny of spilling blood to run from sea to sea in the sight of the killing of the buffalo and the beavers and the eagles.
In wonder will you look back to the sniper on your back.
You shall know no safety in your public places, from post office to restaurants, to malls, schools, and churches, I shall raise to do my killing, blame me not, I am an American born to the deeds of my murderous hands, I have eaten my victims, I am the son of Sam, the Green River killer, H. H. Holms and Henry Lee Lucas.
I am everywhere unfound until it’s my time to make my mark on our history known, April is my month of choosing for killing.
Broadcasters shall fight to know my name when the deed is done, they shall rush to tell my story in bits and bites to entice, I am the news of the day the way that we get to know ourselves.
I shall be the conversation around the coffee pot.
I shall mystify the philosophers the politicians and the poets with my American violent sprung from the hind-end of the heartland from the making of a killer willing to make his mark bark for attention and recognition that I am the murderous American man.
I am our history in the making do not fear me do not fend me let the poets not mock me with theirs antique rimes.
Call me mass murders call me mad call me anti social for in the end you will be called the American made man that win.
My murder is a happenstance that will change your life to create a history between us that stands through time, it is my grasp for fame to make myself divine in my private war waged with my American mind, I do not sin to win I kill as killing is my God given will.
I am the American man fit for the one-sided fight of taking a life.
I am the American killer; I am your sinful needs to be me.
Let the poets praise my name let them believe in this reframe,
I am the American killer, I am the American killer, I am the American man bold and boastful I can fulfill my need to kill.

I dreamt that I grew bruises

I dreamt that I grew bruises
Over my skin and the earth
And every living creature
Bruises that went to feaster like
North St. Louis in the heart
Of Americus.

My eyes red from night burn

My eyes red from night burn
Reflect grey early Sunday morning sky
Feeling good inside
With the death of leaves
World looks bigger then even man can destroy.
Red squirrel’s fur gather at the gutter
Fog circle porcelain sparrow
Wired to mulberry tree.
Across the way, in a rusted barrow
Burning wood and paper,
Flake grey ash flicker in air.
Black-ash flummoxed hands of newsboy,
Man’s hands inclement in flume
To sell the headline of ourselves.

Spectators rattling

Spectators rattling
In the stands
Metal chairs pushed
Aside
Tom tom tom
Tone talk
Pow wow
Letting out.

Saturday Morning

Saturday Morning

She sits with a magazine
Opened in her hands
Sit with her legs crossed at the knees
She watches her clothing
Tumble in the dryer
She closes her eyes to sneeze.

Love dead to the mind

Love dead to the mind
Dies in the heart
At it own speed
Wilted from the top
It leaves its roots
Veins through out the heart
Far to deep for reaching
Without tearing the ground apart.

Introduction to The Trinity

Introduction

Body, soul, and mind, the trinity of the self. The three-fold holy entries submitted for the judgment of others, of who we are in the personal myth that we call our memories held tight in our space in the world, our skin taking up space in nature: my one holy and honored God glorious and grand. Each woman and man his own myth half remembered and his God never forgotten by the breath.
Sun, Earth, and Moon, Love, Hate, and Indifference, each in a fashion we are subject to despite the consciousness of the flash’s insistence that it is the center of the world.

In us is the long forgotten history of the singular self that we store up in the minds that we keep tight and tugged fit for the telling to the young, telling about what it is that we have seem and learned and felt in the passing of time and our place in the flow moving toward the death that awaits us; the consequences of being flesh that must feast full its desires and needs. None before and none after in the make of our bones, we each are one of a kind, king of our breath shared with green growth that give. Being born a poet we deal in the divinity of words and thought and emotion, the trinity of the pen. We are priest and philosopher, and politician of the arts. The realization that this world was partly made for us partly because we as human are out numbered by the bounty of life being itself without regrets, seemly unconcern with any singular part but full of itself, life is greedy in its growth, glorious and gifted

The narcissist self, the grandiose self and the admired self of which we are made deep in the common thickness of our bones, we are all three. Dose Blake’s tiger knows that it is, is full of the pride of self of knowing the self as one partly secret in the world, deep within this secret self that we keep to ourselves, the trinity. We are all the trinity of the self kept deep within our needs to breathe and feed and breed.

Morning News 1

Morning News 1

The body of an unidentified automobile was found to be carrying Saturday
Morning after it ran a stop department in the St. Louis
Metropolitan area. Traveling at a high rate of speed
The 25 years old automobile was shot and wounded by the police
As it speed westbound just south of 5:45 a.m.
St Louis gave chase, firing several shots at the fleeing highway.
It is reported that the estrange automobile was mechanically wounded
That it hit a road sign, then a tree and lastly overturned spilling spring
Out over the city
Clean up is expected to continue for the next three mouths.




2

Body of unidentified
Black man about 25
Was found Sunday morning
In a north side trash dumpsite
Shot in right arm, shot in chest
Strangled with a tie, lift around his neck
Red and brown intercepting lines, wide cut
Out of style, heavily stained
One toe unfound, athlete feet at its worst
One finger cut through, nails full of dirt
Where grew a young peach tree bent toward earth.

A St. Louis Tale

Old man, old man
Cussing on the street
To an old woman
About the money for the meat

Old man, old man
Knocked the woman down
She hit him back so hard
That he start to spin around

Old man, old man
Just wont let it end
He hit the woman back
And she spent him aroung again

Old man, old man
Never gone to stop-
She pulled a knife
Sliced him once
There the old man droped

Old man, old man
Nothing do he say
Three-hundred fifty bucks
For the plot where he lay

Old woman, old woman
Sent off to jail
She was to slow inside
That she caught a lot of hell

Old woman, old woman
Finally made parole
She bought a spoon, rented a room
Just above the store

Old woman, old woman
Had a midnight fright
A youngest from the neighborhood
Broke her with his knife.

Angel of My Desiring

Angel of My Desiring

I wake to find you raining in your face
Our bedroom have known many storms
The maple outside kisses the window
Your thorns puncture the pillow
Why do you cry when the spirit of drought
Is in the wisdom land?
Black bellies swell, the rivers are dried
And ravens do not feed he who will be the next king.
You ware your love as a child in your belly
Your body is lean as a man in need of his water
In need of bread
I shall gather some sticks to fashion your wings
With oil from my skin will I smooth your prays
My sins remember will I hang in your hair
Go, show yourself in the wisdom land
Strike rain from the God‘s cheeks
The hidden prophets lay in wait beneath
The sand they wake in the sounding of your feet
Your lean body is leasing to the eye
But I have drunken my fill
And time will come to drink again
Go, show yourself in the wisdom land
Where pain holds its counsel
I shall bake you two cakes of mud and grass
To eat and give back to the land.

For Charlie Ike

For Charlie Ike


When my grand daddy died at 76 years
He left behind what he could not take with him.
All that he took was his memories and his last breath.
Mother said “Take what you wish, what will fit”
I took his tool and his ties and a hand crafted leather wallet tooled with a hunting dog on it.
What we leave behind still have use in them
No matter how old and used by age
A screwdriver can out live the hand that used it
So too a steel wrench and hamper no matter how worn smooth the wooden handle itself once a tree, no matter how rusted the head.
In his youth as a teenager he was a stripper striping the bark off of Mississippi Yellow Pines
He drove the mule along the bank of the Mississippi, pulling dead trees down the river.
In his age he took care of the lawns of white folks who lived across the tracks of Laurel Mississippi; brick homes in contrast to the wooden shot-gun with the add on bath room and news paper as wall paper that he called home.
He had the habit of rising early with the sun
He didn’t smoke or drink and kept the good book bedside
He never wore jewelry, not even a watch, time was told to him by force of habit; the routine of his day like clock work.
In his last few years he was confined to bed as was his want because he had fallen and broke his left leg at the knee and it healed out of joint and he was told by the doctor that he was too old to take the operation.
He once told me that when he was a kid and use to run errands for the old white man that lived down the road and across the cotton field told him that some day that he was going to get as old as him.
Grand daddy said “Then I was too young to know but that old man was right”
Grand daddy would lay in his bed and sing,
“When I’m gone, someone is going to moan
But Lord just give me that long white robe to put on”.

All Round the Bric-a-Brac

All round the bric-a-brac
The bugle blowing beagle brag.
I’ve a salty song full of bitter bite
That will forever litter last.
He blows a tight tune slow then fast
To make you take to the deadly dance.
A toot- toot in time tell the rime
Of the musical meaning that he have in mind.
Come and join me you calico cat caught
That plays the drums loud and proud.
Come with your bongo you rat that rattle and hides in the gras,s
And you the caged bird add your stony song to accompany
The music of the tamed beasts who keep human company.
The pecking pigeons wearing pajamas
Flap their white washed wings
And the dead leaves of last season
Began the dance on the brazen breeze.
The sun never so high that by it I can spy by
That the whole world is indeed alive
Beneath the saggy surgery sky.
You the hamster on your wheel’s run
To the rhythm that you feel
Come and join with all your joint.
No better orchestration can be fully found
Then what is writ without sounds.
Pigs of the world play your piccolos
As oysters in tone on the oboes.
The B-flat clear clarinet blown by the
Zebu bovine uses to grazing on the grass
Let us hear what can not last but is best
Heard in the low land of the meadow,
Down by the lake where the horses drink
The bassoons to the tune of horse that race
When the fold is born to run and raid wild as horses at play.
The chow chow will not run away
But play the vibraphone and xylophone to the tune
Of the telephone that rings in the darkness of a stranger’s voice.
O hear the music of the world even the voices of men
That curse the darkness caught in the crushing cat call
That can carry the pitch of wanting to mate beneath the moon.

Johnny Cash is singing

Johnny Cash
Is singing
On a Sunday morning
I wish I was stoned
Well I am with Mary Jane
And pen in hand
Chasing the high of a sunny sky
Early April first Sunday of it
Easter and my 56th birthday
Fills the month
I am a spring baby born
But such a deadly month it is too
Columbine, Waco,
Oklahoma bombing, Virginia Tech
But it has given us
Abraham Lincoln
And Martin Luther King Jr.
TS Eliot called it
The cruelest month
Still I associate it with spring
The new born I was born to
The fruit trees bloom to bear fruit
Yet the late April snow
Heavy and wet
Still born then with a freeze
New beginnings the daffodils
And tulips bring color to the world._

Late March

The snow has melt
The high winds of
Late March
The ait is filled
With Dogwood petals.

Spring

At the base
Of the Dogwood tree
Fallen white blosson
On the late March snow

There's a Sparrow Singing

There’s a sparrow singing
But I can’t tell where.
Yes there!
He is on the roof
Across the alley
Half hidden by the electric lines.
Now that I have found him
He ceases his calls
And fly’s off out of sight
But by a poet was the moment caught.
Such simple things are a joy to behold.
The industrious nature of sparrows
And starling gathering dead grasses
To feather their nest in mid March.
The squirrels burying their stores
When fall hint of the winter to come.
The way the heat of the sun
Warms the back of my hands
And half my face, the moon that wanes
With such nightly grace.
All are a wondrous thing to behold.
As winter and spring fight it out
Green is returning to the trees.
The Crabapples are in bloom,
The Tulip leaves have broken ground.
I watch last season’s fallen leaves
Dance in the wind on the concrete.
It seen to me that other creatures
Are more in tune with nature
Then man yet, deep within me I
Suspect that this is not so
Man will do as man was born to
Such is his nature as nature dictates
For ill and saintly are his ways.
Two morning doves are feeding
Side by side and I suspect
That they are life long lovers
As one mount the other in mating,
Birds do not hide their sex as
Man who takes to cover.

Mid March In St. Louis

It is mid March
In St. Louis
Spring and winter
Negotiate their hold
Night mostly
Dug in cold,
When the sun
Has set beneath
The horizon
Blocked by
A block of building
That houses the old
Shadows in their
Slow yet relentless
Motion on earth
By it’s nature
Offer us a cold
While sunlight
Warms half
The face.
Bird calls
Starling, sparrows
Black birds and crows
The high pitched signal
Of a cardinal
In his color bold.

Am I Meant to Be Your Baby

Am I meant
To be your baby
Am I meant
To make you cry
Am I meant
To lose love lately
And meant not
To question why

Chasing the High

The sun’s heat
On my left side
Of my face,
On the back
Of my hand.
The wind
On the back
Of my neck.
Mid March
In St. Louis
Is fair,
The tulip leaves
Has broken ground,
The daffodils in bloom,
Easter lilies will
Come soon.
I smoke a roach
And chase it
With a Colt 45;
Chasing the high
By musing
On the distend
Reached by
The heat of the sun;
To so still warm
Such things
Are the things
Of the musing
Of poets.
Thoughts high born, yes
But not bold
Men have thought
The sun a God
Long ago.

When the Dead Lie beneath the Stone

When the dead
Lie beneath
Their stones
The crows
Preached there
Perchance to indulged
In conversation
Of the living known.
Where forth by soul
Does the dead goes;
The souls of dead dogs
Cat and Catholic boys
And the once
Swift cheetah?
The dead have
No breath to bate you
They will not argue
With you about life.
Death is close to the bone
It never linger long
Like the bones
Bleached by time
The dead will
Speak in dreams
But not of
What in death
They have seen,
What lives
Beyond death
Is a secret and private thing.

Nature Made Sex to Feel Good

Nature made sex
To feel good
There’s no
Two ways about it
If I could
I would most
Surely doubt it
Whether man to man
Woman to woman
Or any combination
You count it
The goodness
Is to insure
That we can’t
Live without it.

When I Die

When I die
I will leave
Behind my keys
Still useful
My under wares
Questionable
My money
Maybe
I’m living
Close to the bone
These are something
Of the things
That we are caught with
When we
Are taken
By death
But what concerns me
Is leaving behind
My unprotected poems
You have
No doubt heard
Some poet say
That they are like children
Birth by words
From deep within
In life I protected them
With promotion
I am dedicated
To their survival

And I Said

And I said
That the truth
Of the thing
Is to be read
In the eyes
That tells so much
By taking in.
Married to light
Dim or bright
Refection of
A dark pupil.
Blue eyes iris
Brown, hazel,
Green
Red in a photograph
What does eyes means?
Eyes with rain
Drops on the lashes.
Eyes rubbed
Against a dull sleep.
Eyes that saw
The crime yes saw
The whole damn thing.
Eye full of the moon
Eyes can not
Masquerade
As something else.
Eyes are always
About seeing;
A journey
Till they are closed
And in sleep we see
Without our eyes
And this sight
Is as real as if
Informed by light.
Eyes are a wonder
In their common
Configuration
They focus with ease
Till age grow them old
And they blur the small
Print of information
That other which
Us not to read.
Light focused
On the lens of the retina
Shows us our private
Movies of the art
Of living our lives
In the light.
None are born
Without eyes
That spy upon the world.
In creatures big and small
I am told
That deep within
Some dark cave
There lives a mole creature
That goes about blind
It has no need
For eyes,
What are its dreams like
Full of scent and feeling?
Eyes never leave the body
But spend most of their
Times open onto the world.
Eyes have their limit
Causing us to face forward
To spin around
To see what is behind
Most times
We take our eyes for granted
For they blink without our knowing,
We barely see the
Darkness of a blink
All read as if a continual.
Eyes can weep
For fault or fun as caused
By grief or gain.
Eyes are powerful things.
Some have eyes
That can not see
They feel their way
About the world
With a cane tapping
Upon the concrete
But I can not say
That it is darkness
That they see,
Still without sight
We grow a custom
To such things.
Some eyes
Can not see green
I never see my eyes in dreams.
In the work of things
One’s eyes are seldom seen
Glanced in a mirror
We can stair deep within our eyes
And spy ourselves looking
Back as spies.
With eyes we lock our sight,
We look down
To judge the distance
Of working with the hands.
With eyes we have
Learn to navigate
Around moving objects.
Why do all creatures
Have only two eyes?
Some eyes rotates
That they can see behind
Some have compound lens
Such as the fly and can see wide.
I have never said
A prayer for my eyes
So eager to spy
So fateful to their cause
They hardly complain at all,
Even when the light is broken
And the darkness is unfamiliar.
My eyes are growing old
There forth I need
Glasses to read a book of poems,
They have served me well
With little care
So here to all the eyes everywhere

Are the Children Alright

In the root zone
The children are camouflaged.
In the zone of the sun’s light
The children are building industries
Before going out to play.
In the zone of bones
The children are mining their flesh
So full of sorrow for the fathers
Whose ignorance has spent
The strength of their muscles
On the wages paid beneath
The shadow of commerce.
In the war zone
The children are catching bomb
With their skin and they dream
Of how with ease is dying done,
No longer is it their times of candy.
In the zone of the moment
The children are counting
The thin dogs running wild
In the wilderness on the out skirt
Of their bombed out town.
In the comfort zone
The children are cautious
Of fathers who whisper
Familiarity of the beauty sons,
They do not have times to play dress up.
In the zone of disbelief
The children are straining
To hear the echo of a mystery
Told about the current constellations.
When the children were gathering
In squalor beneath the journey
That has taken control of them
As an unsettled melody
They shall never forget
The war that broke open their homes
And schools and play grounds.
In the zone of the market place
The children are faceless laborers
Fearless and faultless of the wars
For food we wage
They bare the marks of labor.
In the zone of hunger
The children are bloated
To their bones
Their skin drapes
The flies drink from their eyes.
In the zone of urgency
The children are baring weapons
At sunrise and putting on
A grown up’s uniforms

I Can Be Weak with Myself

I can be weak with water
Weak with mankind
As I am unable to be
The last living eye
I can be an island unto myself
I can be weak with my patient for myself
Yes I am weak with patient
I can be killing me a God
When it grasp me behind the wrists
Let me hear you call me sweetheart
Lord of lord is you weak
With yourself?
I can be weak with my sensations
When the clouds stand between
Me and the moon
I can be weak with the impossible
Struggle with myself as a sweetheart
I can be weak with my silent
When the savagery of myself
Looks with bewilderment
On my battled heart
I can be weak when my frenzy’s
Exultation goes jig-stepping
Like a moronic impulse
To be weak with oneself

So Long Ago

So long ago I was saved by a boy who fell from my dreams when my bedroom of soft grass was showed its ignorance of comfort

My bed is like a broken coffin
Like a celestial love of agony of a landscape of cancer beating against dove squeezed from mountains

My bed with its forest of tree trunks is like the wreckage of tender solitude found in the town people that bank on the boundary of memories of a distance that toss the water of a tear deserted by the eyes when the sea’s salt is distilled from the boiling water of the same tears burning it trails down the face

My bed of snails’ dreams contain the emotions of serpents with their limited motion and their tranquil accent of anxiety murmuring the tight love of a boy’s wonder that sob cold his tongue of tender knifes when his love making is as salty as sea water as stiff as the howling of the breath of a mountain’s wind through Aspens trembling for a hundred years

My bed of graveyard knifes and the blood of rocks that goes struggling with my dreams of broken plastic and its peaceful longevity is a window where I unleash the profile of my dreams and restrain my brown muscles several time a night in the museum of my head

My bed is a spectacle of tender fingernails and the shoreline of the nape where I keep the terrible yet exquisitely pulverized desires used to keep my anguish in its equilibrium when my breath smell of gunpowder and the innocent of sorrow

My bed is burning away my dreams for it is a cradle where my baby muscles once cried out its creed to let loose a swarming of insects of counterfeit cement slaughtered by delirious machines with their perfume smelling of pneumatic pigeons pissing in the emptied spaces of angels’ heads

My bed ignores its own fragile purity ignores the fermentation of agony ignores the conspiracy of the forest where the brightness of an unscathed anguish is watered by the corpses buried in the approach of terror meant to gather all the clocks that burden time this bed is the same where death came to claim the nocturnal nightingale singing its reframe like a moaning inscribed on the dawn breaking the crucifixion of pure violent that escape the evening that puncture like a thousand needles in the manger where the boy was born

My bed is a broken abode long since gathering the dead skin of a southern odor of voices determined to free the specialized phallus of lips used the whip the multitude into shape and keep them in the space reserved for the wicked moths beating their heads against the heat of the lone light bulb burning in the double darkness of a sacrificial military growth

My bed is blind and of wounded rest it can not feel my body’s warmth still it bestow tomorrow’s peace it is as swift as bullets of naked doves injected in the marvelous breath of nymphs with their enormous struggles bristling with translucent thirst

Did I Say

Did I say that the brown sky weeps its water against the new administration of a dead government’s desperation smelling of the perfume of dead temples where a multitude of asbestos beauty is worshiped in the unbreakable darkness of closed eyes?

Did I say that the rules that govern the butterfly’s flight buried deep in the flowers dead and discarded in the dumpster where the grey squirrels are reading the billboard selling us cold cream and lilies of tobacco drunk on the green smoke of money used to buy the American landscape of copper tarnished in the cold pocket of a wintry wind?

Did I say that beneath the wreckage of a lunar wheel turning its applause of a nightingale’s song in the silent hot hotel where ignorance sleeps is to be found the rusted blues of tension between the stone nude stature that steps out of his skin and the boy that dreams of footprints leading to the nerves of the water rushing between the thighs of the ocean?

Did I say that the heart of the breeze is singing the song of graveyard daisies murdered by skeletons drowned in dirt when the gardener came with his tool of ice picks and sand pipes to plant his remorse left over from the sorrows that falls from the history of broken clouds that sticks in the throat of the gravedigger?

Did I say that in the juicy jungle of the sea with its strange love of wheat is nursing at the breast of childhood beneath the castrated science of love beside the luminous shoreline of smiles with their hungry teeth the color of a silk handkerchief embroidered with the shadows of the moon?

Did I say that the ivory prisoners of blood whisky is drunk on the meaning of the unbreakable cross where night is circumcised and crucified by the murder of the foreskin of a recumbent God that gave its life for a mirrors of dancers who are breaking the windowpanes of chemical silence?

Did I say that the nymph that disturb her disguise use to threatened alcoholic crime committed in the distance of ashes smeared on the forehead of a sudden mass of fishes on the day of the dead done in by the nocturnal regiment of solitude is imprisoned in the slender hurricane raging across the face of a tiny pyramid as ancient as moss?

Did I say that the skull of the sky is tirelessly choking the life out of anguish that witness to the violent of cotton grown in the palm of the hand when the soldiers of idiots consume the corpse of the first apple eaten in the eye of your battled beauty?

Did I say that the throat of terror triumph in the city where the murmur of sleep steals fugitively across the tender edge of oblivion and the frightened dreams of moist tongues are whispering a cloudburst of serpents known for their genus kept in the wounds of forgiveness?

Did I say that the windows that can not protect us from the genuine crimes of abandoned lost souls afraid of childbirth and kitchen philosophers marooned on the island where birds feed at the lagoon of suicidal creatures dying their pain found in the timeless everything of crystallized lanterns used to light the bonfires of a dawn bronze as the tan skin of keen eyed clergymen that dine on abandoned bones left over from a heaven where the noisy labor
Of paradise stagger its strong voices heard in the aluminum sky?


Did I say that the rusty pain of modern man is bricked up with concrete in his veins and the dazzling poor are huddled in the warmth of crime found in a dark corners where they are ambushed by poets wishing to probe their pulse and tell the secrets of the homeless mockery that makes of a man with his naked equilibriums suitable to be taken by the flesh of insects that will not complain that the eternal delirium of a summer afternoon disrobe at the intersection of sewers pipes that squeeze out the broken agony of cancer?

Today I Ate Some Snow

Today I ate some snow
And I don’t mean
That I did blow.
I restrict myself to weed and rum & coke
Chased with a colt 45.
What is it to get high?
It takes a certain constitution to endure it.
Not all survive it
Some are forever chasing the high
Never enough to be satisfied
You can see it in their eyes.
Heron I have never tried
But once I did tried crack
But found the high
Not worth the cost
The snow has change to sleet
Making pin point sounds in the streets
Covered with the preverbal blanket
That covers everything.
There are foot prints to tell where strangers went
It is now wickedly cold
My bones are nearly froze
The garden is fast asleep
Waiting the break of spring
The winds blow the snow
Into piles at the curb of the streets
Traffic has slowed to a crawl
Birds are nowhere to be found
Neither man nor beasts are on the prow
As the snow silently fall
St. Louis is no stranger to a snowy
Winter cold that blows snow up the nose

Part of the Duty of Hands

Part of the duty of hands
Is to touch, is to caress the skin
Of some other, is to hold
The other, to cup them
With a tenderness that only
Hands can muster.
Hands are like tools
To smooth the wrinkles of foreskin
Or wipe away a tear
Caused by cold
They offer and take.
When put together palm to palm
They can capture prayers
They can tied shoe laces
And wipe the eyes,
Blow the nose and rub the head
Shake the hand of an agreement made.
Hands can tell a lot about a man;
Scared and calloused they
Betray hard work done
They can hold a gun
And hush the lips
Hands are handy thing to have
You can walk on them
Grasp and push a foe
Put them in your pocket
Against the cold
Ball them into a fist to strike a blow
Without my hands I do not know
What I would do, I love them so.

What in her is Smooth and Tamed

What in her is smooth and tamed
That can not destine what is sane?
The girl that spent her babyhood as a boy
And loved the play of girlish toys
Has taken the operation to correct
The confusion of nature’s mess
Nature is never cruel in who she choose
To mix the sexes never at rest
But even she is not precise
The sex of a baby is a roll of the dice
It is man who seeks to set our sex in stone
While to ourselves we own
The bold belief that our sex is wrong
Nearly true is a boy a boy
And a girl is a girl for all time
For there are those who straddle the line
And such a thing is nature’s design

I Am the Primordial Soup of Swamps

I am the primordial soup of swamps
I am the wrinkles of the world
I am the confident crucifix that embraces the generosities of virgins
I am the calamities emphatic and solitarily held in the fist of my native land
I am the corrugated shadows of pines fallen upon the concentration of leaves
I am the joyous carcass of splendor found in the hands of a tormented purple church where the worshiping crowd pray before the bouquet of protest
I am the desires that you drown in the bath tub full of statures of genitals
I am the incandescent wild milk distilled from the nipples of the clouds
I am the appendage of fire burning the beach where the waves of tar break out into laughter and the dead birds’ bone are stacked into a church of the holy lunation of lost souls
I am the appendage of garbage that account for the waste of hours rotting in the gutter of a geyser
I am the excuse drenched with lies that murdered the warmth of dumps full of loud screams
I am the tornado that betray the ghosts of dead Gods found in the hands of skyscrapers fingering the fragile volcano of convulsion spitting out rivers of faded rocks liquefied as the freedom of running water
I am the pathetically piety of a savagery in the voice of the lost wind that return to the scene of the crime and blows away the wheat from the chaff of the church where a boy was born in the manger of our discontent
I am the fraternal eyes blinded by the generosities of a screaming baby loosing its voice beneath the breath of a baboon
I am the petty death of an attitude assuming to know where the Gods have gone when the churches collapses around the altar of our disbelief
I am a shovelful of consciousness unaware that my consciousness is a futile flunky to the brotherhood of governments that will slay my free will
I am the faint sounds that confess that the noxious disorder of my heart beats a rhythm of drunkenness to escape my warm blue blooded embers glowing amidst the landscape that murdered the angels with a Spanish knife
I am the laughter of despair with my patience full of shadows and dead fishes floating on the grim grime of sweat dripping its salty idleness into the mouth of an angel who fought for the birds when heaven went to war against itself
I am the tenderness of the pulse of the forest where death is a warm desire gnawing on life and the terrestrial violent of weather is sleeping in a tree hollow where it is safe
I am the anchor foraged by the sun with its hard heat meant to belittle the notion that man is the king of beast born to it by the precept of a God that washes its cloths in the drunk ocean endlessly washing up on to the shores where the sand is wounded by human trash
I am the bruised collapsed of the rivers swollen by the scenery of their own death
I am the tenderness that death shows to snails drowned in a tin of beer in the night of long knifes that punctured the moon
I am the collapsed laughter transparent and full of cigarette butts thrown into a river of comets
I am the hollow bones embossed with the misery of the tortured dance of a man about to strip mine his heart
I am the inhaled silence stolen from a spit of trumpets growing in the narrow spaces between drops of rain
I am the amulets of armor worn beneath the midnight and the moon hung on a diamond
I am the beheaded diadem of rotting orgasms
I am a river of serpents in the monsoon of a thrusting thirst
I am the poet that dies by the pen writing spider webs on my skin deep within the hour of knifes that stabs the prodigious heart full of butterflies.

The God of Your Understanding

The God of your understanding
And the God of your desires
Choose to understand that death is not the end
But this is foolish human fancy
That the body will not subscribe to
For it is only the mind that makes the heavens rime.

I Must Remind Myself

The air was full
Of freezing fog
That froze mid air
And fell to shatter on the ground
The exhaled breath of a dog
Is pushed out pass its wet nose
I must remind myself
That the trees are alive
For so slow are their yearly growths
I must remind myself
That the moon is dead
It has no winds that blow
The air was full of discarded breath
That expire before reaching the sky
The breath of birds
Fills the world
I must remind myself
That the world is round
For so flat is the sight I see
I must remind myself
That some men are not free

The Chemical Criminal Clouds

The chemical criminal clouds
Are raining loud and beautiful Gods
Hideously full of sunlight
And the ember of their blessings
I rub them into my face
And the hollowness of my heart.
When the earth can no longer
Support their medical miracles.
I am the great murderer of poems
And dreams stale in the head.
I am the nothingness of liquid whales
That are one with the fraudulent water
That smokes the drums of ten thousand fireflies.
I offer the Gods my warm hand.
Amidst my murdering deeds I bankrupt
The skyscrapers growing from my forehead
The fragile Gods calls to me
Their breath smelling of blinded roses
Their touch like the nothingness of a clump
Of water warm and terrestrial
As if looking through the sun.
The Gods strike me with the
Water of their fertile tears and the ancestral
Fertile silence complication of their prayers
That burns rivers into my face.
The Gods are ruthless with their blessing
They swallow proverbs and birth
Memories that was never meant to be relived.
I am a sniper in heaven
I am full of ruthless blood that burns
With its incandescence happiness
Behold, I am one who desire a drunk virgin
To swallow my wave like flowers
That are the sons I can never birth
The Gods are the last complication of the world
They are the outrageous circumvolution
And the last tenacious triumph to over come.

I Was Listening th the Color Red

I was listening to the color red
In my head when blue came along
And yellowed my mood

When red and blue have sex
They have purple children
It is nothing more then that

Blue and yellow
Makes green to sing
Of a new spring

Black and white makes right
The gray underbelly of clouds
That storm over the land

Who is Who

Who is who
Who gather who
Who made the seas
Who made us to weep
Who is the God you need
Who is the face of the storm
Who are the galaxies of absence
Who made the flinch
Who reddened the blood
Who made the sacrificial silence
Who made Adam
Who is who I ask
Who harden the Oak
Who rattle our bones
Who is inhaling the heart
Who is the absolute thunder
Who is the hollowness of water
Who have forgotten their Gods
Who makes my musk
Who mine my mind
Who feel the sun
Who storms my moods
Who do you do to
Who woo who
Who news you
Who smell you
Who will with you
Who kills you
Who ill you
Who steals you
Who feel you
Who thrills you
Who meals you
Who is your Gods
Who think you odd
Who in your days of mod
Who your spirit robs
Who the baby you baby
Who the maker that made you
Who by the breath that birth you
Who mother the nature that nurse you
Who render you spent by time
Who on you dine on a dine
Who feeds your God with a cause
Who have stolen the golden rod
Who will want you when you weep
Who will don’t you against the keep
Who can count you one their own
Who and who again count you born
Who guard you in your sleep
Who offer you half their peace

In the City Where I was Born

In the city where I was born
The ass bone of a Clydesdale is flung
Far beyond the memories
Of the native made homeless
By the commercial of cattle
Grazing unaware of their fate
In the city of stainless steel legs
Above the Mississippi
Running muddy and deep in mire
Of filth and casinos tied to the bank
They are inducing the poor
To try their hands at a bit of easy coins
Here in this city I want to remove
The levels hugging her skin
The dead skin of her puberty
That keeps poverty warm
The level of dried blood
On the knife edge of crime
The level of teeth as yellow as the moon
The moon as yellow as the heart
The heart as yellow as the breath
The breath as yellow as the
Remembrance of a daisy torn from the
Curiosity of a fly feeding on a cadaver
The yellow teeth biting the cloud
To squeeze out rain that is falling
On the homeless huddled under
a worn blanket inside of their card board boxes
Beside the heat vents that exhale
Its wounded breath of steam
I dig into the wee hour barking its discontent
Against my advance
The wee hour of politeness
Ripping my flesh from the bones
To know that I am not alone
In the secrets of my skin
The politeness of a dirty hand
Soiled from honest work
The honest work of the hands of reality
The reality that scrapes by parading itself
Before the convulsion thrown up in the wee hour
Of a criminal night seeking to kill
The dark man under the cover of darkness
The darkness of drums draped in the dungeon
The dungeon in the belly of a slave ship
The slave ship that feed its captives
On fast food in a hungry year
I expose the dirty kids feeding
On government cheese and peanut butter
I expose the level of muscles
That sweats against the machines
With their gears and greasy motion
Grinding their noise of defiance
That deafens the ears in a procreation of
Birthing more and more machines
I expose the level of bricks and concrete
And asphalt and limestone homes
Huddle together in the small rain
Of a light bulb
I expose the French names
Of her streets alone the
River Des Peres of fathers
Who have abandoned their children
To the guardianship of industries
I expose the smell of steam boats
Curing in the veins of history
I expose the labor of immigrants
From Germany, Bohemia and Ireland
That ran from the potato famine
And found a home where the streets
Was paved with poverty and the hungry
Hands of workers caked with the
Blood of machines and the children
Was put to work in the factories
Of the abcs of a work a day world
I expose the blood of Bloody Island
I expose the cottontail rabbits
And the nightly soldering of the opossum
And the sleeping Eastern Gray squirrel
And the coyotes urbanized
The peeper was singing in the low lands
The cicadas was hidden in the Hickories
I expose the unabashable stare of a baby
Nursed by the machines that suckles
At the sweat dripping from the scraps
Of human kindness used to water the night
When the night comes and wrap up the
Sparrows from their flight bonded
By the neighborhood of little Italy
Smelling of maroon macaroni
Then and only then will the blue jay
Circle the roofs of red brick homes
Stingy with their warmth and broken
Window glass that rips the throat
Of pigeons roosting in the abandoned
Building that house the homeless
Huddled in the corner of their God given soul
The soul that hunger for salvation
The salvation that hunger for redemption
The redemption that hunger for a filled belly
Then and only then will the sorcerer
With his prodigious propensity
For bestial needs hatch the yellow
Circle of an old man’s eyes
I expose red bricks and stately limestone
Steely in their stance along the manicured streets
Where papa death waits
To take the meek and the poor
Stuffed with pain stuffed with indifference
Stuffed with everything that ills the poor
Stuffed with the broken bottles sparkling
Beneath the moon of an old washer woman’s hands
I expose the ribs of my city’s back bone
Ribs of the root zone where worms
Feed on the waste of the body
I expose the hard fist of nature
The brutal beating of a boy
Beating back the back water
Of a stagnant pond full of tears
I expose the rusted underbelly of machines
That can not cease their rhythm of creation
Of making cars and wary printing presses
And pictures of a God printed in white
By the tenderness of the melancholy hands of a ditch digger
Machines that refuse to stay their all day motion
Grinning well into the plastic night where
The babies are asleep in barrels of oil
Oil of our ever demanding needs for creature comfort
Comfort at the expense of a burgeoning nature
Nature forever lustful forever fearless
Forever rotting her advance
It is not enough to sleep on a mat on the floor
In Americus
It is not enough to cook by fire wood in Americus
It is not enough to fill your belly with rice and fish caught by the hands in Americus
In Haiti the poor are eating cookies made of yellow dirt
While it is not enough in Americus to get the things of a poor man buying his time till the kingdom come
I expose that the American poor is rich
by the stander of the torturous hunger of Nairobi
I expose a man eating pizza crust from the dumper
Picking cigarette butts with lip stick on them from the ash tray
I expose the sign that reads I will work for food but there is no labor to be had
Other then the slave wage of a day worker fresh across the border
I expose the mother praying that her unborn child have lighter skin
Lighter skin of the pure blood
The pure blood dark as the blood of Africa
Africa blood of the Caribbean, Guatemala, Belize
Of Honduras and Nicaragua
Africa blood of New York, Florida, Georgia
Of Texas and California
The Africans I expose you for who you are
You are the fathers of my fathers
You are the blood line of my skin
I expose you to the world
You are the scars of the whip
You are the amputated limb to run away as you do
You are more then I can ever name
You are the survivor in the American grain
You have worked the fields and it brought forth fruit
You built the universities and they brought forth knowledge
Africans of the world where does your legion lie?
I expose that Americans have poor taste in a rich country
Fast food feeds the palette, junk food nourish our children
I expose the cruelty that man do to man to woman to children to kin of the blood we kill the ones we love
In Americus the blacks are killing the blacks
In Americus the Latin are killing Latin
In Americus the whites are killing us all
We kill the enthusiasm of gratitude
We kill the rhetoric of suffering
We kill the victorious ancestral dawn of a fat belly
We kill the naked triumph of tadpoles
We kill the ancestral nourishment of turtle doves
We kill the bullshit of prostitution
We kill the voyages that uproot the Christianized sleep kneading before a humming bird feeding at the ovaries of flowers
I expose the testicles of the seaxual waters
I expose the voices of machines that lull the babies to sleep
I expose the gentle fatigue that hangs on the backs of the poor who do not care that their finger nails are full of dirt
I expose of the luminous clamor of the trembling of electricity found in the heart of the living
I expose the foundation of breathing a breath that conquering the antelope of femininity
I expose the virtues that survive in the germination of a seed
I expose the essence of man’s ignorant sold enclosed in the light of the television to the survival of the poor
I expose the joint that cracks its knuckles full of grief
I expose the reincarnated heart that prays for the salvation exposed by the limitation of the executor who built his church on the ruins of a meditation
I expose the brave man with his succulence heart he is the killer of a unique headiness of fragrant found under a toad stool
I expose the belt of the future tied around the Obstinacy of hunger
I expose the promises made to the Indians, a promises of vigor entrenched in the ravenous orchards and bountiful fields of prairie grass
And the empty anger of a drunken herd
I expose the audacity of the blemishes of leprosy of the immense instant dying by the hands of a mechanical clock
I expose the innocent of water and the scars of the sky, its wounds and defiance beautiful as the scents of clouds arbitrary in their strength
I expose the apocalyptic injury of volcanoes suffering from the parasite that lives on the monopoly of the ancestors who died by the whip
I expose the avian flu jumping spices, smuggled into the blood by chicks held in cages
I expose the back ache of the common cold that is allergic to light and strong freedom curling like a serpent around the south end of a stony rain
I expose the art of poetry forever left out, leaving something of itself left out
I expose the absolute great void that can not be known and the man that can not know himself for secret that his unconsciousness keeps
I expose the frigidity of the scripture that keeps us in line against the rhythm of all religion that cause you to laugh
I expose the belief in the one God of a queer tongue
The one God of ominous murder
The one God of inventing lungs
The one God of unequal fire in the belly
The one God of freckle face reason
I expose the four destiny of man
The destiny of walking upright in a bent over year
The destiny of planting in a furrow field far from home
The destiny of using bones as a tool and tools as the back bone of our building
The destiny of healing the sick of their masters’ chains
I expose the man laboring beneath the weight of Gods as a monkey on his back
I expose the hunger of Zen born again and again
I expose the man beneath the common burden of surrendering the swamp of his embrace to the one God of furious purity
I expose man for what he is meat of the world, beast of the beast that can not know itself for the secrets of the flesh
I expose the environment of pestilence drilling its voice into the hurricane when the body horde its despair separated from the self
I expose the joyous yet unexpected by compromise
Innocence of an avalanche of abyss in the midnight gathered together in the pocket tied with the string of the baobab
I expose the inodorous madness of war with its docile rifles pointed at the sun
I expose the invisible absence wandering between galaxies in the savage distance that God put between us
I expose the death rattle inhaled from a warm gun entangled in the chemical absolute of bankrupt
I expose the birds nesting in my grave, the rabbits that have built their homes there, the bees feeding on the flower there, the worms digging tunnels there, the dog that piss on my tomb stone
I expose the clumps of night idle with nothingness
I expose the machine of my body born bare but with bones soft as a drunk hibiscus growing heavy in the hour that the virgin surrender her virginity to the complications found in the silence colorless and tepid and streaked with the emptiness of a shudder shouldered by the everything dying of things

I can Not Devorce Myself From Nature

I can not divorce myself from nature
Can not devoice myself from words
Forever am I tied to what I thought that I heard
There is a hum in my inner ear
There is the music of a sacrifice

That drifts wave-like beyond blood-tinged silence
There is an emptiness that won’t let me be
A weariness of needs that fluid me
A noise that waits to embrace the dying of my conscience
I can not devoice myself from the world
I can not devoice myself from peace that require no secrets
There is a dying when everything is done
I can not devoice myself from the one.

The Chemical Clouds

The chemical clouds
Are raining loud and beautiful Gods
Hideously full of sunlight
And the ember of their blessings
I rub them into my face
And the hollowness of my heart.
When the earth can no longer
Support their medical miracles.
I am the great murderer of poems
And dreams stale in the head.
I am the nothingness of liquid whales
That are one with the fraudulent water
That smokes the drums of ten thousand fireflies.
I offer the Gods my warm hand.
Amidst my murdering deeds I bankrupt
The skyscrapers growing from my forehead
The fragile Gods calls to me
Their breath smelling of blinded roses
Their touch like the nothingness of a clump
Of water warm and terrestrial
As if looking through the sun.
The Gods strike me with the
Water of their fertile tears and the ancestral
Fertile silence complication of their prayers
That burns rivers into my face.
The Gods are ruthless with their blessing
They swallow proverbs and birth
Memories that was never meant to be relived.
I am a sniper in heaven
I am full of ruthless blood that burns
With its incandescence happiness
Behold, I am one who desire a drunk virgin
To swallow my wave like flowers
That are the sons I can never birth
The Gods are the last complication of the world
They are the outrageous circumvolution
And the last tenacious triumph to over come.

Under the Cover of St. Louis

In the city where I was born
The ass bone of a Clydesdale is flung
Far beyond the memories
Of the native made homeless
By the commercial of cattle
Grazing unaware of their fate
In the city of stainless steel legs
Above the Mississippi
Running muddy and deep in mire
Of filth and casinos tied to the bank
They are inducing the poor
To try their hands at a bit of easy coins
Here in this city I want to remove
The levels hugging her skin
The dead skin of her puberty
That keeps poverty warm
The level of dried blood
On the knife edge of crime
The level of teeth as yellow as the moon
The moon as yellow as the heart
The heart as yellow as the breath
The breath as yellow as the
Remembrance of a daisy torn from the
Curiosity of a fly feeding on a cadaver
The yellow teeth biting the cloud
To squeeze out rain that is falling
On the homeless huddled under
a worn blanket inside of their card board boxes
Beside the heat vents that exhale
Its wounded breath of steam
I dig into the wee hour barking its discontent
Against my advance
The wee hour of politeness
Ripping my flesh from the bones
To know that I am not alone
In the secrets of my skin
The politeness of a dirty hand
Soiled from honest work
The honest work of the hands of reality
The reality that scrapes by parading itself
Before the convulsion thrown up in the wee hour
Of a criminal night seeking to kill
The dark man under the cover of darkness
The darkness of drums draped in the dungeon
The dungeon in the belly of a slave ship
The slave ship that feed its captives
On fast food in a hungry year
I expose the dirty kids feed
On government cheese and peanut butter
I expose the level of muscles
That sweats against the machines
With their gears and greasy motion
Grinding their noise of defiance
That deafens the ears in a procreation of
Birthing more and more machines
I expose the level of bricks and concrete
And asphalt and limestone homes
Huddle together in the small rain
Of a light bulb
I expose the French names
Of her streets alone the
River Des Peres of fathers
Who have abandoned their children
To the guardianship of industries
I expose the smell of steam boats
Curing in the veins of history
I expose the labor of immigrants
From Germany, Bohemia and Ireland
That ran from the potato famine
And found a home where the streets
Was paved with poverty and the hungry
Hands of workers caked with the
Blood of machines and the children
Was put to work in the factories
Of the abcs of a work a day world
I expose the blood of Bloody Island
I expose the cottontail rabbits
And the nightly soldering of the opossum
And the sleeping Eastern Gray squirrel
And the coyotes urbanized
The peeper was singing in the low lands
The cicadas was hidden in the Hickories
I expose the unabashable stare of a baby
Nursed by the machines that suckles
At the sweat dripping from the scraps
Of human kindness used to water the night
When the night comes and wrap up the
Sparrows from their flight bonded
By the neighborhood of little Italy
Smelling of maroon macaroni
Then and only then will the blue jay
Circle the roofs of red brick homes
Stingy with their warmth and broken
Window glass that rips the throat
Of pigeons roosting in the abandoned
Building that house the homeless
Huddled in the corner of their God given soul
The soul that hunger for salvation
The salvation that hunger for redemption
The redemption that hunger for a filled belly
Then and only then will the sorcerer
With his prodigious propensity
For bestial needs hatch the yellow
Circle of an old man’s eyes
I expose red bricks and stately limestone
Steely in their stance along the manicured streets
Where papa death waits
To take the meek and the poor
Stuffed with pain stuffed with indifference
Stuffed with everything that ills the poor
Stuffed with the broken bottles sparkling
Beneath the moon of an old washer woman’s hands
I expose the ribs of my city’s back bone
Ribs of the root zone where worms
Feed on the waste of the body
I expose the hard fist of nature
The brutal beating of a boy
Beating back the back water
Of a stagnant pond full of tears
I expose the rusted underbelly of machines
That can not cease their rhythm of creation
Of making cars and wary printing presses
And pictures of a God printed in white
By the tenderness of the melancholy hands of a ditch digger
Machines that refuse to stay their all day motion
Grinning well into the plastic night where
The babies are asleep in barrels of oil
Oil of our ever demanding needs for creature comfort
Comfort at the expense of a burgeoning nature
Nature forever lustful forever fearless
Forever rotting her advance
It is not enough to sleep on a mat on the floor
In Americus
It is not enough to cook by fire wood in Americus
It is not enough to fill your belly with rice and fish caught by the hands in Americus
In Haiti the poor are eating cookies made of yellow dirt
While it is not enough in Americus to get the things of a poor man buying his time till the kingdom come
I expose that the American poor is rich
by the stander of the torturous hunger of Nairobi
I expose a man eating pizza crust from the dumper
Picking cigarette butts with lip stick on them from the ash tray
I expose the sign that reads I will work for food but there is no labor to be had
Other then the slave wage of a day worker fresh across the border
I expose the mother praying that her unborn child have lighter skin
Lighter skin of the pure blood
The pure blood dark as the blood of Africa
Africa blood of the Caribbean, Guatemala, Belize
Of Honduras and Nicaragua
Africa blood of New York, Florida, Georgia
Of Texas and California
The Africans I expose you for who you are
You are the fathers of my fathers
You are the blood line of my skin
I expose you to the world
You are the scars of the whip
You are the amputated limb to run away as you do
You are more then I can ever name
You are the survivor in the American grain
You have worked the fields and it brought forth fruit
You built the universities and they brought forth knowledge
Africans of the world where does your legion lie?
I expose that Americans have poor taste in a rich country
Fast food feeds the palette, junk food nourish our children
I expose the cruelty that man do to man to woman to children to kin of the blood we kill the ones we love
In Americus the blacks are killing the blacks
In Americus the Latin are killing Latin
In Americus the whites are killing us all
We kill the enthusiasm of gratitude
We kill the rhetoric of suffering
We kill the victorious ancestral dawn of a fat belly
We kill the naked triumph of tadpoles
We kill the ancestral nourishment of turtle doves
We kill the bullshit of prostitution
We kill the voyages that uproot the Christianized sleep kneading before a humming bird feeding at the ovaries of flowers
I expose the testicles of the seaxual waters
I expose the voices of machines that lull the babies to sleep
I expose the gentle fatigue that hangs on the backs of the poor who do not care that their finger nails are full of dirt
I expose of the luminous clamor of the trembling of electricity found in the heart of the living
I expose the foundation of breathing a breath that conquering the antelope of femininity
I expose the virtues that survive in the germination of a seed
I expose the essence of man’s ignorant sold enclosed in the light of the television to the survival of the poor
I expose the joint that cracks its knuckles full of grief
I expose the reincarnated heart that prays for the salvation exposed by the limitation of the executor who built his church on the ruins of a meditation
I expose the brave man with his succulence heart he is the killer of a unique headiness of fragrant found under a toad stool
I expose the belt of the future tied around the Obstinacy of hunger
I expose the promises made to the Indians, a promises of vigor entrenched in the ravenous orchards and bountiful fields of prairie grass
And the empty anger of a drunken herd
I expose the audacity of the blemishes of leprosy of the immense instant dying by the hands of a mechanical clock
I expose the innocent of water and the scars of the sky, its wounds and defiance beautiful as the scents of clouds arbitrary in their strength
I expose the apocalyptic injury of volcanoes suffering from the parasite that lives on the monopoly of the ancestors who died by the whip
I expose the avian flu jumping spices, smuggled into the blood by chicks held in cages
I expose the back ache of the common cold that is allergic to light and strong freedom curling like a serpent around the south end of a stony rain
I expose the art of poetry forever left out, leaving something of itself left out
I expose the absolute great void that can not be known and the man that can not know himself for secret that his unconsciousness keeps
I expose the frigidity of the scripture that keeps us in line against the rhythm of all religion that cause you to laugh
I expose the belief in the one God of a queer tongue
The one God of ominous murder
The one God of inventing lungs
The one God of unequal fire in the belly
The one God of freckle face reason
I expose the four destiny of man
The destiny of walking upright in a bent over year
The destiny of planting in a furrow field far from home
The destiny of using bones as a tool and tools as the back bone of our building
The destiny of healing the sick of their masters’ chains
I expose the man laboring beneath the weight of Gods as a monkey on his back
I expose the hunger of Zen born again and again
I expose the man beneath the common burden of surrendering the swamp of his embrace to the one God of furious purity
I expose man for what he is meat of the world, beast of the beast that can not know itself for the secrets of the flesh
I expose the environment of pestilence drilling its voice into the hurricane when the body horde its despair separated from the self
I expose the joyous yet unexpected by compromise
Innocence of an avalanche of abyss in the midnight gathered together in the pocket tied with the string of the baobab
I expose the inodorous madness of war with its docile rifles pointed at the sun
I expose the invisible absence wandering between galaxies in the savage distance that God put between us
I expose the death rattle inhaled from a warm gun entangled in the chemical absolute of bankrupt
I expose the birds nesting in my grave, the rabbits that have built their homes there, the bees feeding on the flower there, the worms digging tunnels there, the dog that piss on my tomb stone
I expose the clumps of night idle with nothingness
I expose the machine of my body born bare but with bones soft as a drunk hibiscus growing heavy in the hour that the virgin surrender her virginity to the complications found in the silence colorless and tepid and streaked with the emptiness of a shudder shouldered by the everything dying of things

Should I Conccernd

Should I concernd
My body a jailer
With the tender armor
Of my skin
There is so little between
Me and the world
I who is easily torn
By nails rusting
On the back side of a cross
I who is crucified
By the spine of the bible
I who wear the hallo
Of the street lamp’s glow
I who body that contain six holes
Fit for letting the world in
My skin dies daily
Is my skull the prison
Where in is my mind
As one contained to hear
My rivers of blood pumped
Playing the game of the body
I am no stranger to staying alive
I have been doing it for 55 years
In all that I have not skipped a beat

The Earth Lifts Me Up

The earth lifts me up
And I can but sing
The wind wing its warm way
And sparrows chirps
The approach of spring
The earth lifts me up
And can but beam
As if I was in fancy
With flight of starlings
A motion through the air
My wing flight rings
Round the mid branches
Of an old mulberry trees
Winter has come
But now stayed its snow
A north wind blows
A crisp cold holds
The sun lit air
I double ware my clothes
And sleep warm without care
The earth lifts me up
And I am ringed
When autumn fall
Golden of leaves loosing their green
Summer has come
Flower bosoms abound
About the business end of flowers
Earth lifts me up
A sleep or a wake
From her there is no escape
For the common man
Earth bound all our lives
We can but rejoice and enjoy the ride

I Do Not Fear the Earth

I do not fear the earth
But praise its industry
I do not fear the sun
It does not fear me
I do not fear the stars
Their distance is my protector
I do not fear the moon
At my blood it pulls
I have no time to fear
What is greater then me
Praise be the earth, the sun
The stars and the moon
I shall see you soon.

Nothingness

Nothingness, like a black hole
What must death feels like?
It is the nothingness
That I can not know
It is an action and reaction
The ever precise presets contradiction
The sun rise yet it is not so
It is the knowing and the unknown
One opening itself to you
The other shut fast against you advance
It is hard to fathom that nothingness
Exist among the busyness of life
Still one by one we lose ourselves
In death to a kingdom that came
Or dust to dust we lay our bones.

In the World I am A Known Thing

In the world I am a known thing
I am a mind and body
That takes its space
Who or what made me
Is a matter of debate
Nature born and God natured
Or is it the reverse?
Can the poets tell me?
I think that they do not know
I wonder if by my breath
That such a thing should matter
Yet still it is so

Try As You Will

Try as you will
And you may as well try
To reach complete consciousness
Of an undivided state of mind
The mind will not let go, will not
Shout itself off
But to slow
I focus myself on my breath
But short of time
My mind wanders off again
Doing what it does beat
Blesses is the proofs of profit it makes
I am many by few known
Uncle, brother, cousin son
Each seen as a difference of known me
But by my skin am I whole
What you see of me I seldom behold
My looking glass is made of gold
My reflection is yellow tinted
To see myself through the secret self
That I keep for being alone
The breath again out slowly and in
Everything is centered on the flow
Till these words interfere
Being busy in poetry
Is a focus of the sort
Something misty of the unconscious mind
With its busy bother knowingness.

The Busy Knowledge

The busy knowledge
Of the hidden self
Does not know itself
That we can tell
When we get a hold of it
We find an illusion
That disconnects us from
The working of the known world
Or so we think it so for all we know.
We are forever tired up
In the work that nature does
She is all that we know of God.
You are your own reality
You are the center of the world
As you know it.
I am that I am is a human truth
I know not the full measure
Of the who that I am
Something of me is always hidden.
In my unknown me that I keep secret
From myself
I can not know the conscious
Of my unconsciousness
Yet it will not leave me alone
The evolution of the language
Of our unconsciousness is felt
But only heard by those who are insane
Those whose minds derange
They let their unconsciousness rule
Once they were called shamans
Now they are called fools
We can not manage our unconsciousness
As it manage us in its secret way
I am not always conscious of my breathing
Yet it keeps its measure true
I do not count the beat of my heart
Still it keeps a time
That is not forever mine
For all we know the world end
When we do
To belong to nothing
Is a hard won rule
I am that I am can not always stand

What is This Beer Breath Dawn

What is this beer breath dawn
Staggering red in swirls,
A chilled shipwreck of fireflies
Flung by their greenish yellow light,
A rudimentary scream winding round?
Cold prowling the back bone
Of a snow cloud heavy with its load.
Cold blow with a surgical babbling
Of exploded woman’s sprung secret
Barely heard above the beautiful
Silent that shakes the sky.
What is this outpour
At the foot of anguish?
Dead memories piled
Upon scrupulous rotation.
The childlike quivering hands
Of dying winds awesome
As the back bone of earth worms.
What is this it, this telling its it
To poets pulling pain
In the maddening tracks of words
Talking of catastrophe idleness?
The it of it is all there is to see
When the reviler revile his cold face
And the cold running mismanaged
By an encounter that fills the atmosphere
Will bleed with inattentive blood.
This it of the cold is a lost body,
A heavy hearted slave harvested
From history’s cold indifferent will.
This impetuous cold is ignited
Perpendicularly to the body of babies
Birthing denser rusty nails driven
Into the cross where the tender and sculptured
Cold is wet and woozy with open eyes
Wide as a whirlpool of volcanoes
Vulcanizing victorious burst their bent
Bubbles of lava leaking red and yellow.
Want is this arrogance violence that lasso
The spinal column of invulnerable winter
Blowing the invented winds westward over
The cold of the shortest day that insult
The revolt issued in the wilderness
Of jailers jacking their jockeys joyously
Jointed to the cold that country my hair?

Blow, Blow, Blow

Blow, blow, blow
Blow pass galaxies
Of suns silent
With their distance
Blow me earth
Common as the dirt
Blow morning
Breaking bounded
By the curve where
Sun raise our illusion
We think center
Of the universe
But found in some
Lesser spiral arm
One of many meaning
There is no God
To concern ourselves with
Behold the face we face
Across the distance
Of whom we are
Living on the fraternal earth
Within nature yet think ourselves
As smart ones above her action
Study the ant and the muster seed
To know once more how
The nature thing should go
Do not seek to escape the task
O being one within your skin.

Review of The Trinity

Poetry Book Review:
The Trinity: poetry and art
by David e. Patton
review by Allen Taylor


Ezra Pound would be proud of David e. Patton. His voice is unique and not easily cloned. If there is a contemporary poet with a knack for making it new, David e. Patton is the one and his latest chapbook, The Trinity: poetry and art, proves it.

Throughout The Trinity: poetry and art one can see the influence of Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes, and a bit of Amiri Baraka. Though there are as many classic influences as well (Blake comes to mind). Aside from his abundance of alliteration, which I think he overplays, and Patton's garrulity, there isn't much not to like about The Trinity: poetry and art. Its reverbs of jazz, hip-hip, and American surrealism rock like Jimi Hendrix playing the National Anthem with his teeth. If there is a Devil, he lives in David e. Patton's brain.

The Trinity: poetry and art, first and foremost, is a worship of self. From his introduction, Patton says:

Body, soul, and mind, the trinity of the self. The three-fold holy entries submitted for the judgment of others, of whom we are, in the personal myth that we call our memories held tight in our space in the world, our skin taking up space in nature: my one holy and honored God glorious and grand. The narcissistic self, the grandiose self and the admired self of which we are made deep in the common thickness of our bones, we are all three. We are all the trinity of the self kept deep within our needs to breathe and feed and breed.

Fourteen poems and 11 accompanying artworks, all by David e. Patton, fill 40 pages of fire. The titles of the poems in The Trinity: poetry and art say as much about Patton's creative work ethic as any of the lines themselves:

Bully Birds Shy Away From Me
One Black Man's Heart is Worthy
The Universe of the Body
The Cat's Curfew is Caught Like a Mouse
Angels Are Painting Poems
Written Among the Gods in the City of the Dead
I Hid the Wind in the Weeping Water's Face
On Jury Duty
I'm Frightened By The Tone Of This Poem
Let Me Be The Bard of Neutral Nature
The American Killer
Jazz Where As!
The Trinity

Patton's shining attribute is his uncanny ability to turn a phrase. He often uses more adjectives than necessary, but the musical quality of his lines are such that this rarely detracts. It is most ostentatious when he couples the device with hyper-alliteration. When he uses the elements in moderation he shines like the North Star. His delicate taste for the sound of words is a fitting compliment to his imagination and it's easy to forgive him his weaknesses, one of which is a lack of versatility - but with his strengths it's like criticizing Superman for an allergic reaction to Kryptonite.

While none of Patton's poems fall below average as a whole, he does have some lines, thankfully not often, that could use some tweaking. His penchant for redundancy is sometimes nerve wracking, but he recovers quickly and moves on to more brilliance.

The best poems in The Trinity: poetry and art are toward the back of the chapbook. "I'm Frightened by the Tone of this Poem" relies on a Whitmanesque anaphora with surprising twists. "Let Me Be The Bard of Neutral Nature" contains some beautiful lines and a climactic ending. "The American Killer" ironically captures the spirit of American thirst for blood and its myriad incarnations; raspy and full of historic allusion, it too ends with a bang. "Jazz Where As!", one of the shortest poems in The Trinity: poetry and art at 58 long lines harking back to the Beats, carries the spirit of St. Louis where Patton is from and the historic influence of an American genre of music, a fitting tribute to some of the best musicians of the 20th century.

The poem is too long to print in full, but enjoy these lines from "I'm Frightened by the Tone of this Poem". They truly illustrate the rich imagination and rhythmic voice of David e. Patton:

I'm frightened by a teaspoon of holy water
I'm frightened by the strings of the violin
I'm frightened by the birth of my darkest brother
I'm frightened by the death of my red headed lover
I'm frightened by the deep blue bluntness of a thin bold bent darkness
I'm frightened by the orders of marching men
I'm frightened by what I must witness
I'm frightened to let the Gods in
I'm frightened by the warmth within a body that bends
I'm frightened by the tone of poetry
I'm frightened but I keep asking, When will it begin?
I'm frightened by a war on the head of a pin
I'm frightened by man's heartfelt needs for sexual sin
I'm frightened by the motion of a misplaced notion
I'm frightened by the whisper of a begging prayer
I'm frightened and I just can't get out of thereIf you're not frightened by a blue ball slap in the face or a reference to pagan deities in the midst of wild-eyed self love, invest an evening in the reading of David e. Patton's The Trinity: poetry and art. Just be sure to make your confession.


Order your copy of

The Trinity by David e. Patton

by writing the author at
David E. Patton
4556 Wichita Ave.
St, Louis, MO. 63110
$11.25

I am one with myself

I am one with myself
It’s a hard thing to do
To hold your Gods in toll
And to nature be ever true
Poetry is my aid
To hold me fast along the way
Listen to what the poets says
They connect for a measure of time
With themselves as if divine
And produce for you a poem
Born of a moment in time
It does not away roam
Seek you to truly be
One with the you that you keep
Beneath your skin and secret
To know yourself as one

The art of things

The art of things
Is the art
Breathing
Taken care
Of by the body
Walking
Forever falling forward
And catching our balance
The art of eating
Learned from sucking
The art of
The arts
Poetry
Painting
The art of pottery
Something less tangible
The art of beauty
And Gods
In their art grand
The art of love
Most times
Easy to learn
But hard to earn.

I wished upon my life today

I wished upon my life today
I wean upon my life today
I bet upon my life today
I borrowed upon my life today
I feasted upon my life today
I fell upon my life today
I paid upon my life today
I plead upon my life today
I frowned upon my life today
I flew upon my life today
I smoked upon my life today
I shitted upon my life today
I pissed upon my life today
I pass upon my life today
I sneezed upon my life today
I sneaked upon my life today
I asked upon my life today
I ate upon my life today
I wept upon my life today
I won upon my life today.
I prayed upon my life today.

With me loneliness

With me loneliness
Is a big thing,
It’s huge enough
That I loose
Myself within,
Wrapped up tight
Most of my adult life
Within I see a light
That thing will turn around.
I do not know why
I am in possession
Of a melancholy soul,
Perhaps it is my poetic
That make me so,
All I know is
Just this I was born
To sound my lonely horn.
Think you not ill of me
Do not pray, preach not praise
Nor plea to me to take
A joyful stake
For I have found the way
To be one with my soul
The poetry of joy all my goal.

I keep dropin’ my Gs

I keep dropin’ my Gs
Somethin’ pleasin’ there
Somethin’ thin, ancient
Dunbar drops more
Then me
Fu ta mak his meanin’
Da lawd tho be catchin’
Wa I say I mean
We the dark G droppers
We a people to speak so bold
While there are some who
Their Rs rolls
Know me by my speech
Bred into me
Since my days of young
Bigmama taught me so.
Childhood in back water Mississippi
Down on Bigmama’s farm
Just out side of Macon among
The yellow pines
Farm land in the family
From ways back slavery times

01.02. 09

At last, my friends
A new year is here
What to the world will it bring?
Peace to all is my dream
Peace for you
Peace for me
Peace to all the Gods
That rules the roost.
True such thing
Are full of fancy
Of which the poets hopes
That their poems will bring
Hope it true will not make it so
But that is no reason to hope no more
As poets we give you our all
And let these words ring clear in your heart
Peace to the world and the hope of it
Shall never, never part.

It seem like ages since

It seem like ages since
I last been with a poem
Since last I’ve wonder
Into the landscape of my head
Where settled lines and phase
Formed break and
Return among loose crabapples
Ready blooms or among
The mulberry time of year.
Dried rustic bells of
Curved water lily leaves
Since last I walked
Among yet reconstructed
Memories remembered of Boone Pond,
Sunlight ripple wind glair
In water floats Canada geese
Tail feather water sound
Where shells of Mallard’s eggs
Are ground into the soil
Where a frogs suns itself by the pond.
Such things are poems made
And such things I give to you.

C

Muse to thee has many poets sung songs
Count me one among many to do so
Among them I take my place, I belong
To these glorious bard of long ago
Come to my aid, come and come to intercede
Without thee my measure can not be true
And without thee my rhyme do not agree.
So work your magic as if you be glue
That binds my rhyme to time as you perceive.
I awake your gracious light to so shine
This is true I know that thee will not deceive
Come to my aid you who are so benign
Assign thyself to me for all time
Inform thyself to me toward all my rhymes.

XCIX

When all measure the poets does come
When to our aid they come to pay and praise
Come with measure of light verse or darksome
When they are all true to make us amaze
That by their art we know the true measure
Of their God given poetic true hearts
They bring to our soul, most profound pleasure
For such it is the power of their true arts
To make us think and think again to win
To keep us from sin that we rightly live
True they do so know best the soul of men
‘tis we that dream to their heart felt missive
the poets by their pen keep safe the soul
without their true art we are not made whole.

Woe to him

Woe to him
Who review the hour
Of his age with distained
Longing for the sweet rapture of youth
And refuse to live in the day
For each age its own beauty saved
Toward the living in the moment.

When promise is planed

When promise is planed
When endurance is met
With our angels stand
We do our best.

I have spent my life laboring to the pen

I have spent my life laboring to the pen
From labor of my youth to now old age
And if I had change to do it all again
I would do it all the same although I make no wage
Some day soon I hope to be paid
By the readers saying that I have made the grade
By beinging to poetry ever true
The wage must be paid by you.

With Fingers Weary

With fingers weary
With eyelids heavy
I no longer lone for manual labor
Tho it be necessarily the thing to do
To work from nine to five
And work I say work for who?
This life long labor is all for you
My work is to say what I say to you
By the pen may it be made true.

Damn It!

Damn it! To the last breath
Passion strong till death.

Sweet Mercy!

Sweet mercy! To the gates of hell
The minstrel lead, his sins foretell
The rueful conflict, the heart revile
With vain endeavor ever give
And memory of earth’s bitter last kills.

Gravity Is Nolonger A Mystery

Gravity is nolonger a mystery
To the imagination of men’s mind
We have come to know why
What goes up must come down
Yet for all our knowledge known
We can not fandom the mind
Of the great divine.

Upon A Promontory Breath

Upon a promontory harmonious breath
Grows a civil song suing madly from its spear
To belong in the wants of what is needed to give.
Nonsense is strung alone the poetry of the edge of a dream where we keep ourselves at night.
It means many things lost from an error song
But still we sing alone as marines that saw
The running form blooming priests while they muse
Half frail of fear in the middle sea of a dream make of silver orchid when the western wind whine willfully.
Ask not what this means, it is but what I seems
To be for you alone with this dream song that lead you to where the night is broken on that self same edge.
Ask what here is chained by words to the river of still water reflecting the meaning of harmonicons priests crying that the god of the cross is dying by the light of science.
Standing in the corner of your heart it where I rather be wooing the dark wisdom there.
The civil spears that seek to wound me with a long time hurt that seems like the motion of going home are all sharpened by words left out of the poem

Quest

Quest was obtained with ease
By studying to please.

I Trust In Nature

I trust in nature
Of her beauty and utility
I trust in god
Of her righteous needs
I trust in my soul
Its outward and inner wants
To trust that nature and god are one.

I Like Night More Then Day

I like night more then day
Yes I love night the most
Where my love to me draws
Where in I am host.

Through It Be Honest

Through it be honest
To bring bad news
A host of tongues
Can tell the truth.

Way, Or Why

Why, or why, or which
Are swallows- winged swallows
Darting about the sky
At evening time
On high
Circle making in their rounds
Till darkness brings them down.

Americaus Is Not Americaus With Out Me

Americus is not Americus
With out me
I gave her the drum beats
To move her feet.
She is the wondrous
Land of the world.
But dare I say
As all wondrous reigns
Her glory by time fades
But today we have seize the day
To day we rule the way
We are leaders as we are followed
Americus is not Americus
With out me
I gave her the beats
To mover her feet.

I Am As Malancholy

I am as melancholy
As an old black umbrella
That in the rainy season
Has seen not a drop of rain.

I am as melancholy
As an old heart
That in the season of love
Can not find a lover.

I am as melancholy
As an old blue need
That in the season of colors
Can not find my red.

I am, yes I am
As melancholy
As an old yellow rain coat
Has seen to many sunny days.

'Tis Not Alone My Inky Way

‘Tis not alone my inky way
Not customary suit of solitude
That I write what I write to you
But by the grand gracious light of a muse
Will you finally find me being true.

As If Born A Stone

As if born a stone
Feeling none
Like mine
Condemn to dwell
As if in a shell
While other their cases plea
Out and about the world
Break through your stone
So your love for its own
To speak its name in the streets
Where love for love’s sake weep.

His Voices Purse

His voices pursue
And haunt him
And he listens
When the angel sings
He is the poet
Mindful of his words
And what he means they mean
O poets tell your secrets
That all know they are not alone
The people wait your songs
To carry them along.

Come My Lover

Come my lover
Let us to the
Love we make
Make of it
A wedding cake.

I Slipped On A Dream

I slipped on a dream
That you left on the floor,
Slipped and broke my words.
In the commotion
An hour was broken
Till time went back to bed.
With a fancy Spanish knife
I cut open your darkness
To see if light would shine,
Out flowed a thousand words
In search of an immortal design.
O you are the love of my lover,
You are the dream that I would murder
In my murderous dream to discover
What I keep secret in my head.
You are the dead poems unread
Our abode is but a bed
Where in lies the unspoken word.

Say What You Will

Say what you will
Then not to have said nothing
The fool pays no mind
To what he have said
While the wise man weight
The measure of his words.

Poets, All Good And great

Poets
All good and great
God like to create.

Sad Would I Be

Sad would I be
Where it not for thee
My foolish pride thy power despise
It can not triumph o’er the wise

The Tree of Liberty

The tree of liberty
Is fed by the blood of morality
As it concern the treatment of our brothers.
Let us find in each the desire to love each
As kin of our kind, all human within our skin
And never us mind wars no more.

Life Is Short

Life is short
And time is long
So make of it your song.

By A Deep Design

By a deep design
Do the world goes on
Life for life sake
Seem to be the rule.
When I wake I can see
That in life
There is more
To be concern with
Then me.
Earth is a garden of many things
Lest among them man
She nature each in their stand
Rain she gives to the flower
The flower she gives
To the bees
By the sun are counted the hour
The streams she gives to the rivers
The rivers she gives to the sea
But man thinks that all is given to he
Foolish, foolish man
When will you learn
That you are one within the whole.
No more, no less important.

Over All Things

Over all things
A quiet sense sets
But my human mind
Keep its round in the background
I am searing for a rhyme
To fill the total time
Mind will not sat still
It seeks to fill every crowed moment
With its wanting and needing;
To stay busy second by second
Till I focus my breath
A moment peace
Then back to the mill
Of things again
Such is the mind of man.

Man Whose Life Is But A Span

Man whose life is but a span
Feels gladness and sorrow day by day
We can be feeble and querulous
This is the way of creatures made of clay.

Live As If Its Forever

Live as if it is forever
Within a space of time
Each day take it anew
To get close to the divine.

Never To Blend

Never to blend
With sorrow to mend
For it’s a common feeling
That you must comprehend
Sorrow is in the mix of life
It comes and it goes
Sometime you will woe
And sometime you will know
That strength lies in the healing
Power of another’s soul.
Tis to love
I’m bound to pay
What is given
Double more that way.

All I Have Learned

All that I have learned
By my own experiences
And by my own ignorant
Is that I can not know it all.

To Reach Your Desired Goal

To reach your desired goal
You must labor much and bear
The weight of total control
Toward the desired affair.

Come, Let Us Kiss And Part

Come, Let us kiss and part
Until we meet again
I shall keep it in my heart
And call you more then friend.

From Across The Back Yard

From across the back yard
I hear a black man’s voice
As a gospel song
He is talking to someone
When there is
No one there
The knot of his speech
Flows across the yard
Flows between
The sparrow’s song
He walks the alley along
Huddled within his coat
Against the morning chill
He is blue black
With the wind at his back
His face an African mask
In its crease and folds
The color of his skin
Is bold he is not old
An African? I do not know
Nor none I know
Where forth he goes
In the early morning cold.

What Is It Like

What is
It like
To be
A poem
To freely
Go about
Your duty
Of tiny truth,
To test
The heart
Of being human
Till you slip
In and speak
The divine truth
You were born
To do?
O what
Must it
Be like
To traffic
In words
And profit
In the emotions
Of the
Human heart?
To say
In rhymes
What do not
Set us apart
But binds
Us to
A greater cause?

The Way To Heaven

The way to heaven
Is not measured
In length and distance
But by faith will come
Your due
So be you true
To your God
By whatever name called
In the end all
Are the same with their goals
To save the spirit or the soul

In The House Of Heaven

In the house of heaven
Delight and pride
All is given
Nothing denied.

I Fear No Foe

I fear no foe
With thee beside me
And I say
Satan, get thee
Behind me.
Get thee where
The sun don’t shine
Satan, get thee behind
The righteous line
Is drawn in the heart
It stands by faith
In one divine
Satan, get thee behind
My time on earth
Is short indeed
Still while I live
You will hear me say
Satan, get on your way
There is no place
Here for you to stay

This I Know

This I know
Love has told me so
That to be one with God
Is the greater glory
To be found in the heart.
Each man his own
This is true
A God to me
Is none to you.

Ethip Lips

Ethiop lips
Woody hair
Sable skin
Soft and fair.

Rock Of Ages

Rock of ages
Pray for me
Let me hold
My soul
In peace.

Evil Has A Will

Evil has
A will
And that
Will be
Done
To inflict
Ill
For all
Time to come.

First Believe That You Can

First believe
That you can
Then do
With helping hands

Day Depart Away

Day
Depart away
My belly full fed
I’m off to bed.

With Loud Acclaim

With loud acclaim
Send forth
This spring perfume
Come from the north
As with one voice
In grand accord
Say us all
Christ the lord.

Do Not Waste Your Time

Do not
Waste your
Time
Asking why
We are
Born to die
But live
As if it
Is forever
In the moment.

In Art

In art
Is man
Most God like
To create
Is divine
With paint
Or stone
Or rhyme.

Pride Of The Ocean

Pride of the ocean
The brave and the free
Sailor’s devotion
Compare unto thee.

When Love Last Is Lost

When love last is lost
I shall go from
This melancholy grace
Through to a happier place
When love last is found
I shall linger there
This happy grace
Held in the heart its place

Does My Soul Embrace

Does my soul embrace
A grace?
Thoughts as free
More to take me
Work of art
Is the human heart
Show me your face
Simplicity a grace
Love is free
For you and me
To take at our leisure
Do not pass on that pleasure
Do not go it alone
Make your heart love’s home.

Beds

In bed we cry
In bed we die
A bed may show
All our human woes
Precious bed
Earth to our weary head.

Every Poet

Every poet
Describes their
Wondrous journey
Through life
Among them
This is a common thing

A child is born
In the land
Of rocks and corn
Wake the morn
Everywhere
Shy will unfold
Pushed through the mold
The air will hold
Night comes on a pace
Around the place
Round the wings
Their woeful dirge sing

From all the charmed before
Of that horrid store
Where birds forget to sing
Cluster to the branches cling

Alas by some degree
We every bliss must grain
The heart can never know
That never felt pain.

The Last Goodby

Farewell my friends
My peace with thee
With these busting tears
I set thee free

The Sun Was Set

The sun was set
The raise of dew
The bats take to air
The night anew.

Sure, It Is A Serious Thing

Sure, it is a serious
Thing to die
I hope to do it at my ease
When my journey’s end come
I beg of papa death please
Let none beat a drum
Or blow a horn
But let it be as I came
To go quietly without fame.

The Long Day Done

The long day done
The sun has moved on west
I want and wait for none
In sleep I find my rest

Long Day Done

Long day done
I eager to my rest
To find in dreams my peace
In sleep; the little death.

Lovery Papa Death

Lovely papa death
This one thing I ask
That when you come for me
Find me in the sweet rapture
Of poetry.

We Are Bound

We are bound
To the same command
All things under the sun
Must someday end.

O, Saint Patrick Was A Gentlmen

O Saint Patrick was a gentleman
Who came from a decent people
He built a church in Dublin
And on it put a steeple.

A Poet’s Lament

Unknown
On my own
I still look for fame
I can not say it came
Still this habit to the pen
Is satisfying even if in the end
No one read what I had writ
Still I’m bound by the writing of it
So I’m glad to leave behind
All these poems from my mind.

Read Each Work Of Wit

Read each work of wit
That the poet writ
Seek slight fault to find
In the warm rapture
Of his rhyme.

Dawn Waits

Yet behind the night
Unborn, somewhere afar
Day break waits.

The Day Is Pushed Out

The day is pushed out
And moon hasten to it way
We have come to the end of day
And as all things in life
Must in their time pass away
So to must we win our death
To cross over beyond the breath.

The Greater Liars

The intervention of the mind
Single motion it’s design
Which is with greater thought
Keep the lie out of your mouth
Poets are the greater liars
The lie themselves rule
But it is the good lie that they tells you
Your skin is as white as alabaster
Liar! You know that this is not true.
You smell as sweet as the rose
Liar! Check your nose.

Time

Long from the project to it
In these poems my friend
Are the seeds of immortality already sown
He whom has in mind to know it
Like the Gods can only know.
Time has no enemies and of itself
Need others to give it meaning.
For what is time without an action,
What in deed is the thing without a measure
To count it down, whether beat of bird’s wings
Or count of a bees’ buzzing about the flower?
Long from this project at hand
Time takes its toll told by the pen
To understand that time rolls
By what it hold, the burning of the sun
And the turning of earth in its round.
What we know of time is that
It never waits or ends but
It can not be spent or barrowed
No, never lent or brought by the dollar.
Time kills all and births them again;
What has came when will wine its way
Again in due time, in due time my poem will die
A death by dusty books done with.

It Is The Glory

It is the glory
That art remains
Speaking all the truths
Birthed within a day

The Last Suicide

‘Tis not a life
Thrown away
O, my brother
Do not steel my mind
Against the
Children’s cries.
Woman with their
Tender knack
Make sense
Of the empty life
While men as I
Have harden our skin
And find it hard to bend.
Do not throw away a life
Less it is too hard to bear.
It is your right to say no more.
It is your right
As women and men
To chart the path
That best fits.
Life can and will
Try all that you
Have to give.
You have the right
To choose your last breath
When the spirit
Has gone out of you
And the tenderness
Of the woman’s make
Can not calm, can not
Raise you above
The need to go on.
Think it not ill
Think not that
The Gods disagree
For they have
No say in the matter,
They can not
Interfere in the motion of man
And let not the fear of
Heaven’s denial
Keep you from your deed
For only in your body
Do you know the true
Depth of your emotional needs.
Some of us are to tender
To endure the cries of the children
Indeed we cry out with them,
We are one with their suffering
In a year that is full of crying.
Only the individual life
Lived singularly in our private minds
Can tell when the cries
Have deeply wounded our souls.
‘Tis not a life wasted.
O, my sisters
When you feel
That you can not go on
Against the trials and tribulations
That assaults the flesh.
There is no shame, no sin
To call it quit.
You are the guardian
Of the living of your life
All there is to ask
Is that you think it twice
Before the deed is done.

Underneath An Apple Tress

Underneath an apple tree
Sits a man
His thoughts
Yearning in silent
While all around him
Dance the long grass in high wind
While apples
Hung in profit
Slowly ripen under the sun
It want be long
He thinks to count
Perhaps in fall, a pie
And dumpling and baked
With butter and honey.

Still Awake

Still awake
I speak
Once young
Words on my tongue.
Things in life can confound me
Make a muddle around me
Rage and gabble
As if I’m in Babel
Bellowing echoes broke
On a hollow behind the woods
Of my hair, what is there?
The knowing I can not know
And so I go as I came
Still awake all the same.

Steady boy, Steady

Steady boy, steady
Conquer again and again
Your new found friends
Take ‘em in, take ‘em in
For life to spend, life to spend.

Something As Simple

Something as simple
As tieing the shoes
Without looking
Can make a poem of
The old things that we do

I put my socks on in the dark
An art you must be taught

One leg at a time the pants
Old men forget
To zip the zipper
An art lost to age

Two hands to lace a belt
Behind the back

Only when I speak
Do I need to remember to breathe
Or the words will be caught.
I am one of the stammer’s arts

Simple things learned alone the way
Of living in one’s skin
We pass on the knowledge
We hold within.

Nature's Symbol Found

Nature’s symbol found
Nature abound
Her health goes round
She and I are one
And I am the lesser
Part of a lesser God
I bow down to have her fill me high.
Creature drink of nature but I
Mortal, tell me why
I, yes I am at odd
With she of the electric rod
That fingers the sky
And boldly boast
It thunders roar.
At odd I
Of the human flesh
Why not can man
See she is divine
Why I ask I
Must we war
And wage willfully
All the days
Of our lives till
We have killed ourselves
With a slender why
The dead body
Can no longer speak of I
Can not spy on the world
Of the I, all the I will die
And more are born each day
To replace the void
Of the consequences of living ones life
Apart of the grand old lady nature.

To the Very Last

To the very last
Was a traveler
A dwarf within
That rises to follow
Of its nature ability
Toward a giant that
Kindle soft desires
That had no good limit
Rise on age
He could save
The turning toward you
With a ceaseless pain
In its lengthening chain
Of hope that meet
The flesh of our meat.
I saw her in the round
There was a sundial sound.
Give signal sweet band
Of hands around her mound
She was the subtle
Of all that she sit
She was our queen
And when she danced
We began to sing.
But travelers soon
Move on move somewhere
To entertain some others fair
They dwarf us of their time
They follow the road
That led to forever
Where the getting there
Is only temperedly done
When the traveler raises to his journey
The ceaseless pain that chain him
Is that try as he must
He can not stay
Death is their only limit
Only the being of the shadow
Of the sundial points their way
In their go is the promise
Of beginning again
Somewhere new to woo
To travel to subdue the new
Poets use to travel to wander
Here and there far a field
Till called to service
In affairs of the heart
And what it means
To be human in the skin

I am My Human To My Dog

To be content
He ask no angels
But think, admit
His faithful dog
To submit
Go wiser thou
And weight thy opinion
I do not know myself
Like my dog knows me
I and yes I subsume
And she, yes she
Who is masculine in make
Is moved
By my smell
She is my friend
And I yes I
Am hers
I am her human
Tho she never
Call me so
I call dog
Janwanza her name
I gave when
She was born
We share as
Two who are in love
I wonder if she
Knows it
I can not calculate
The measure of her love
For it is too great
She have seen me naked

More then any other creature
And it is my sense that she smell
Rubbing her Chow Chow hair
Dogs teaches us how to care
Yes, they teaches us
And we do well to learn
What they so freely give

Come Its Return Your Born Charm

Come its return your born charm, half will spare blood no more to adore that which we should loan on the sky.
At the inheritance moment of a birth earth does clear away the former year at the womb of a child amusing the common air of nature crying like enforced lonely bell rings out the old year, ringing through the slime of leaves in the soul of a bird’s feather.
Bliss raising, raising from a damp hand all saved by adoration’s chants put forward by black birds singing smooth where the spade and plough bellow the fitful white heat that forge the ranking ground is killing the last of the dirt
The birds have all been saved by all the trees, the black golden bill says lo!
All birds sings all the air that is cooling and pouring away their notes loud and is splendidly flung away toward an insipid white of whiteness full of its glory.
All birds own their birth to the death of winter.
The line labor perfect to the same whole nature ever at work on earth and beyond the beyond there.
None of the birds can escape so do not loose your patience for their ancient needs.
Do not loose a perfect judge of nature; she knows when words of a slender sound with spirit appeasing song of the everyday junk of life is to be song into the ears of a lost bird.

And There Were Mountains In Hot Pursuit

And there were mountains in hot pursuit
Mountains mustering squadron that poured forth
The swift deep thunder of a mechanized army
Roused up with these soldiers of stones
The throng kept from their white whispering battles
Magnificently against the clouds of cohorts
That gleaming like green leaves fit for banner
In the forest of host
Hand to hand combat rage, striking and thrusting
For victory mingled with the defeat of Phernaces
This trivial war event, this combat that deepen
In a rush of glory is so charged as to retreat back into the flying stars of their enemies.
This is a war that fight against itself, that eats
The slain who can not run away from the greedy tide
Of mountains’ pine dark tower now weary
Of the idleness of sixteen princes with their gentle souls
Heavy as a husband that knows that he is not the head of the household
The mountains more in wrought of their trusting heart
Turns away from stones and the half delight
Of friendship that loves the war made against
The singing sky, it’s a precious thing
That does bring the wife of his blossom to the flesh of the flesh
The mountains in their war are unfamiliar with this tale
Of sailor’s flesh from the deep where they were tossed
And thrown to and fo as foes of the dead of Davy Jones locker.
The mountain know not the necessary from the fire that
Formed them, the blast that bolted forth the combined feeble arms fit to slain trees in its bloody business
Here indeed is a war counted by men with their
Dreadful discord that shattered the lock of thunder
Letting loose the swift sword of light marching its truth
Over the meadow caught in the sinews of war
The dead trees are generally speaking their wise fine wit of meddling to destroy the nimble key hole of the smoke from chimney’s tediousness of their limbs
The wits of trees are as quick as they catch the souls
Heighten by the raised of a gladness made dim by the
Heaved breast within a blessed breast of watery sand
Strung on the unholy tongue that digs into the grave of words
The unfaithful tongue is in danger of distratation
The fancy tongue of poets that call to heaven made of clay is wording its way pass the donation of a poem
The controlled tongue that imprison words is bitten off by the guns that blast in the wilderness of a war waged against peace
The secret door of tongues that flows wide open in a riot of meaning is killing the words that speak in the name of a peace fought for by the last poet to be born in the rot of day old bread
The everywhere tongue of living priest living in the home of a dead religion long in the tooth of a deformed snail’s jail
The bitter tongue full of woes that have fallen sin is weeping a gross of distilled water full of the mournful cries that have forgotten how to save the longer that walks the streets with his back pack full of coins meant to but his way into heaven
The tongue that once spoke the words unheard by the child that picks the tears of his father from the trash dump is dying in the grave of dead wisdom
The tongue that licks long the side of the mountains at war is calling out to the Gods of thunder
The worthless tongue full of eyes that looks backward down the throat of a bright day is telling the secrets of the water
The gay tongue that knows the sweat dewy milk of an uncut prick noble in the work of lust
That knows the gallant blood that has flooded the rod sucked on by the killing machines
The mountain are all dead, all still from their motion
Shall we pray, shall we wait on the second coming
To fulfill by the slap that flows beneath the skin of trees?

You, Dark As the Night That Hides You

You, dark as the night that hides you
Walking down the deserted street
In north St. Louis, are you going to meet a lover?
You with your broad nose and wide lips
Fit for a secret kiss
What hands rub your hips under the cover of darkness?
What hands caress your skin and gives rise to your dark sex?
Surly nature made you for the love of man to man together
O dearest black youth the archangel
Await your return to sleep to look upon your with loving kindness though the night
Looking over you and your dreams of the beauty of other men
I the poet praise your sable beauty ass if for the first time
I have seen and am struck dumb to see such beauty as thee
You are voluptuous as an erotic dream of high art, so much so that
My pen fails in its incessancy to capture even a part of your beauty
O dearest black youth I am drunk on the sight of you
And for a moment I am held tight in sensuous sight
As if bless to be given such joy to behold the likes of you
I as poet with full experience of this manly art of love to see you give you all my praises your due
The wind carries your perfume and I am intoxicated by your musk
By the sensual delight of the sight of your body
In the uninhibited night, you have loosen my tongue to give praise and by praise woo to catch the very beauty of you

If Your Words Are False

If your words are false
Then you will be found out
You will pay the price due
You all who are untrue
The measure of you lies
Can be seen in your eyes.

I Have Been Looking For Love In A Stranger's Walk

I have been looking for a love in a stranger’s walk
With an applause in my pocket and a picture in my head
Its nine points ten to get you in, to wistfully win that
Your dog is named something that I know
He love you like I love the railroad boy so well
I tell you something, the night rides upon your back
To ears of the northern blues of north St. Louis chilled to a low calling is weeping for you.
Still I can not find the way back from your smile
I have given you the love of a fallen angel to enjoy for a while
The sun raise to greet me as I, I am Leroy Brown
The badest man in the while damn town
The night with its sense of something polishing off the stars is striking back
It tells of other lives lead by the time caught in space
I am living some body’s else’s sin
As morning stretches itself over the bend in
Mississippi, I think of you and what
I would change against that something which stands
As crisp as these thoughts of you loving the
New Year standing by the road waiting for the force
Of your power to awake and set you into my old dreams
I am Prufrock revised a simple servant
In a cheap hotel of oyster shells
It was worth while to woo you with a smile
And an afternoon of coffee spoons
I did not eat the peach of your desires of the setting sun
Where the waste land turns again toward the granite shores of a broken Coriolanus
The hooded hordes are having heaven with their hired hands huddled beside you
The lamentation of the high air are swarming
The shutters and the gutters and the two faced lovers
That laughs across your mouth that is all full of dead rain running across the concerti concrete skin of the land
The heart land is a vacant lot, a rot of weeds
Waving like keys that confirm a prison
I have watch time turn and tumble down
The long arm of a cross made of palms
Thrown into the road way where cars roam
A ride toward the last look in mind
For hiding time from itself
Don’t go, don’t you go till I have lost this poem

The Glass Before Me Does Betray

The glass before me does betray
That once I was of a younger grace
By now my grace is all of age
That in my younger age I should had birth
A mirror face
But it was not so, for no woman could hold
The manly desires that foretold a manly love bold
The face in the glass tells me that I did as I was born to do
That I did follow nature’s rules
And sort out the musk of my desires
There is no regret for I have loved the best
Of my time, all caught in rhymes of respect
Yet still, me think that part of me was selfish
Not to birth a face that shows the grace of me
But given half the change I would be true and do it all again.

It Was Some 30 years hence

It was some 30 years hence
That I was struck by Cupid’s arrow
Toward a youth less five years my age
A red headed youth of fair skin and hazel eyes
Who to me his love of fire gave freely
So strong were our desires that to this day
When I think of him I stroke the fires
And my memories come on strong as if it was yesterday.

O Muse loosen Your Purse

O muse loosen your purse
Where in lay the coins of your antique rhyme
Put your glass before the fading eye
That these old eyes may spy
The words writ in a happier time
O muse the keep thou art close at heart
Let us be not set apart in this time of need
Set me free to carry out the poetic deed
I call upon thee to set my pen free to pen
To the common man such rhyme that please
Pay to me the cost of what I seek
To attain by barter the barter’s trade that weep
Of many thing that conman the common to set upon the common knees
That I should not fade as fashion that fade out of style
That my rhymes may last as the sun does burns.

I Am Told By the TV Commercials

I am told by the TV commercials
That my teeth must be mint smelling white
That my musk meant to attract for sex
Must smell of high endurance strawberry
That my breath must smell of Listerine
That my cloth must smell of Tide
That my body must smell of hydroxyl complex
All to hide the smell of being human in my skin

Lay Down thr Rifles of Arms

Lay down the rifles of arms, for all wars
Let your hands rest from its murderous task
Man’s imposed murder is unacceptable
Nationalities are ruthless messengers
Waving the flag of war at their leisure
Welcome to you your victorious glory
Surrender not your patriotism to the cross
Nature is severable to be your all knowing God
You have won her blessing by the breath
Be one with her to fulfill the desire of your flesh
War is the human sickness, well within the human’s canon
Wars for Gods and Gods of war
Ares, Mars, Tyr and Odin have all died out their death
Let them rest in peace what they knew not in life
The nuclear bomb is now our God of war
Dismantle each and every one
Or let them be eaten by rust until they fall to dust.

It Is Too Long Wrong

It is too long wrong
To speak of a weeping rain
Wrong at every drops that falls
Toward its last entirely
Forget the drops that plopped
Like a single song in the mist
Of a soon forgot affront
This wet side of a deep calm
Should acquire and quench your desires
There is no sadness in nature to make you weep so
Blow out your bugles to the sounds drumming
On a rusty tin roof of back wood Mississippi
Every streets again shall come to know the sunny
Rain is exquisite in its singing, it has no woes
Winding down, it seeks its legal level to flow.

O Horoic Bard

O heroic bard
We beckon you to come
With your bag of tricks full of poems
Words fashioned to reach the heart
To calm the mind of its blood filled troubles
Bring your seeing mind
To bare upon the discernable notion
Of love and the roughness of flesh
Give us your gifts of ready rhymes.
O prophet of the poem
Come with your hands full of glorious revelation
Inextricable you priest of words
Our hearts are your empire
Your belief our feast that feed
Your holy intellect full of needs
Give us your confession of faith and your fetish
And the symptom of your knowable light
Break the idols of our discontent
On the holy rock of your words
Free us from the brought and sold mentality of the working world
O holy bard blackish, whitish, brownish, brazen bronzes
Beguile us with your arsenal of poems focused on the world’s maladies
Poems that consider the God’s eternities of windy sentimentalism
We wait your coming, so come with filled arms and embrace our wait
For the fulfillment of what our souls know of decay
Knows of religious dying on the cross of the street lamp’s glow
Bring us the your clear sighted fore sight to enlighten us in a worry world.

In My Dreams I Steal Things

In my dreams I steal things;
Books and hand rolled cigarettes,
Milk and pain pills
Words from old blues songs
And dialogue from slave narratives
In my dreams I never lie to myself
About what it is that I wish to be
Within I keep no secrets of the darkest me.

Do You Like white Or Corn Bread

Do you like white or corn bread
Are you low or high bred
Are you a coke or pot head
Is the knowledge of your sex widespread
What sex simmers in your head
Are you pure bred and well read
What sex is your Godhead
Who recline on your day bed
Do you love the smell of fore skin
Does it bring you to a wide grin
Do you conceder all blacks as you kin
What sex do you trade in
What send you into a tail spin
Black man black man
Do you follow the Koran
Do you tan black man
To whom are you akin
Is it the tribe of the buckskin
Is your skin thick are thin
Hard as iron or soft as tin
Black man black can you let me in
It is your heart that I hope to win.

The Industrialized Live Stock

The industrialized live stock
Of modern man’s lives
Can not be broken by poetic forms
On the breath of the poets till
Pushkin go pushing a pound of poems
In Williams Carlo Williams’ red wheel barrow
Along the streets of St. Petersburg
Till Pound walk the street of Israel
Till Federico Lorca’s bones are found
Till T S Eliot return home
Till Tennessee Williams over turn his St. Louis grave
Till I become known
Till Dylan tired of rock and roll
Till Ginsburg once again howl his song
Till Langston Hughes admit that he was gay
Till Christopher Smart despise his cat Jeoffry
The industrialized lives of modem man
Can not be freed from the machines that
Holds him in bondage till nature rebel against her own
Till the sun refuse to shine
Till the moon turn brown
Till the black man fills like he belong
Till man made wars die on the tongue
Till the pope is gay
Till the Israelites stay their bombs
Till the wind learn to sing
Till all stars fall from the sky
Till all human see themselves as one
The industrialized lives of modem man
Can not know his true God till he accept the cannon of each man his own
Till man fall in love with nature
Till the tree becomes a holy thing
Till the homeless tom cat is given a home
Till a child is born in a manger
Till all are disciples of the earth
Till every child is born a Christ
Till birds preach a holy song
Till the native of all lands belong
The industrialized lives of modem man
Can not find salvation till he finds it in his self
Till love of man is a common thing
Till poetry is the holy book
Till the priest stop dreaming of sex
Till the nuns give birth to equity in the church
Till the streets of Americus are safe for women
Till all black men are fathers to their children
Till crime is a fairy tale kept as fancies
Till this poem comes to past
The industrialized lives of modem man
Can not know the truth that resides in his soul.

I Once Met A man

I once met a man whose heart was made of stone
He didn’t last long but faded like a song
With his last strength to hang on.
I offered him a bone but his lust for life was gone;
Gone pass the desires to precede the beauty of the world, the beautiful distant that dares to be broken between a boy and a girl.
Stone hearts never last long, like a broken avalanche they fall down, they tumble turn and break their hardness into tiny shards as dull of stones as stone can be.

I Have Gotten So Old

I have gotten so old
That sometime I forget
To zip up my pants.

You Tied the Strings

You tied the strings
Of your discontent
Around my heart
Didn’t you baby?
So that we will never part.

Wild and Unculivated

Wild and uncultivated
The starvation for a rain God
Is no suicide common and
Eixed to a melancholy to Mutinies
Promises of paradise
Canan
The smart start that impart
The restart that depart from
The working of the state
Kalahri!
Brain gain the long shame slain
Rain going down the drain to the water main
A chain of rain that can not abstain from falling
Through the air that takes heave of the western wind
Pascagoiula brackish
Gula Mula
Bau-Guls the great Phaysi of rain
Healer goddess
Seth and his kins
Tarlum Taru
Blow from below Ehecatl
Enlil, Ninlin, and those unnamed
Quetzalcoatl
The silver rain of Feng Po-Po
Summoned by Vila
From the breath of Kon
Lord of the earth Ninurta
The rainbow of Mbaba Mwana Waresa
Tefnut and Tlaloc we in Americus have no rain God to call our own
To water our fields of crops
We are alone from such divine thoughts.

Their Odorous Foliage Shed

Their odorous foliage shed
Into the wild fruit
Of off springs, if they grow
Toward a happy way to gain experience
Where the self knows itself at all times.
The wise can be known to feel its own
Uttering in the voice of the soul
It is the principle of the thing that gets under the skin
It is the worldly wise not the wise ass that is necessary
To know which way to go in the darkness of the poet’s soul
Where pleasure short of its measure
Take counsel from the forever maker of fighting foes

Let the World receive Its Portion of the Flesh

Let the world receive its portion of the flesh,
Let it where in the many wage to pay
To see the world so wide as the wrangled mind
That goes forth into the boundless sky.
When all of our days are spent
The world of God within the line
Dissolve, purified by the heaven of time
Every where the nations bear a charm
That never learnt to stray from the good of wishing
To fly you fly away.
I can pursue the wishes that I do
For if you wish you wish it so the great glorious
First gem of the boundless sea
I find to go down to the town of houses made of stones
Where the girls rub their absolute bald passion
Better then the strength that man folk wears
By gentle decay the stones are worn away
As weary thoughts at the birth of a new day
It is words themselves that I do seek
Along the half day road through the woods of a heart beat.
What would you wish that the poets know how to do?
They the wisest fools on the highway of the Gods
With their warm wisdom waiting on a surprise
The wisdom of fortune former that dare to shake
No charge the doubtless temple of a safety act
No more the rags that they ware to a task that
They are no better then the rest
They are mortal just as you, but with wordy things they do
To bring to mind the breath of their rhyme caught in time
Told by the ticking revolution of the tick tock clock
Their poems as fine a baby’s hair of a birds nest

'Tis Pleasant to Peep

‘Tis pleasant to peep
At such a world must it be
In the great Babel on the tongue
And as for we the poets flow
Vien dietro a me
Come follow me into the wordy world
That work their magic with breath of thought
That produces the citizen of words in the month
In the world of wheels
Every man can more to boast
That ease of pleasure of joy or grieving
The world as a closed inn upon the stage
Where we work the part of the knowledge of justice.

We Ask Of Our Own

We ask of our own
Of what ever is known
Under the roof of our home
We live in, give in
Laughing out of our skin
The visible laughter win
The counterfeit of sin
In the uppermost chamber of our heart
All is beauty, all is righteous
Seen in daylight or darkest night
We pay our taxes
Shift, shift our sails
Drink from a common well
Of self knowledge
Drink deep its pleasure
And are rewarded with the treasure of the soul
Love can quench
So be all the universal lovers
Till time is all spent
Love with a vigor
Let your heart quiver
Reckless are we men
Who care to defend
Creature man be not of a coward’s backbone
Be hero of your home
A day’s work for a day’s pay
Go the unremitting way
To see the world so wide
Say if you fell that you have tried
History have seen all that have been
From the wriggles of the foreskin
To the gracious God within.

Be It All That Will Come To Know Death

Be it all that will come to know death
Be I the honesty of the bumble bee
The mobility of the caribou
The swiftness of a cougar
The folly of the coyote
The migration of the crane
The sacred law of the crow
The persistence of the wood pecker
The fertility of the roach
The symbolism of the spider
The curiosity of the raccoon
The dreaming of the lizard
The trust of the ladybug
The fore sight of the hawk
The dream time illusion of the dragonfly
The pride of the elk
The spirit of the starling
The kindness of the dove
The tranquility of the loon
The assertiveness of the moose
The attention to details of the mouse
The bravery of the buffalo

I Will Be The All Opposing Sky

I will be the all opposing sky
With its pill that heal
I will be the tree of life branching its limbs
Toward the open space of a nickel
I will be the fatigue vineyard where nothing change
Nothing is pursued from mind or body
I will be the laborious growth toward a common end
With the tablet of my name writ in rain.
I will be the investigation of age that appear in my name
I will be the beauty of a woman’s work in the handling of tools
I will be the plough deep within a sluggish sleep
I will be the sweat of my father’s time on earth
I will be the ploughman of emotion rocked on the knees
I will be man working together in the rank of industry
I will be the unknown value of all things
I will be the wars launched against nature
I will be the man strung out on the God of Jaco
I will be the man who own a clew wood violin
I will be the man of an angel’s bone stuck in my throat
I will be the man of broken alleluia
I will be the man caught between the thorn and the rose
I will be the man as big as the bone of the sky
I will be the man of the finger’s knotted fold.

Be You Bold

Be you bold brothers
You of the dark black skin
Be you bold brother
You of the blue black skin
Be you bold brother
You of the high yellow skin
Be you bounteous bound to be a black brother
You of the dirty red skin.

The Blacks With Their Voices Thrown Asunder

The blacks with their voices thrown asunder to my bondage and my freedom, my relief and grief that lifts every voice to sing of the sacred fire
O black known bards where is your concern for the spoken race that waits your brilliance tongue toward the muse on their own misdoing?
Who shall teach the young that they bare the common good of brotherhood?
They ware the slavish chains of disregarding their fellow black men.
Who shall teach the youth the truth to grow and know that all their killing should come to an end?
Who shall teach them that the fair cures of their hair is a beautiful thing to behold even tho the propaganda of the white skin society would have them to believe that it is not so?
The blacks that have fought the wars at home and abroad are fit for all their killing, they are the Africa blood of Americus with their eyes on the prize and their faith in an alien God they bend their knees from home to Harlem in the eleven o’ clock sweat shop of the church where jazz Bo was not welcome, where they leave the art of being black at the door.
Black of the brought leader’s mastah preaching man is your God of black skin and why do he teach you to love the white man when you are not loved?
Black man from black bottom Mississippi, from sugar ditch Tennessee, from surreptitiously Missouri dark as the mud of Alabama.

Greater zab tigris zadok!

Greater zab tigris zadok!
I ate young brighting ham
Woodstock of oxford shire.
My heart burns beyond
Uriel’s station now that I
Have drunk a she bear of the 11,000.
I pissed tweed to cut off
Scot land when those unwilling
To be with others cried Tuscarawas!
Suben was my mistress
She birthed Eileithyia who
Birthed Lucian and
We ate the dead with glee
After Ramsey in his fifth year
Gave Egypt its Iliad and the three Salimes swallow
The Smokey hills of Wichita Shawnee touched
Topeka’s feet I ate words stalled
On the breath of a wayward wind
Willing to woo with word the whole waist high
Hollowness of its heart
I am the great zab tigris zadoz
Zinging as a jounce of wild juice with its
Jointed jump jigging a quailing
I am the birth of baby Egypt born
By the beat of the Nile being bold in its overflow
Bold and busy by the bullies that built bather ships
In the bottom of boomtown
I am the cry of a caring cause crowded around
The quick sand that catches words meant to bid
The baseness of the business end to buy time against
The body that bends his time told telling the tall tale told tiredly to tons of tic tocks trading out

I Renew Myself

I renew myself.
I lie down to be born again.
I dream a new life in the cover of my skin.
I am he who desires the bread of life.
I drink beer and make myself many.
I am he who talk with the great one.
I make an offering to the old mulberry tree.
I stand up on the curve of the world.
I sit down on the thinness of night.
I am gathered into myself like the kennel of corn.
I have attained my power by the food I eat.
I am eaten daily by creatures smaller then my blood cells.
I am the servant of the father of poems.
I am broken down by the hardness of human life.
I have gone into the house of destruction and was lost there.
I cry for the right and truth that lives in the heart of man.
I am the act o f poetry toward the poem.
I am quenched by rain becoming stronger day by day.
I am one who copulate to give birth to the wind a million years old in its strength.
I am the soul that is divine living off of rhythms.
I am one who cry against the lord of light.
I dwell among things of a fat society.
I am the one that the society try to overthrow because. I will not go silently into the it’s hunger of consumerism.
I am the creature of eternal darkness held in the belly of words that are the elder born son of the tongue.
I am the conformity of the sun lit sky.
I wait like darkness in a damp corner.
I have learn to abase myself before a lonely God.
I have bless a man who cursed the heavens for being secluded.
I am the soul of unforced matter of the air that hides in the lungs.
I am the serpent emblem of power writing forced of a mute God of majesty.
I am washed and purified by the greenness of money.

Vultures of Silent Are Circling

Vultures of silent are circling around the dead wreckage of a dream where pestilence quivering to be seen is bellowing in a mouthful of wrung words
Telling their story to the conspiracy of deserted agony that wares out the landscape of order as its guide toward desire that dare to speak its name under the police lamp’s glow lit by the throat of politicians staring into the bedroom of justice where honesty disrobed plays with the flame of extreme sex to know the limit that the body can go when all its nakedness is reviled under the brotherhood of men in love where their love making is syncopated to the rhythm of a gigantic embrace around the prick with its one eye helmet from which the fore skin is pulled back to the soft flesh of the nocturnal light found around a candle with its delight mimicking the sun of pathetic unfastening toward the forgotten storm quiet in the contemplating memories of the forgotten apple eaten by the manicured river that flows pass a blistered of colorful temples in the fall sheltered mountain of Korea where Ko Chosos breathe in the land of the morning calm. Korea, be thou the first we greet in song like the glory of the Holy Ghost to thee under the rule of the blood drenched Japanese where your students are warring against their history kept in Jeju but its to late to tell you that the Christians are coming to conquer you with wild words yes it is to late to warn you against their generalized infancy of murderous words parked on the tip of their tongues, words that transcend the complicated skeletons that waits inside the body outside of the penalties of laughter where a harking of visitation comes to the body with its penetrating rain that licks its color toward a lasting pain that stop and wait to part take of the fat swollen earth beneath a quarter size moon with its silver light in tune with the nocturnal soul that plays the buffoon to a muse and the sphinx in an invisible instant.

I Will Be your Man

I will be your man when the name on the shrine
Is shining in the mouth of a moveable thought
I will be your lover when the lady of flames
Lights your way toward possessing terror
That is gathering together the fasting bones
That once drank an offering to the holy rite of merriment.
I will travel with you to the outermost part of heaven
That the Gods have abandon when man proclaimed that the house of science with its fearful power have come to dwell in the abode of a glorious heart.
I will hide your form from the 200 lashes of food and drink served by mulattoes commissioned by the punishment to do your biddings
I will take you into my circulating strength and the blizzard honey of my scrupulous lips.

I Have Cried Myself Out Of My Skin

I have cried myself out of my skin
The tears came to cleanse
But stayed all day
They rolled fat down my cheeks
Shedding them was not a waste.

Soften Sounds Alone the Smooth Flow

Soften sounds alone the smooth flow of the waves
Soft over the shrouds arrival to the body
Sigh of a general decay in want of a bill
The young can be hasty with their young lived
The night in its mutiny revise
Is past the roof of a red cave
Where all was lost in its darkness
Kept for safe keeping
I want to sing for the coffee color brigade
For the pen point bleeding words that have lost their meaning
For the ice storm blowing in a mirror
For the winds blowing in my dreams held tight in my fist
For the fist of an angry cloud loosing its individuality
For the individuality of trees and blade of grass
For grasses of a wayward green
For green throat where is caught a sight blue thought
For the thoughts that told me to weep a cup full filled with yellow tinted with sorrow
For the standing poet who have lost their way through a hole in the wind
For the lost wind blowing the discarded breath of horses
For the breath telling the heart to beat to the music of a bullet caught in the chamber
For thinking about dying in a year to young for death
For death hinged in between the living and those waiting to be born
For the mama’s boy cruising the hands of his father
For the almost table where is set a feast for the dying
For the dying eating their lost breath
For the eating bee beside the honeyed eyed youth playing at war
For the dead rotting their way toward their God
For the God that have abandon earth for heaven
For the angels with clipped wings flapping a holy wing
For the holy winds pocket full with a song of freedom
For the freedom found in a sparrow’s beck when it drink from a muddy puddle
For the wisdom found in the conversation of passion
For the cat’s nightly journey to swallow the stars
For the mating noise played out in a time of plenty
For the moaning water rushing pass the steadfast rocks of motion
For the motion of the last remembered thought of a dying fly
For the getting high with breath smelling of coffee cigarettes and poetry in the mid night hour found in the TV’s conspiracy
I want to sing and sing the songs of forgetfulness forever